VILLETTE. 

BY

CHARLOTTE BRONTË. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. BRETTON

II. PAULINA

III. THE PLAYMATES

IV. MISS MARCHMONT

V. TURNING A NEW LEAF

VI. LONDON

VII. VILLETTE

VIII. MADAME BECK

IX. ISIDORE

X. DR. JOHN

XI. THE PORTRESS'S CABINET

XII. THE CASKET

XIII. A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON

XIV. THE FÊTE

XV. THE LONG VACATION

XVI. AULD LANG SYNE

XVII. LA TERRASSE

XVIII. WE QUARREL

XIX. THE CLEOPATRA

XX. THE CONCERT

XXI. REACTION

XXII. THE LETTER

XXIII. VASHTI

XXIV. M. DE BASSOMPIERRE

XXV. THE LITTLE COUNTESS

XXVI. A BURIAL

XXVII. THE HÔTEL CRÉCY

XXVIII. THE WATCHGUARD

XXIX. MONSIEUR'S FÊTE

XXX. M. PAUL

XXXI. THE DRYAD

XXXII. THE FIRST LETTER

XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE

XXXIV. MALEVOLA

XXXV. FRATERNITY

XXXVI. THE APPLE OF DISCORD

XXXVII. SUNSHINE

XXXVIII. CLOUD

XXXIX. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE

XL. THE HAPPY PAIR

XLI. FAUBOURG CLOTILDE

XLII. FINIS

VILLETTE. 

CHAPTER I. 

BRETTON. 

My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient townof Bretton. Her husband's family had been residents there forgenerations, and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Brettonof Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestorhad been a personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to hisneighbourhood, I know not. 

When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well Iliked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. Thelarge peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear widewindows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street, where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was itsatmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well. 

One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of, and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton, who had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; herhusband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young andhandsome woman. 

She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall, well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearingalways the clearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacityin a pair of fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievouspity that she had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyeswere blue--though, even in boyhood, very piercing--and the colour ofhis long hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except asthe sun shone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited thelines of his mother's features, however; also her good teeth, herstature (or the promise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what was better, her health without flaw, and her spiritsof that tone and equality which are better than a fortune to thepossessor. 

In the autumn of the year ---- I was staying at Bretton; my godmotherhaving come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was atthat time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly sawevents coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which thefaint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me gladto change scene and society. 

Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not withtumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full riverthrough a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christianand Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees oneach bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round. " Thecharm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but Iliked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when thelatter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it hadstill held aloof. 

One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently causedMrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was fromhome, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrouscommunication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloudseemed to pass. 

The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered mybedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed inits shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped withwhite; and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tinyrosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered. 

"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answerwas obvious. "A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects othervisitors. "

On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I wastold, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend anddistant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it wasadded, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton erelong subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear. Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but agiddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointedand disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the unionproved, that separation at last ensued--separation by mutual consent, not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady havingover-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and diedafter a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of verysensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too suddencommunication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuadedbut that some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patienceand indulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded overthis idea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical meninsisted on travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton had offered to take charge of his little girl. "And I hope, "added my godmother in conclusion, "the child will not be like hermamma; as silly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man wasweak enough to marry. For, " said she, "Mr. Home _is_ a sensibleman in his way, though not very practical: he is fond of science, andlives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing hisbutterfly wife could neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed"confessed my godmother, "I should not have liked it myself. "

In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her latehusband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from amaternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixedFrench and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and calledhimself noble. 

That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meetthe coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and Isat alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Brettonbeing absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in thecountry. My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; Isewed. It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the windsounded angry and restless. 

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather forher journey! I wish she were safe here. "

A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No soonerwas the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunkand some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, andat the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in hisarms. 

"Is that the child?" I asked. 

"Yes, miss. "

I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but it was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder. 

"Put me down, please, " said a small voice when Warren opened thedrawing-room door, "and take off this shawl, " continued the speaker, extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidioushaste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appearedmade a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much tooheavy and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. "Give it to Harriet, please, " was then the direction, "and she can putit away. " This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton. 

"Come here, little dear, " said that lady. "Come and let me see if youare cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire. "

The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appearedexceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure, light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, shelooked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silkycurls, increased, I thought, the resemblance. 

Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child'shands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze, but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally acaressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner wasrarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small strangersmiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name?"

"Missy. "

"But besides Missy?"

"Polly, papa calls her. "

"Will Polly be content to live with me?"

"Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away. " Sheshook her head expressively. 

"He will return to Polly, or send for her. "

"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?"

"I think so. "

"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill. "

Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made amovement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she said--"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool. "

She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seatedherself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters evena peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed thechild her way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present. " But I didtake notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two ofpocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then Iheard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, withoutshame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional snifftestified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which wasquite as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--"May the bell be rung for Harriet!"

I rang; the nurse was summoned and came. 

"Harriet, I must be put to bed, " said her little mistress. "You mustask where my bed is. "

Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry. 

"Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet. "

"No, Missy, " said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady'sroom, " designating me. 

Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After someminutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner. 

"I wish you, ma'am, good night, " said she to Mrs. Bretton; but shepassed me mute. 

"Good-night, Polly, " I said. 

"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber, " wasthe reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heardHarriet propose to carry her up-stairs. "No need, " was again heranswer--"no need, no need:" and her small step toiled wearily up thestaircase. 

On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. Shehad arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in asitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, restedquietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. Iabstained from speaking to her for some time, but just beforeextinguishing the light, I recommended her to lie down. 

"By and by, " was the answer. 

"But you will take cold, Missy. "

She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side, and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as shepleased. Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she stillwept, --wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously. 

On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, withpains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) soas to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her asshe washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently shewas little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons, strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encounteredwith a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, shesmoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into acorner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she becamestill. I half rose, and advanced my, head to see how she was occupied. On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived thatshe was praying. 

Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up. 

"I am dressed, Harriet, " said she; "I have dressed myself, but I donot feel neat. Make me neat!"

"Why did you dress yourself, Missy?"

"Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_"(meaning me, who now lay with my eyes shut). "I dressed myself tolearn, against the time you leave me. "

"Do you want me to go?"

"When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now. Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please. "

"Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!"

"It must be tied again. Please to tie it. "

"There, then. When I am gone you must get that young lady to dressyou. "

"On no account. "

"Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behaveprettily to her, Missy, and not show your airs. "

"She shall dress me on no account. "

"Comical little thing!"

"You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; theline will be crooked. "

"Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?"

"Pretty well. Where should I go now that I am dressed?"

"I will take you into the breakfast-room. "

"Come, then. "

They proceeded to the door. She stopped. 

"Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa's house! I don't know thesepeople. "

"Be a good child, Missy. "

"I am good, but I ache here;" putting her hand to her heart, andmoaning while she reiterated, "Papa! papa!"

I roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yetwithin bounds. 

"Say good-morning to the young lady, " dictated Harriet. She said, "Good-morning, " and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriettemporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived inthe neighbourhood. 

On descending, I found Paulina (the child called herself Polly, buther full name was Paulina Mary) seated at the breakfast-table, by Mrs. Bretton's side; a mug of milk stood before her, a morsel of breadfilled her hand, which lay passive on the table-cloth: she was noteating. 

"How we shall conciliate this little creature, " said Mrs. Bretton tome, "I don't know: she tastes nothing, and by her looks, she has notslept. "

I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kindness. 

"If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soonsettle; but not till then, " replied Mrs. Bretton. 

CHAPTER II. 

PAULINA. 

Some days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take much ofa fancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty orwilful: she was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive tocomfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcelypossible to have before one's eyes. She moped: no grown person couldhave performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face ofadult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore morelegibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage. Sheseemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless ofthat curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever, opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head inher pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted. 

And again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure, white and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneeling upright in bed, andpraying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precociousfanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; butthey ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than thatchild's mind must have been. 

I seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:sometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put upunuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear still bore theburden, "Papa; my dear papa!" This, I perceived, was a one-idea'dnature; betraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought themost unfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed. 

What might have been the end of this fretting, had it continuedunchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a suddenturn. 

One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual stationin a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way ofoccupying her attention, told her to watch the passengers and counthow many ladies should go down the street in a given time. Shehad sat listlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when--my eyebeing fixed on hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startlingtransfiguration. These sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ asthey are called--offer many a curious spectacle to those whom a coolertemperament has secured from participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed and heavy gaze swum, trembled, then glittered in fire; thesmall, overcast brow cleared; the trivial and dejected features litup; the sad countenance vanished, and in its place appeared a suddeneagerness, an intense expectancy. "It _is_!" were her words. 

Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone fromthe room, How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably itmight be ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest, which would be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--saw her, in her black frock and tiny braided apron (to pinafores shehad an antipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I wason the point of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton thatthe child was run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I sawher caught up, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from thewondering stare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this goodturn, and now, covering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her tothe house whence he had seen her issue. 

I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; buthe entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs. 

His reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton. She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered, surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were evenexpostulatory; and in reply to these, rather than her words, he said, --"I could not help it, madam: I found it impossible to leave thecountry without seeing with my own eyes how she settled. "

"But you will unsettle her. "

"I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?"

This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed hergently on the ground before him. 

"How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, andgazed up into his face. 

It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but itwas a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did notfoam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. Onall occasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdainor ridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have everfelt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its ownwill, a giant slave under the sway of good sense. 

Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, a hard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones were markedand prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; but therewas feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitated countenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his physiognomy. Hewas at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laid his hand on thechild's uplifted head. She said--"Kiss Polly. "

He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that Imight get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise:she seemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and tobe in a trance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was thiscreature like her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind hadbeen filled from his, as the cup from the flagon. 

Indisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he mightsecretly feel on some matters. "Polly, " he said, looking down on hislittle girl, "go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lyingon a chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find a pocket-handkerchief there; bring it to me. "

She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking toMrs. Bretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchiefin her hand. It was a picture, in its way, to see her, with her tinystature, and trim, neat shape, standing at his knee. Seeing that hecontinued to talk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took hishand, opened the unresisting fingers, insinuated into them thehandkerchief, and closed them upon it one by one. He still seemed notto see or to feel her; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee; shenestled against him, and though neither looked at nor spoke to theother for an hour following, I suppose both were satisfied. 

During tea, the minute thing's movements and behaviour gave, as usual, full occupation to the eye. First she directed Warren, as he placedthe chairs. 

"Put papa's chair here, and mine near it, between papa and Mrs. Bretton: _I_ must hand his tea. "

She took her own seat, and beckoned with her hand to her father. 

"Be near me, as if we were at home, papa. "

And again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would stir thesugar, and put in the cream herself, "I always did it for you at home;papa: nobody could do it as well, not even your own self. "

Throughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather absurd theywere. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she hadto use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, thebread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked herinsufficient strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, handthat, and luckily contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidlyspeaking, I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind likeother parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him, andeven wonderfully soothed by her offices. 

"She is my comfort!" he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. Thatlady had her own "comfort" and nonpareil on a much larger scale, and, for the moment, absent; so she sympathised with his foible. 

This second "comfort" came on the stage in the course of the evening. I knew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs. Bretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seatedround the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I shouldrather say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle;and then, as Mr. Graham was fasting, there was refreshment to beprovided. He and Mr. Home met as old acquaintance; of the little girlhe took no notice for a time. 

His meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, heturned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placedhimself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a termsuggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person ina mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted agood-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereonwas her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her handsa shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and atwhich she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingersseemed almost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking thecambric with a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting whenthe perverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeperstab than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly. 

Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth ofsixteen. I say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a veryperfidious disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as properto describe the fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks;his waved light auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, and destitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no badsense). A spoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days. 

"Mother, " he said, after eyeing the little figure before him insilence for some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home fromthe room relieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which wasall he knew of timidity---"Mother, I see a young lady in the presentsociety to whom I have not been introduced. "

"Mr. Home's little girl, I suppose you mean, " said his mother. 

"Indeed, ma'am, " replied her son, "I consider your expression of theleast ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, inventuring to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude. "

"Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatteryourself that I shall suffer you to make her your butt. "

"Miss Home, " pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance, "might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seemswilling to render you and me that service? Your slave, John GrahamBretton. "

She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberatelyput down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from herperch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, "How do youdo?"

"I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatiguedwith a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well?"

"Tor-rer-ably well, " was the ambitious reply of the little woman andshe now essayed to regain her former elevation, but finding this couldnot be done without some climbing and straining--a sacrifice ofdecorum not to be thought of--and being utterly disdainful of aid inthe presence of a strange young gentleman, she relinquished the highchair for a low stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in hischair. 

"I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house, appears toyou a convenient place of abode?"

"Not par-tic-er-er-ly; I want to go home. "

"A natural and laudable desire, ma'am; but one which, notwithstanding, I shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of youa little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma andMistress Snowe there fail to yield me. "

"I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at yourmother's. "

"Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on whichyou shall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you. "

"Are _you_ going to live here now?"

"I am. Does that please you? Do you like me?"

"No. "

"Why?"

"I think you queer. "

"My face, ma'am?"

"Your face and all about you: You have long red hair. "

"Auburn hair, if you please: mamma, calls it auburn, or golden, and sodo all her friends. But even with my 'long red hair'" (and he waved hismane with a sort of triumph--tawny he himself well knew that it was, and he was proud of the leonine hue), "I cannot possibly be queererthan is your ladyship. "

"You call me queer?"

"Certainly. "

(After a pause), "I think I shall go to bed. "

"A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since;but you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me?"

"No, indeed. "

"You certainly wished to enjoy the pleasure of my society. You knew Iwas coming home, and would wait to have a look at me. "

"I sat up for papa, and not for you. "

"Very good, Miss Home. I am going to be a favourite: preferred beforepapa soon, I daresay. "

She wished Mrs. Bretton and myself good-night; she seemed hesitatingwhether Graham's deserts entitled him to the same attention, when hecaught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poisedaloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in theglass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespectof the action were too much. 

"For shame, Mr. Graham!" was her indignant cry, "put me down!"--andwhen again on her feet, "I wonder what you would think of me if I wereto treat you in that way, lifting you with my hand" (raising thatmighty member) "as Warren lifts the little cat. "

So saying, she departed. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE PLAYMATES. 

Mr. Home stayed two days. During his visit he could not be prevailedon to go out: he sat all day long by the fireside, sometimes silent, sometimes receiving and answering Mrs. Bretton's chat, which was justof the proper sort for a man in his morbid mood--not over-sympathetic, yet not too uncongenial, sensible; and even with a touch of themotherly--she was sufficiently his senior to be permitted this touch. 

As to Paulina, the child was at once happy and mute, busy andwatchful. Her father frequently lifted her to his knee; she would sitthere till she felt or fancied he grew restless; then it was--"Papa, put me down; I shall tire you with my weight. "

And the mighty burden slid to the rug, and establishing itself oncarpet or stool just at "papa's" feet, the white work-box and thescarlet-speckled handkerchief came into play. This handkerchief, itseems, was intended as a keepsake for "papa, " and must be finishedbefore his departure; consequently the demand on the sempstress'sindustry (she accomplished about a score of stitches in half-an-hour)was stringent. 

The evening, by restoring Graham to the maternal roof (his days werepassed at school), brought us an accession of animation--a quality notdiminished by the nature of the scenes pretty sure to be enactedbetween him and Miss Paulina. 

A distant and haughty demeanour had been the result of the indignityput upon her the first evening of his arrival: her usual answer, whenhe addressed her, was--"I can't attend to you; I have other things tothink about. " Being implored to state _what_ things:

"Business. "

Graham would endeavour to seduce her attention by opening his desk anddisplaying its multifarious contents: seals, bright sticks of wax, pen-knives, with a miscellany of engravings--some of them gailycoloured--which he had amassed from time to time. Nor was thispowerful temptation wholly unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised fromher work, cast many a peep towards the writing-table, rich inscattered pictures. An etching of a child playing with a Blenheimspaniel happened to flutter to the floor. 

"Pretty little dog!" said she, delighted. 

Graham prudently took no notice. Ere long, stealing from her corner, she approached to examine the treasure more closely. The dog's greateyes and long ears, and the child's hat and feathers, wereirresistible. 

"Nice picture!" was her favourable criticism. 

"Well--you may have it, " said Graham. 

She seemed to hesitate. The wish to possess was strong, but to acceptwould be a compromise of dignity. No. She put it down and turned away. 

"You won't have it, then, Polly?"

"I would rather not, thank you. "

"Shall I tell you what I will do with the picture if you refuse it?"

She half turned to listen. 

"Cut it into strips for lighting the taper. "

"No!"

"But I shall. "

"Please--don't. "

Graham waxed inexorable on hearing the pleading tone; he took thescissors from his mother's work-basket. 

"Here goes!" said he, making a menacing flourish. "Right throughFido's head, and splitting little Harry's nose. "

"No! _No!_ NO!"

"Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done. "

She hesitated, lingered, but complied. 

"Now, will you have it?" he asked, as she stood before him. 

"Please. "

"But I shall want payment. "

"How much?"

"A kiss. "

"Give the picture first into my hand. "

Polly, as she said this, looked rather faithless in her turn. Grahamgave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her father, and took refugeon his knee. Graham rose in mimic wrath and followed. She buried herface in Mr. Home's waistcoat. 

"Papa--papa--send him away!"

"I'll not be sent away, " said Graham. 

With face still averted, she held out her hand to keep him off

"Then, I shall kiss the hand, " said he; but that moment it became aminiature fist, and dealt him payment in a small coin that was notkisses. 

Graham--not failing in his way to be as wily as his little playmate--retreated apparently quite discomfited; he flung himself on a sofa, and resting his head against the cushion, lay like one in pain. Polly, finding him silent, presently peeped at him. His eyes and face werecovered with his hands. She turned on her father's knee, and gazed ather foe anxiously and long. Graham groaned. 

"Papa, what is the matter?" she whispered. 

"You had better ask him, Polly. "

"Is he hurt?" (groan second. )

"He makes a noise as if he were, " said Mr. Home. 

"Mother, " suggested Graham, feebly, "I think you had better send forthe doctor. Oh my eye!" (renewed silence, broken only by sighs fromGraham. )

"If I were to become blind----?" suggested this last. 

His chastiser could not bear the suggestion. She was beside himdirectly. 

"Let me see your eye: I did not mean to touch it, only your mouth; andI did not think I hit so _very_ hard. "

Silence answered her. Her features worked, --"I am sorry; I am sorry!"

Then succeeded emotion, faltering; weeping. 

"Have done trying that child, Graham, " said Mrs. Bretton. 

"It is all nonsense, my pet, " cried Mr. Home. 

And Graham once more snatched her aloft, and she again punished him;and while she pulled his lion's locks, termed him--"The naughtiest, rudest, worst, untruest person that ever was. "

 * * * * *

On the morning of Mr. Home's departure, he and his daughter had someconversation in a window-recess by themselves; I heard part of it. 

"Couldn't I pack my box and go with you, papa?" she whisperedearnestly. 

He shook his head. 

"Should I be a trouble to you?"

"Yes, Polly. "

"Because I am little?"

"Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong peoplethat should travel. But don't look sad, my little girl; it breaks myheart. Papa, will soon come back to his Polly. "

"Indeed, indeed, I am not sad, scarcely at all. "

"Polly would be sorry to give papa pain; would she not?"

"Sorrier than sorry. "

"Then Polly must be cheerful: not cry at parting; not fret afterwards. She must look forward to meeting again, and try to be happy meanwhile. Can she do this?"

"She will try. "

"I see she will. Farewell, then. It is time to go. "

"_Now_?--just _now_?

"Just now. "

She held up quivering lips. Her father sobbed, but she, I remarked, did not. Having put her down, he shook hands with the rest present, and departed. 

When the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a chair witha cry--"Papa!"

It was low and long; a sort of "Why hast thou forsaken me?" During anensuing space of some minutes, I perceived she endured agony. She wentthrough, in that brief interval of her infant life, emotions such assome never feel; it was in her constitution: she would have more ofsuch instants if she lived. Nobody spoke. Mrs. Bretton, being amother, shed a tear or two. Graham, who was writing, lifted up hiseyes and gazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm. 

The little creature, thus left unharassed, did for herself what noneother could do--contended with an intolerable feeling; and, ere long, in some degree, repressed it. That day she would accept solace fromnone; nor the next day: she grew more passive afterwards. 

On the third evening, as she sat on the floor, worn and quiet, Graham, coming in, took her up gently, without a word. She did not resist: sherather nestled in his arms, as if weary. When he sat down, she laidher head against him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried herupstairs to bed. I was not surprised that, the next morning, the firstthing she demanded was, "Where is Mr. Graham?"

It happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfast-table; he hadsome exercises to write for that morning's class, and had requestedhis mother to send a cup of tea into the study. Polly volunteered tocarry it: she must be busy about something, look after somebody. Thecup was entrusted to her; for, if restless, she was also careful. Asthe study was opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across thepassage, my eye followed her. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, pausing on the threshold. 

"Writing, " said Graham. 

"Why don't you come to take breakfast with your mamma?"

"Too busy. "

"Do you want any breakfast?"

"Of course. "

"There, then. "

And she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailor putting aprisoner's pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated. Presently she returned. 

"What will you have besides tea--what to eat?"

"Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that's a kindlittle woman. "

She came back to Mrs. Bretton. 

"Please, ma'am, send your boy something good. "

"You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?"

She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table; and, erelong, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which wasnot there. Having got it, however, (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pairnothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies;promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be hishousekeeper, and perhaps--if she showed any culinary genius--his cook;and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I foundGraham and her breakfasting _tête-à-tête_--she standing at hiselbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which shedelicately refused to touch, lest, I suppose, it should appear thatshe had procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantlyevinced these nice perceptions and delicate instincts. 

The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastilydissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstancesserved rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the twowere in age, sex, pursuits, &c. , they somehow found a great deal tosay to each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little characternever properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she gotsettled, and accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough withMrs. Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady's feet all daylong, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencilon a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or showing asingle gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch herunder such circumstances: she was not interesting. But the momentGraham's knock sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she wasinstantly at the head of the staircase. Usually her welcome was areprimand or a threat. 

"You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell yourmamma. "

"Little busybody! Are you there?"

"Yes--and you can't reach me: I am higher up than you" (peepingbetween the rails of the banister; she could not look over them). 

"Polly!"

"My dear boy!" (such was one of her terms for him, adopted inimitation of his mother. )

"I am fit to faint with fatigue, " declared Graham, leaning against thepassage-wall in seeming exhaustion. "Dr. Digby" (the headmaster) "hasquite knocked me up with overwork. Just come down and help me to carryup my books. "

"Ah! you're cunning!"

"Not at all, Polly--it is positive fact. I'm as weak as a rush. Comedown. "

"Your eyes are quiet like the cat's, but you'll spring. "

"Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn't in me. Come down. "

"Perhaps I may--if you'll promise not to touch--not to snatch me up, and not to whirl me round. "

"I? I couldn't do it!" (sinking into a chair. )

"Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off"

This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes fromthe feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to newand spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to passsmoothly, and we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs: "Now, mydear boy, come and take your tea--I am sure you must want something. "

It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham, while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, butwith him the most officious, fidgety little body possible. I oftenwished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no--herself wasforgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, norcarefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk in herestimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates beforehim, and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire waswithin his reach, she would find out something else: "Ma'am, " shewould whisper to Mrs. Bretton, --"perhaps your son would like a littlecake--sweet cake, you know--there is some in there" (pointing to thesideboard cupboard). Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweetcake at tea, but still the request was urged, --"One little piece--onlyfor him--as he goes to school: girls--such as me and Miss Snowe--don'tneed treats, but _he_ would like it. "

Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do himjustice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it;but that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for theevening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, wasthe reward she wanted--not a share of the cake. 

With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes asinterested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or lifeof her own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being inanother: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled toGraham, and seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She learned the names of all his schoolfellows in a trice: she got byheart their characters as given from his lips: a single description ofan individual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confusedidentities: she would talk with him the whole evening about people shehad never seen, and appear completely to realise their aspect, manners, and dispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an aversion of young Bretton's, had, it seems, somepeculiarities, which she caught up in a moment from Graham'srepresentation, and rehearsed for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade. 

The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which herfeelings received a severe shock. 

One day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends--lads of his own age--to dine with him. Paulina took much interest inthe coming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; theywere amongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, theyoung gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where theysoon became very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to passthrough the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step ofthe staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-roomdoor, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her littlebrow knit in anxious, meditation. 

"What are you thinking about, Polly?"

"Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass--that Imight see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go tothem: I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends. "

"What hinders you from going?"

"I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door, and ask to be let in?"

I thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, andtherefore encouraged the attempt. 

She knocked--too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essaythe door unclosed; Graham's head appeared; he looked in high spirits, but impatient. 

"What do you want, you little monkey?"

"To come to you. "

"Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mamma andMistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed. " The auburn head andbright flushed face vanished, --the door shut peremptorily. She wasstunned. 

"Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before, " she said inconsternation. "What have I done?"

"Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends. "

"And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they arehere!"

I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion byinculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever atolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, byputting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and thenlying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor couldeither Warren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowedto lie, therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord. 

Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accostedher as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself fromhis hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him good-night; shewould not look in his face. The next day he treated her withindifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, heteased her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Ofcourse he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was toounequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. "Why was she soangry? What had he done?" By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her, and they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were notlost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, orfollow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carrya book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in hisstudy. 

"I shall wait till he comes out, " said she, proudly; "I don't chooseto give him the trouble of rising to open the door. "

Young Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; fromthe window she always watched his departure and return. It was herambition to be permitted to have a ride round the courtyard on thispony; but far be it from her to ask such a favour. One day shedescended to the yard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against thegate, the longing wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in hereye. 

"Come, Polly, will you have a canter?" asked Graham, half carelessly. 

I suppose she thought he was _too_ careless. 

"No, thank you, " said she, turning away with the utmost coolness. 

"You'd better, " pursued he. "You will like it, I am sure. "

"Don't think I should care a fig about it, " was the response. 

"That is not true. You told Lucy Snowe you longed to have a ride. "

"Lucy Snowe is a _tatter_-box, " I heard her say (her imperfectarticulation was the least precocious thing she had about her); andwith this; she walked into the house. 

Graham, coming in soon after, observed to his mother, --"Mamma, Ibelieve that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet ofoddities; but I should be dull without her: she amuses me a great dealmore than you or Lucy Snowe. "

 * * * * *

"Miss Snowe, " said Paulina to me (she had now got into the habit ofoccasionally chatting with me when we were alone in our room atnight), "do you know on what day in the week I like Graham best?"

"How can I possibly know anything so strange? Is there one day out ofthe seven when he is otherwise than on the other six?"

"To be sure! Can't you see? Don't you know? I find him the mostexcellent on a Sunday; then we have him the whole day, and he isquiet, and, in the evening, _so_ kind. "

This observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c. , kept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generallydedicated to a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by theparlour fireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then hewould call Polly. 

Graham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did notlie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; hecould take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of bookswholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristicpreference, and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, itis true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and thinkof it. 

Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, aconversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible, though subdued. Icaught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, someinfluence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to sootheGraham at such times into no ungentle mood. 

"Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?"

"I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?"

"Speak nicely, then: don't be in a hurry. "

The hymn being rehearsed, or rather half-chanted, in a little singingvoice, Graham would take exceptions at the manner, and proceed to givea lesson in recitation. She was quick in learning, apt in imitating;and, besides, her pleasure was to please Graham: she proved a readyscholar. To the hymn would succeed some reading--perhaps a chapter inthe Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child couldread any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when the subject wassuch as she could understand and take an interest in, her expressionand emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; thecalling of Samuel; Daniel in the lions' den;--these were favouritepassages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel thepathos. 

"Poor Jacob!" she would sometimes say, with quivering lips. "How heloved his son Joseph! As much, " she once added--"as much, Graham, as Ilove you: if you were to die" (and she re-opened the book, sought theverse, and read), "I should refuse to be comforted, and go down intothe grave to you mourning. "

With these words she gathered Graham in her little arms, drawing hislong-tressed head towards her. The action, I remember, struck me asstrangely rash; exciting the feeling one might experience on seeing ananimal dangerous by nature, and but half-tamed by art, too heedlesslyfondled. Not that I feared Graham would hurt, or very roughly checkher; but I thought she ran risk of incurring such a careless, impatient repulse, as would be worse almost to her than a blow. On:the whole, however, these demonstrations were borne passively:sometimes even a sort of complacent wonder at her earnest partialitywould smile not unkindly in his eyes. Once he said:--"You like mealmost as well as if you were my little sister, Polly. "

"Oh! I _do_ like you, " said she; "I _do_ like you verymuch. "

I was not long allowed the amusement of this study of character. Shehad scarcely been at Bretton two months, when a letter came from Mr. Home, signifying that he was now settled amongst his maternal kinsfolkon the Continent; that, as England was become wholly distasteful tohim, he had no thoughts of returning hither, perhaps, for years; andthat he wished his little girl to join him immediately. 

"I wonder how she will take this news?" said Mrs. Bretton, when shehad read the letter. _I_ wondered, too, and I took upon myself tocommunicate it. 

Repairing to the drawing-room--in which calm and decorated apartmentshe was fond of being alone, and where she could be implicitlytrusted, for she fingered nothing, or rather soiled nothing shefingered--I found her seated, like a little Odalisque, on a couch, half shaded by the drooping draperies of the window near. She seemedhappy; all her appliances for occupation were about her; the whitewood workbox, a shred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribboncollected for conversion into doll-millinery. The doll, duly night-capped and night-gowned, lay in its cradle; she was rocking it tosleep, with an air of the most perfect faith in its possession ofsentient and somnolent faculties; her eyes, at the same time, beingengaged with a picture-book, which lay open on her lap. 

"Miss Snowe, " said she in a whisper, "this is a wonderful book. Candace" (the doll, christened by Graham; for, indeed, its begrimedcomplexion gave it much of an Ethiopian aspect)--"Candace is asleepnow, and I may tell you about it; only we must both speak low, lestshe should waken. This book was given me by Graham; it tells aboutdistant countries, a long, long way from England, which no travellercan reach without sailing thousands of miles over the sea. Wild menlive in these countries, Miss Snowe, who wear clothes different fromours: indeed, some of them wear scarcely any clothes, for the sake ofbeing cool, you know; for they have very hot weather. Here is apicture of thousands gathered in a desolate place--a plain, spreadwith sand--round a man in black, --a good, _good_ Englishman--amissionary, who is preaching to them under a palm-tree. " (She showeda little coloured cut to that effect. ) "And here are pictures" (shewent on) "more stranger" (grammar was occasionally forgotten) "thanthat. There is the wonderful Great Wall of China; here is a Chineselady, with a foot littler than mine. There is a wild horse of Tartary;and here, most strange of all--is a land of ice and snow, withoutgreen fields, woods, or gardens. In this land, they found some mammothbones: there are no mammoths now. You don't know what it was; but Ican tell you, because Graham told me. A mighty, goblin creature, ashigh as this room, and as long as the hall; but not a fierce, flesh-eating thing, Graham thinks. He believes, if I met one in a forest, itwould not kill me, unless I came quite in its way; when it wouldtrample me down amongst the bushes, as I might tread on a grasshopperin a hayfield without knowing it. "

Thus she rambled on. 

"Polly, " I interrupted, "should you like to travel?"

"Not just yet, " was the prudent answer; "but perhaps in twenty years, when I am grown a woman, as tall as Mrs. Bretton, I may travel withGraham. We intend going to Switzerland, and climbing Mount Blanck; andsome day we shall sail over to South America, and walk to the top ofKim-kim-borazo. "

"But how would you like to travel now, if your papa was with you?"

Her reply--not given till after a pause--evinced one of thoseunexpected turns of temper peculiar to her. 

"Where is the good of talking in that silly way?" said she. "Why doyou mention papa? What is papa to you? I was just beginning to behappy, and not think about him so much; and there it will be all to doover again!"

Her lip trembled. I hastened to disclose the fact of a letter havingbeen received, and to mention the directions given that she andHarriet should immediately rejoin this dear papa. "Now, Polly, are younot glad?" I added. 

She made no answer. She dropped her book and ceased to rock her doll;she gazed at me with gravity and earnestness. 

"Shall not you like to go to papa?"

"Of course, " she said at last in that trenchant manner she usuallyemployed in speaking to me; and which was quite different from thatshe used with Mrs. Bretton, and different again from the one dedicatedto Graham. I wished to ascertain more of what she thought but no: shewould converse no more. Hastening to Mrs. Bretton, she questioned her, and received the confirmation of my news. The weight and importance ofthese tidings kept her perfectly serious the whole day. In theevening, at the moment Graham's entrance was heard below, I found herat my side. She began to arrange a locket-ribbon about my neck, shedisplaced and replaced the comb in my hair; while thus busied, Grahamentered. 

"Tell him by-and-by, " she whispered; "tell him I am going. "

In the course of tea-time I made the desired communication. Graham, itchanced, was at that time greatly preoccupied about some school-prize, for which he was competing. The news had to be told twice before ittook proper hold of his attention, and even then he dwelt on it butmomently. 

"Polly going? What a pity! Dear little Mousie, I shall be sorry tolose her: she must come to us again, mamma. "

And hastily swallowing his tea, he took a candle and a small table tohimself and his books, and was soon buried in study. 

"Little Mousie" crept to his side, and lay down on the carpet at hisfeet, her face to the floor; mute and motionless she kept that postand position till bed-time. Once I saw Graham--wholly unconscious ofher proximity--push her with his restless foot. She receded an inch ortwo. A minute after one little hand stole out from beneath her face, to which it had been pressed, and softly caressed the heedless foot. When summoned by her nurse she rose and departed very obediently, having bid us all a subdued good-night. 

I will not say that I dreaded going to bed, an hour later; yet Icertainly went with an unquiet anticipation that I should find thatchild in no peaceful sleep. The forewarning of my instinct was butfulfilled, when I discovered her, all cold and vigilant, perched likea white bird on the outside of the bed. I scarcely knew how to accosther; she was not to be managed like another child. She, however, accosted me. As I closed the door, and put the light on the dressing-table, she turned tome with these words:--"I cannot--_cannot_sleep; and in this way I cannot--_cannot_ live!"

I asked what ailed her. 

"Dedful miz-er-y!" said she, with her piteous lisp. 

"Shall I call Mrs. Bretton?"

"That is downright silly, " was her impatient reply; and, indeed, Iwell knew that if she had heard Mrs. Bretton's foot approach, shewould have nestled quiet as a mouse under the bedclothes. Whilstlavishing her eccentricities regardlessly before me--for whom sheprofessed scarcely the semblance of affection--she never showed mygodmother one glimpse of her inner self: for her, she was nothing buta docile, somewhat quaint little maiden. I examined her; her cheek wascrimson; her dilated eye was both troubled and glowing, and painfullyrestless: in this state it was obvious she must not be left tillmorning. I guessed how the case stood. 

"Would you like to bid Graham good-night again?" I asked. "He is notgone to his room yet. "

She at once stretched out her little arms to be lifted. Folding ashawl round her, I carried her back to the drawing-room. Graham wasjust coming out. 

"She cannot sleep without seeing and speaking to you once more, " Isaid. "She does not like the thought of leaving you. "

"I've spoilt her, " said he, taking her from me with good humour, andkissing her little hot face and burning lips. "Polly, you care for memore than for papa, now--"

"I _do_ care for you, but you care nothing for me, " was herwhisper. 

She was assured to the contrary, again kissed, restored to me, and Icarried her away; but, alas! not soothed. 

When I thought she could listen to me, I said--"Paulina, you shouldnot grieve that Graham does not care for you so much as you care forhim. It must be so. "

Her lifted and questioning eyes asked why. 

"Because he is a boy and you are a girl; he is sixteen and you areonly six; his nature is strong and gay, and yours is otherwise. "

"But I love him so much; he _should_ love me a little. "

"He does. He is fond of you. You are his favourite. "

"Am I Graham's favourite?"

"Yes, more than any little child I know. "

The assurance soothed her; she smiled in her anguish. 

"But, " I continued, "don't fret, and don't expect too much of him, orelse he will feel you to be troublesome, and then it is all over. "

"All over!" she echoed softly; "then I'll be good. I'll try to begood, Lucy Snowe. "

I put her to bed. 

"Will he forgive me this one time?" she asked, as I undressed myself. I assured her that he would; that as yet he was by no means alienated;that she had only to be careful for the future. 

"There is no future, " said she: "I am going. Shall I ever--ever--seehim again, after I leave England?"

I returned an encouraging response. The candle being extinguished, astill half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep, when the little whiteshape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice asked--"Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?"

"Like him! Yes, a little. "

"Only a little! Do you like him as I do?"

"I think not. No: not as you do. "

"Do you like him much?"

"I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for himso very much: he is full of faults. "

"Is he?"

"All boys are. "

"More than girls?"

"Very likely. Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect;and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, andworship none. "

"Are you a wise person?"

"I mean to try to be so. Go to sleep. "

"I _cannot_ go to sleep. Have you no pain just here" (laying herelfish hand on her elfish breast, ) "when you think _you_ shallhave to leave Graham; for _your_ home is not here?"

"Surely, Polly, " said I, "you should not feel so much pain when youare very soon going to rejoin your father. Have you forgotten him? Doyou no longer wish to be his little companion?"

Dead silence succeeded this question. 

"Child, lie down and sleep, " I urged. 

"My bed is cold, " said she. "I can't warm it. "

I saw the little thing shiver. "Come to me, " I said, wishing, yetscarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange, capricious, little creature, and especially whimsical with me. Shecame, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I took her in. She was chill: I warmed her in my arms. She tremblednervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillized and cherished she at lastslumbered. 

"A very unique child, " thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenanceby the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and softly wiped herglittering eyelids and her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. "How willshe get through this world, or battle with this life? How will shebear the shocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, whichbooks, and my own reason, tell me are prepared for all flesh?"

She departed the next day; trembling like a leaf when she took leave, but exercising self-command. 

CHAPTER IV. 

MISS MARCHMONT. 

On quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina'sdeparture--little thinking then I was never again to visit it; nevermore to tread its calm old streets--I betook myself home, having beenabsent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad toreturn to the bosom of my kindred. Well! the amiable conjecture doesno harm, and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted. Far fromsaying nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for thenext eight years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon weather, in aharbour still as glass--the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you will, in a longprayer. A great many women and girls are supposed to pass their livessomething in that fashion; why not I with the rest?

Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched on acushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked by breezesindolently soft. However, it cannot be concealed that, in that case, Imust somehow have fallen overboard, or that there must have been wreckat last. I too well remember a time--a long time--of cold, of danger, of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats therush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressureon my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that not of one hournor one day. For many days and nights neither sun nor stars appeared;we cast with our own hands the tackling out of the ship; a heavytempest lay on us; all hope that we should be saved was taken away. Infine, the ship was lost, the crew perished. 

As far as I recollect, I complained to no one about these troubles. Indeed, to whom could I complain? Of Mrs. Bretton I had long lostsight. Impediments, raised by others, had, years ago, come in the wayof our intercourse, and cut it off. Besides, time had brought changesfor her, too: the handsome property of which she was left guardian forher son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stockundertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its originalamount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted aprofession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and wereunderstood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility ofdependence on others; to myself alone could I look. I know not that Iwas of a self-reliant or active nature; but self-reliance and exertionwere forced upon me by circumstances, as they are upon thousandsbesides; and when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighbourhood, sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she might assign mesome task I could undertake. 

Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a handsomeresidence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impotent, foot and hand, and had been so for twenty years. She always sat upstairs: herdrawing-room adjoined her bed-room. I had often heard of MissMarchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of beingvery eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her afurrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with longaffliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that amaid, or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years, wasabout to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved lot, had sent forme, with the idea that I might supply this person's place. She madethe proposal to me after tea, as she and I sat alone by her fireside. 

"It will not be an easy life;" said she candidly, "for I require agood deal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps, contrasted with the existence you have lately led, it may appeartolerable. "

I reflected. Of course it ought to appear tolerable, I arguedinwardly; but somehow, by some strange fatality, it would not. To livehere, in this close room, the watcher of suffering--sometimes, perhaps, the butt of temper--through all that was to come of my youth;while all that was gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfully!My heart sunk one moment, then it revived; for though I forced myselfto _realise_ evils, I think I was too prosaic to _idealise_, and consequently to exaggerate them. 

"My doubt is whether I should have strength for the undertaking, " Iobserved. 

"That is my own scruple, " said she; "for you look a worn-outcreature. "

So I did. I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning-dress, a faded, hollow-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. Theblight, I believed, was chiefly external: I still felt life at life'ssources. 

"What else have you in view--anything?"

"Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something. "

"So you imagine: perhaps you are right. Try your own method, then; andif it does not succeed, test mine. The chance I have offered shall beleft open to you for three months. "

This was kind. I told her so, and expressed my gratitude. While I wasspeaking, a paroxysm of pain came on. I ministered to her; made thenecessary applications, according to her directions, and, by the timeshe was relieved, a sort of intimacy was already formed between us. I, for my part, had learned from the manner in which she bore thisattack, that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physicalpain, though sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental canker);and she, from the good-will with which I succoured her, discoveredthat she could influence my sympathies (such as they were). She sentfor me the next day; for five or six successive days she claimed mycompany. Closer acquaintance, while it developed both faults andeccentricities, opened, at the same time, a view of a character Icould respect. Stern and even morose as she sometimes was, I couldwait on her and sit beside her with that calm which always blesses uswhen we are sensible that our manners, presence, contact, please andsoothe the persons we serve. Even when she scolded me--which she did, now and then, very tartly--it was in such a way as did not humiliate, and left no sting; it was rather like an irascible mother rating herdaughter, than a harsh mistress lecturing a dependant: lecture, indeed, she could not, though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a vein of reason ever ran through her passion: she was logical evenwhen fierce. Ere long a growing sense of attachment began to presentthe thought of staying with her as companion in quite a new light; inanother week I had agreed to remain. 

Two hot, close rooms thus became my world; and a crippled old woman, my mistress, my friend, my all. Her service was my duty--her pain, mysuffering--her relief, my hope--her anger, my punishment--her regard, my reward. I forgot that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, anever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sickchamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me becamenarrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, Idemanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more thanthe tiny messes served for the invalid. In addition, she gave me theoriginality of her character to study: the steadiness of her virtues, I will add, the power of her passions, to admire; the truth of herfeelings to trust. All these things she had, and for these things Iclung to her. 

For these things I would have crawled on with her for twenty years, iffor twenty years longer her life of endurance had been protracted. Butanother decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated intoaction. I must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My littlemorsel of human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contentedconscience. I had wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasionalgreat agonies by submitting to a whole life of privation and smallpains. Fate would not so be pacified; nor would Providence sanctionthis shrinking sloth and cowardly indolence. 

One February night--I remember it well--there came a voice near MissMarchmont's house, heard by every inmate, but translated, perhaps, only by one. After a calm winter, storms were ushering in the spring. I had put Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. Thewind was wailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but, as nightdeepened, it took a new tone--an accent keen, piercing, almostarticulate to the ear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to thenerves, trilled in every gust. 

"Oh, hush! hush!" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping my work, andmaking a vain effort to stop my ears against that subtle, searchingcry. I had heard that very voice ere this, and compulsory observationhad forced on me a theory as to what it boded. Three times in thecourse of my life, events had taught me that these strange accents inthe storm--this restless, hopeless cry--denote a coming state of theatmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, wereoften heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting eastwind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied, too, I had noticed--but was not philosopher enough to know whetherthere was any connection between the circumstances--that we often atthe same time hear of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts ofthe world; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and ofstrange high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. "Ourglobe, " I had said to myself, "seems at such periods torn anddisordered; the feeble amongst us wither in her distempered breath, rushing hot from steaming volcanoes. "

I listened and trembled; Miss Marchmont slept. 

About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a dead calm. Thefire, which had been burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the airchange, and become keen. Raising blind and curtain, I looked out, andsaw in the stars the keen sparkle of a sharp frost. 

Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Miss Marchmont awake, lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusualearnestness. 

"Is it a fine night?" she asked. 

I replied in the affirmative. 

"I thought so, " she said; "for I feel so strong, so well. Raise me. Ifeel young to-night, " she continued: "young, light-hearted, and happy. What if my complaint be about to take a turn, and I am yet destined toenjoy health? It would be a miracle!"

"And these are not the days of miracles, " I thought to myself, andwondered to hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversationto the past, and seeming to recall its incidents, scenes, andpersonages, with singular vividness. "

"I love Memory to-night, " she said: "I prize her as my best friend. She is just now giving me a deep delight: she is bringing back to myheart, in warm and beautiful life, realities--not mere empty ideas, but what were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved, mixed in with grave-mould. I possess just now the hours, the thoughts, the hopes of my youth. I renew the love of my life--itsonly love--almost its only affection; for I am not a particularly goodwoman: I am not amiable. Yet I have had my feelings, strong andconcentrated; and these feelings had their object; which, in itssingle self, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, areall the unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. WhileI loved, and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What aglorious year I can recall--how bright it comes back to me! What aliving spring--what a warm, glad summer--what soft moonlight, silvering the autumn evenings--what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and frost-hoar fields of that year's winter! Through thatyear my heart lived with Frank's heart. O my noble Frank--my faithfulFrank--my _good_ Frank! so much better than myself--his standardin all things so much higher! This I can now see and say: if few womenhave suffered as I did in his loss, few have enjoyed what I did in hislove. It was a far better kind of love than common; I had no doubtsabout it or him: it was such a love as honoured, protected, andelevated, no less than it gladdened her to whom it was given. Let menow ask, just at this moment, when my mind is so strangely clear, --letme reflect why it was taken from me? For what crime was I condemned, after twelve months of bliss, to undergo thirty years of sorrow?

"I do not know, " she continued after a pause: "I cannot--_cannot_see the reason; yet at this hour I can say with sincerity, what Inever tried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! And atthis moment I can believe that death will restore me to Frank. I neverbelieved it till now. "

"He is dead, then?" I inquired in a low voice. 

"My dear girl, " she said, "one happy Christmas Eve I dressed anddecorated myself, expecting my lover, very soon to be my husband, would come that night to visit me. I sat down to wait. Once more I seethat moment--I see the snow twilight stealing through the window overwhich the curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride upthe white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playingon my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in aglass. I see the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, andcold, over the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of mygrounds. I wait, with some impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in mybreast. The flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet;the moon was mounting high, but she was still visible from thelattice; the clock neared ten; he rarely tarried later than this, butonce or twice he had been delayed so long. 

"Would he for once fail me? No--not even for once; and now he wascoming--and coming fast-to atone for lost time. 'Frank! you furiousrider, ' I said inwardly, listening gladly, yet anxiously, to hisapproaching gallop, 'you shall be rebuked for this: I will tell you itis _my_ neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in a dearer and tenderer sense, mine. ' There he was: I saw him; but Ithink tears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw thehorse; I heard it stamp--I saw at least a mass; I heard a clamour. _Was_ it a horse? or what heavy, dragging thing was it, crossing, strangely dark, the lawn. How could I name that thing in the moonlightbefore me? or how could I utter the feeling which rose in my soul?

"I could only run out. A great animal--truly, Frank's black horse--stood trembling, panting, snorting before the door; a man held itFrank, as I thought. 

"'What is the matter?' I demanded. Thomas, my own servant, answered bysaying sharply, 'Go into the house, madam. ' And then calling toanother servant, who came hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned bysome instinct, 'Ruth, take missis into the house directly. ' But I waskneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there--somethingthat I had seen dragged along the ground--something that sighed, thatgroaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to ms. He was not dead;he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to beordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, notonly to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begunby trying to treat me like a child, as they always do with peoplestruck by God's hand; but I gave place to none except the surgeon; andwhen he had done what he could, I took my dying Frank to myself. Hehad strength to fold me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; heheard me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderlyand fondly comforted him. 

"'Maria, ' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise. ' He spent his last breathin faithful words for me. When the dawn of Christmas morning broke, myFrank was with God. 

"And that, " she went on, "happened thirty years ago. I have sufferedsince. I doubt if I have made the best use of all my calamities. Soft, amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong, evil spirits they would have made demons; as for me, I have only beena woe-struck and selfish woman. "

"You have done much good, " I said; for she was noted for her liberalalmsgiving. 

"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could assuageaffliction. What of that? It cost me no effort or pang to give. But Ithink from this day I am about to enter a better frame of mind, toprepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frankmore than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving thecreature so much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at leastblasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do youthink, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain, and tell me. "

This question I could not answer: I had no words. It seemed as if shethought I _had_ answered it. 

"Very right, my child. We should acknowledge God merciful, but notalways for us comprehensible. We should accept our own lot, whateverit be, and try to render happy that of others. Should we not? Well, to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavourto do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when Iam dead. My head aches now with talking too much; still I am happy. Goto bed. The clock strikes two. How late you sit up; or rather how lateI, in my selfishness, keep you up. But go now; have no more anxietyfor me; I feel I shall rest well. "

She composed herself as if to slumber. I, too, retired to my crib in acloset within her room. The night passed in quietness; quietly herdoom must at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morningshe was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her previous excitement of spirits and change of mood had been theprelude of a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of anexistence so long fretted by affliction. 

CHAPTER V. 

TURNING A NEW LEAF. 

My mistress being dead, and I once more alone, I had to look out fora new place. About this time I might be a little--a very little--shaken in nerves. I grant I was not looking well, but, on thecontrary, thin, haggard, and hollow-eyed; like a sitter-up at night, like an overwrought servant, or a placeless person in debt. In debt, however, I was not; nor quite poor; for though Miss Marchmont had nothad time to benefit me, as, on that last night, she said she intended, yet, after the funeral, my wages were duly paid by her second cousin, the heir, an avaricious-looking man, with pinched nose and narrowtemples, who, indeed, I heard long afterwards, turned out a thoroughmiser: a direct contrast to his generous kinswoman, and a foil to hermemory, blessed to this day by the poor and needy. The possessor, then, of fifteen pounds; of health, though worn, not broken, and of aspirit in similar condition; I might still; in comparison with manypeople, be regarded as occupying an enviable position. An embarrassingone it was, however, at the same time; as I felt with some acutenesson a certain day, of which the corresponding one in the next week wasto see my departure from my present abode, while with another I wasnot provided. 

In this dilemma I went, as a last and sole resource, to see andconsult an old servant of our family; once my nurse, now housekeeperat a grand mansion not far from Miss Marchmont's. I spent some hourswith her; she comforted, but knew not how to advise me. Still allinward darkness, I left her about twilight; a walk of two miles laybefore me; it was a clear, frosty night. In spite of my solitude, mypoverty, and my perplexity, my heart, nourished and nerved with thevigour of a youth that had not yet counted twenty-three summers, beatlight and not feebly. Not feebly, I am sure, or I should have trembledin that lonely walk, which lay through still fields, and passedneither village nor farmhouse, nor cottage: I should have quailed inthe absence of moonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only Itraced the dim path; I should have quailed still more in the unwontedpresence of that which to-night shone in the north, a moving mystery--the Aurora Borealis. But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwisethan through my fears. Some new power it seemed to bring. I drew inenergy with the keen, low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thoughtwas sent to my mind; my mind was made strong to receive it. 

"Leave this wilderness, " it was said to me, "and go out hence. "

"Where?" was the query. 

I had not very far to look; gazing from this country parish in thatflat, rich middle of England--I mentally saw within reach what I hadnever yet beheld with my bodily eyes: I saw London. 

The next day I returned to the hall, and asking once more to see thehousekeeper, I communicated to her my plan. 

Mrs. Barrett was a grave, judicious woman, though she knew little moreof the world than myself; but grave and judicious as she was, she didnot charge me with being out of my senses; and, indeed, I had a staidmanner of my own which ere now had been as good to me as cloak andhood of hodden grey, since under its favour I had been enabled toachieve with impunity, and even approbation, deeds that, if attemptedwith an excited and unsettled air, would in some minds have stamped meas a dreamer and zealot. 

The housekeeper was slowly propounding some difficulties, while sheprepared orange-rind for marmalade, when a child ran past the windowand came bounding into the room. It was a pretty child, and as itdanced, laughing, up to me--for we were not strangers (nor, indeed, was its mother--a young married daughter of the house--a stranger)--Itook it on my knee. 

Different as were our social positions now, this child's mother and Ihad been schoolfellows, when I was a girl of ten and she a young ladyof sixteen; and I remembered her, good-looking, but dull, in a lowerclass than mine. 

I was admiring the boy's handsome dark eyes, when the mother, youngMrs. Leigh, entered. What a beautiful and kind-looking woman was thegood-natured and comely, but unintellectual, girl become! Wifehood andmaternity had changed her thus, as I have since seen them changeothers even less promising than she. Me she had forgotten. I waschanged too, though not, I fear, for the better. I made no attempt torecall myself to her memory; why should I? She came for her son toaccompany her in a walk, and behind her followed a nurse, carrying aninfant. I only mention the incident because, in addressing the nurse, Mrs. Leigh spoke French (very bad French, by the way, and with anincorrigibly bad accent, again forcibly reminding me of our school-days): and I found the woman was a foreigner. The little boy chatteredvolubly in French too. When the whole party were withdrawn, Mrs. Barrett remarked that her young lady had brought that foreign nursehome with her two years ago, on her return from a Continentalexcursion; that she was treated almost as well as a governess, and hadnothing to do but walk out with the baby and chatter French withMaster Charles; "and, " added Mrs. Barrett, "she says there are manyEnglishwomen in foreign families as well placed as she. "

I stored up this piece of casual information, as careful housewivesstore seemingly worthless shreds and fragments for which theirprescient minds anticipate a possible use some day. Before I left myold friend, she gave me the address of a respectable old-fashioned innin the City, which, she said, my uncles used to frequent in formerdays. 

In going to London, I ran less risk and evinced less enterprise thanthe reader may think. In fact, the distance was only fifty miles. Mymeans would suffice both to take me there, to keep me a few days, andalso to bring me back if I found no inducement to stay. I regarded itas a brief holiday, permitted for once to work-weary faculties, ratherthan as an adventure of life and death. There is nothing like takingall you do at a moderate estimate: it keeps mind and body tranquil;whereas grandiloquent notions are apt to hurry both into fever. 

Fifty miles were then a day's journey (for I speak of a time gone by:my hair, which, till a late period, withstood the frosts of time, liesnow, at last white, under a white cap, like snow beneath snow). Aboutnine o'clock of a wet February night I reached London. 

My reader, I know, is one who would not thank me for an elaboratereproduction of poetic first impressions; and it is well, inasmuch asI had neither time nor mood to cherish such; arriving as I did late, on a dark, raw, and rainy evening, in a Babylon and a wilderness, ofwhich the vastness and the strangeness tried to the utmost any powersof clear thought and steady self-possession with which, in the absenceof more brilliant faculties, Nature might have gifted me. 

When I left the coach, the strange speech of the cabmen and otherswaiting round, seemed to me odd as a foreign tongue. I had neverbefore heard the English language chopped up in that way. However, Imanaged to understand and to be understood, so far as to get myselfand trunk safely conveyed to the old inn whereof I had the address. How difficult, how oppressive, how puzzling seemed my flight! InLondon for the first time; at an inn for the first time; tired withtravelling; confused with darkness; palsied with cold; unfurnishedwith either experience or advice to tell me how to act, and yet--toact obliged. 

Into the hands of common sense I confided the matter. Common sense, however, was as chilled and bewildered as all my other faculties, andit was only under the spur of an inexorable necessity that shespasmodically executed her trust. Thus urged, she paid the porter:considering the crisis, I did not blame her too much that she washugely cheated; she asked the waiter for a room; she timorously calledfor the chambermaid; what is far more, she bore, without being whollyovercome, a highly supercilious style of demeanour from that younglady, when she appeared. 

I recollect this same chambermaid was a pattern of town prettiness andsmartness. So trim her waist, her cap, her dress--I wondered how theyhad all been manufactured. Her speech had an accent which in itsmincing glibness seemed to rebuke mine as by authority; her spruceattire flaunted an easy scorn to my plain country garb. 

"Well, it can't be helped, " I thought, "and then the scene is new, andthe circumstances; I shall gain good. "

Maintaining a very quiet manner towards this arrogant little maid, andsubsequently observing the same towards the parsonic-looking, black-coated, white-neckclothed waiter, I got civility from them ere long. Ibelieve at first they thought I was a servant; but in a little whilethey changed their minds, and hovered in a doubtful state betweenpatronage and politeness. 

I kept up well till I had partaken of some refreshment, warmed myselfby a fire, and was fairly shut into my own room; but, as I sat down bythe bed and rested my head and arms on the pillow, a terribleoppression overcame me. All at once my position rose on me like aghost. Anomalous, desolate, almost blank of hope it stood. What was Idoing here alone in great London? What should I do on the morrow? Whatprospects had I in life? What friends had I on, earth? Whence did Icome? Whither should I go? What should I do?

I wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing tears. A darkinterval of most bitter thought followed this burst; but I did notregret the step taken, nor wish to retract it A strong, vaguepersuasion that it was better to go forward than backward, and that I_could_ go forward--that a way, however narrow and difficult, would in time open--predominated over other feelings: its influencehushed them so far, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil to beable to say my prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished mycandle and lain down, when a deep, low, mighty tone swung through thenight. At first I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times, and atthe twelfth colossal hum and trembling knell, I said: "I lie in theshadow of St. Paul's. "

CHAPTER VI. 

LONDON. 

The next day was the first of March, and when I awoke, rose, andopened my curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling through fog. Abovemy head, above the house-tops, co-elevate almost with the clouds, Isaw a solemn, orbed mass, dark blue and dim--THE DOME. While I looked, my inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings halfloose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, wereat last about to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast asJonah's gourd. 

"I did well to come, " I said, proceeding to dress with speed and care. "I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Whobut a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and for everabandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?"

Being dressed, I went down; not travel-worn and exhausted, but tidyand refreshed. When the waiter came in with my breakfast, I managed toaccost him sedately, yet cheerfully; we had ten minutes' discourse, inthe course of which we became usefully known to each other. 

He was a grey-haired, elderly man; and, it seemed, had lived in hispresent place twenty years. Having ascertained this, I was sure hemust remember my two uncles, Charles and Wilmot, who, fifteen, yearsago, were frequent visitors here. I mentioned their names; he recalledthem perfectly, and with respect. Having intimated my connection, myposition in his eyes was henceforth clear, and on a right footing. Hesaid I was like my uncle Charles: I suppose he spoke truth, becauseMrs. Barrett was accustomed to say the same thing. A ready andobliging courtesy now replaced his former uncomfortably doubtfulmanner; henceforth I need no longer be at a loss for a civil answer toa sensible question. 

The street on which my little sitting-room window looked was narrow, perfectly quiet, and not dirty: the few passengers were just such asone sees in provincial towns: here was nothing formidable; I felt sureI might venture out alone. 

Having breakfasted, out I went. Elation and pleasure were in my heart:to walk alone in London seemed of itself an adventure. Presently Ifound myself in Paternoster Row--classic ground this. I entered abookseller's shop, kept by one Jones: I bought a little book--a pieceof extravagance I could ill afford; but I thought I would one day giveor send it to Mrs. Barrett. Mr. Jones, a dried-in man of business, stood behind his desk: he seemed one of the greatest, and I one of thehappiest of beings. 

Prodigious was the amount of life I lived that morning. Finding myselfbefore St. Paul's, I went in; I mounted to the dome: I saw thenceLondon, with its river, and its bridges, and its churches; I sawantique Westminster, and the green Temple Gardens, with sun upon them, and a glad, blue sky, of early spring above; and between them and it, not too dense, a cloud of haze. 

Descending, I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a stillecstasy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got--I know not how--I gotinto the heart of city life. I saw and felt London at last: I got intothe Strand; I went up Cornhill; I mixed with the life passing along; Idared the perils of crossings. To do this, and to do it utterly alone, gave me, perhaps an irrational, but a real pleasure. Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine squares; but I love thecity far better. The city seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, and sounds. Thecity is getting its living--the West End but enjoying its pleasure. Atthe West End you may be amused, but in the city you are deeplyexcited. 

Faint, at last, and hungry (it was years since I had felt such healthyhunger), I returned, about two o'clock, to my dark, old, and quietinn. I dined on two dishes--a plain joint and vegetables; both seemedexcellent: how much better than the small, dainty messes MissMarchmont's cook used to send up to my kind, dead mistress and me, andto the discussion of which we could not bring half an appetite betweenus! Delightfully tired, I lay down, on three chairs for an hour (theroom did not boast a sofa). I slept, then I woke and thought for twohours. 

My state of mind, and all accompanying circumstances, were just nowsuch as most to favour the adoption of a new, resolute, and daring--perhaps desperate--line of action. I had nothing to lose. Unutterableloathing of a desolate existence past, forbade return. If I failed inwhat I now designed to undertake, who, save myself, would suffer? If Idied far away from--home, I was going to say, but I had no home--fromEngland, then, who would weep?

I might suffer; I was inured to suffering: death itself had not, Ithought, those terrors for me which it has for the softly reared. Ihad, ere this, looked on the thought of death with a quiet eye. Prepared, then, for any consequences, I formed a project. 

That same evening I obtained from my friend, the waiter, informationrespecting, the sailing of vessels for a certain continental port, Boue-Marine. No time, I found, was to be lost: that very night I musttake my berth. I might, indeed, have waited till the morning beforegoing on board, but would not run the risk of being too late. 

"Better take your berth at once, ma'am, " counselled the waiter. Iagreed with him, and having discharged my bill, and acknowledged myfriend's services at a rate which I now know was princely, and whichin his eyes must have seemed absurd--and indeed, while pocketing thecash, he smiled a faint smile which intimated his opinion of thedonor's _savoir-faire_--he proceeded to call a coach. To thedriver he also recommended me, giving at the same time an injunctionabout taking me, I think, to the wharf, and not leaving me to thewatermen; which that functionary promised to observe, but failed inkeeping his promise: on the contrary, he offered me up as an oblation, served me as a dripping roast, making me alight in the midst of athrong of watermen. 

This was an uncomfortable crisis. It was a dark night. The coachmaninstantly drove off as soon as he had got his fare: the watermencommenced a struggle for me and my trunk. Their oaths I hear at thismoment: they shook my philosophy more than did the night, or theisolation, or the strangeness of the scene. One laid hands on mytrunk. I looked on and waited quietly; but when another laid hands onme, I spoke up, shook off his touch, stepped at once into a boat, desired austerely that the trunk should be placed beside me--"Justthere, "--which was instantly done; for the owner of the boat I hadchosen became now an ally: I was rowed off. 

Black was the river as a torrent of ink; lights glanced on it from thepiles of building round, ships rocked on its bosom. They rowed me upto several vessels; I read by lantern-light their names painted ingreat white letters on a dark ground. "The Ocean, " "The Phoenix, " "TheConsort, " "The Dolphin, " were passed in turns; but "The Vivid" was myship, and it seemed she lay further down. 

Down the sable flood we glided, I thought of the Styx, and of Charonrowing some solitary soul to the Land of Shades. Amidst the strangescene, with a chilly wind blowing in my face and midnight cloudsdropping rain above my head; with two rude rowers for companions, whose insane oaths still tortured my ear, I asked myself if I waswretched or terrified. I was neither. Often in my life have I been farmore so under comparatively safe circumstances. "How is this?" said I. "Methinks I am animated and alert, instead of being depressed andapprehensive?" I could not tell how it was. 

"THE VIVID" started out, white and glaring, from the black night atlast. --"Here you are!" said the waterman, and instantly demanded sixshillings. 

"You ask too much, " I said. He drew off from the vessel and swore hewould not embark me till I paid it. A young man, the steward as Ifound afterwards, was looking over the ship's side; he grinned a smilein anticipation of the coming contest; to disappoint him, I paid themoney. Three times that afternoon I had given crowns where I shouldhave given shillings; but I consoled myself with the reflection, "Itis the price of experience. "

"They've cheated you!" said the steward exultingly when I got onboard. I answered phlegmatically that "I knew it, " and went below. 

A stout, handsome, and showy woman was in the ladies' cabin. I askedto be shown my berth; she looked hard at me, muttered something aboutits being unusual for passengers to come on board at that hour, andseemed disposed to be less than civil. What a face she had--so comely--so insolent and so selfish!

"Now that I am on board, I shall certainly stay here, " was my answer. "I will trouble you to show me my berth. "

She complied, but sullenly. I took off my bonnet, arranged my things, and lay down. Some difficulties had been passed through; a sort ofvictory was won: my homeless, anchorless, unsupported mind had againleisure for a brief repose. Till the "Vivid" arrived in harbour, nofurther action would be required of me; but then.... Oh! I could notlook forward. Harassed, exhausted, I lay in a half-trance. 

The stewardess talked all night; not to me but to the young steward, her son and her very picture. He passed in and out of the cabincontinually: they disputed, they quarrelled, they made it up againtwenty times in the course of the night. She professed to be writing aletter home--she said to her father; she read passages of it aloud, heeding me no more than a stock--perhaps she believed me asleep. Several of these passages appeared to comprise family secrets, andbore special reference to one "Charlotte, " a younger sister who, fromthe bearing of the epistle, seemed to be on the brink of perpetratinga romantic and imprudent match; loud was the protest of this elderlady against the distasteful union. The dutiful son laughed hismother's correspondence to scorn. She defended it, and raved at him. They were a strange pair. She might be thirty-nine or forty, and wasbuxom and blooming as a girl of twenty. Hard, loud, vain and vulgar, her mind and body alike seemed brazen and imperishable. I shouldthink, from her childhood, she must have lived in public stations; andin her youth might very likely have been a barmaid. 

Towards morning her discourse ran on a new theme: "the Watsons, " acertain expected family-party of passengers, known to her, itappeared, and by her much esteemed on account of the handsome profitrealized in their fees. She said, "It was as good as a little fortuneto her whenever this family crossed. "

At dawn all were astir, and by sunrise the passengers came on board. Boisterous was the welcome given by the stewardess to the "Watsons, "and great was the bustle made in their honour. They were four innumber, two males and two females. Besides them, there was but oneother passenger--a young lady, whom a gentlemanly, though languid-looking man escorted. The two groups offered a marked contrast. TheWatsons were doubtless rich people, for they had the confidence ofconscious wealth in their bearing; the women--youthful both of them, and one perfectly handsome, as far as physical beauty went--weredressed richly, gaily, and absurdly out of character for thecircumstances. Their bonnets with bright flowers, their velvet cloaksand silk dresses, seemed better suited for park or promenade than fora damp packet deck. The men were of low stature, plain, fat, andvulgar; the oldest, plainest, greasiest, broadest, I soon found wasthe husband--the bridegroom I suppose, for she was very young--of thebeautiful girl. Deep was my amazement at this discovery; and deeperstill when I perceived that, instead of being desperately wretched insuch a union, she was gay even to giddiness. "Her laughter, " Ireflected, "must be the mere frenzy of despair. " And even while thisthought was crossing my mind, as I stood leaning quiet and solitaryagainst the ship's side, she came tripping up to me, an utterstranger, with a camp-stool in her hand, and smiling a smile of whichthe levity puzzled and startled me, though it showed a perfect set ofperfect teeth, she offered me the accommodation of this piece offurniture. I declined it of course, with all the courtesy I could putinto my manner; she danced off heedless and lightsome. She must havebeen good-natured; but what had made her marry that individual, whowas at least as much like an oil-barrel as a man?

The other lady passenger, with the gentleman-companion, was quite agirl, pretty and fair: her simple print dress, untrimmed straw-bonnetand large shawl, gracefully worn, formed a costume plain to quakerism:yet, for her, becoming enough. Before the gentleman quitted her, Iobserved him throwing a glance of scrutiny over all the passengers, asif to ascertain in what company his charge would be left. With a mostdissatisfied air did his eye turn from the ladies with the gayflowers; he looked at me, and then he spoke to his daughter, niece, orwhatever she was: she also glanced in my direction, and slightlycurled her short, pretty lip. It might be myself, or it might be myhomely mourning habit, that elicited this mark of contempt; morelikely, both. A bell rang; her father (I afterwards knew that it washer father) kissed her, and returned to land. The packet sailed. 

Foreigners say that it is only English girls who can thus be trustedto travel alone, and deep is their wonder at the daring confidence ofEnglish parents and guardians. As for the "jeunes Meess, " by sometheir intrepidity is pronounced masculine and "inconvenant, " othersregard them as the passive victims of an educational and theologicalsystem which wantonly dispenses with proper "surveillance. " Whetherthis particular young lady was of the sort that can the most safely beleft unwatched, I do not know: or, rather did not _then_ know;but it soon appeared that the dignity of solitude was not to hertaste. She paced the deck once or twice backwards and forwards; shelooked with a little sour air of disdain at the flaunting silks andvelvets, and the bears which thereon danced attendance, and eventuallyshe approached me and spoke. 

"Are you fond of a sea-voyage?" was her question. 

I explained that my _fondness_ for a sea-voyage had yet toundergo the test of experience; I had never made one. 

"Oh, how charming!" cried she. "I quite envy you the novelty: firstimpressions, you know, are so pleasant. Now I have made so many, Iquite forget the first: I am quite _blasée_ about the sea and allthat. "

I could not help smiling. 

"Why do you laugh at me?" she inquired, with a frank testiness thatpleased me better than her other talk. 

"Because you are so young to be _blasée_ about anything. "

"I am seventeen" (a little piqued). 

"You hardly look sixteen. Do you like travelling alone?"

"Bah! I care nothing about it. I have crossed the Channel ten times, alone; but then I take care never to be long alone: I always makefriends. "

"You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think" (glancingat the Watson-group, who were now laughing and making a great deal ofnoise on deck). 

"Not of those odious men and women, " said she: "such people should besteerage passengers. Are you going to school?"

"No. "

"Where are you going?"

"I have not the least idea--beyond, at least, the port of Boue-Marine. "

She stared, then carelessly ran on:

"I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools I have beenat in my life! And yet I am quite an ignoramus. I know nothing--nothing in the world--I assure you; except that I play and dancebeautifully, --and French and German of course I know, to speak; but Ican't read or write them very well. Do you know they wanted me totranslate a page of an easy German book into English the other day, and I couldn't do it. Papa was so mortified: he says it looks as if M. De Bassompierre--my godpapa, who pays all my school-bills--had thrownaway all his money. And then, in matters of information--in history, geography, arithmetic, and so on, I am quite a baby; and I writeEnglish so badly--such spelling and grammar, they tell me. Into thebargain I have quite forgotten my religion; they call me a Protestant, you know, but really I am not sure whether I am one or not: I don'twell know the difference between Romanism and Protestantism. However, I don't in the least care for that. I was a Lutheran once at Bonn--dear Bonn!--charming Bonn!--where there were so many handsomestudents. Every nice girl in our school had an admirer; they knew ourhours for walking out, and almost always passed us on the promenade:'Schönes Mädchen, ' we used to hear them say. I was excessively happyat Bonn!"

"And where are you now?" I inquired. 

"Oh! at--_chose_, " said she. 

Now, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe (such was this young person's name) onlysubstituted this word "_chose_" in temporary oblivion of the realname. It was a habit she had: "_chose_" came in at every turn inher conversation--the convenient substitute for any missing word inany language she might chance at the time to be speaking. French girlsoften do the like; from them she had caught the custom. "_Chose_, " however, I found in this instance, stood for Villette--thegreat capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour. 

"Do you like Villette?" I asked. 

"Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupid and vulgar;but there are some nice English families. "

"Are you in a school?"

"Yes. "

"A good one?"

"Oh, no! horrid: but I go out every Sunday, and care nothing about the_maîtresses_ or the _professeurs_, or the _élèves_, and send lessons_au diable_ (one daren't say that in English, you know, but it soundsquite right in French); and thus I get on charmingly.... You are laughingat me again?"

"No--I am only smiling at my own thoughts. "

"What are they?" (Without waiting for an answer)--"Now, _do_ tellme where you are going. "

"Where Fate may lead me. My business is to earn a living where I canfind it. "

"To earn!" (in consternation) "are you poor, then?"

"As poor as Job. "

(After a pause)--"Bah! how unpleasant! But _I_ know what it is tobe poor: they are poor enough at home--papa and mamma, and all ofthem. Papa is called Captain Fanshawe; he is an officer on half-pay, but well-descended, and some of our connections are great enough; butmy uncle and godpapa De Bassompierre, who lives in France, is the onlyone that helps us: he educates us girls. I have five sisters and threebrothers. By-and-by we are to marry--rather elderly gentlemen, Isuppose, with cash: papa and mamma manage that. My sister Augusta ismarried now to a man much older-looking than papa. Augusta is verybeautiful--not in my style--but dark; her husband, Mr. Davies, had theyellow fever in India, and he is still the colour of a guinea; butthen he is rich, and Augusta has her carriage and establishment, andwe all think she has done perfectly well. Now, this is better than'earning a living, ' as you say. By the way, are you clever?"

"No--not at all. "

"You can play, sing, speak three or four languages?"

"By no means. "

"Still I think you are clever" (a pause and a yawn). 

"Shall you be sea-sick?"

"Shall you?"

"Oh, immensely! as soon as ever we get in sight of the sea: I begin, indeed, to feel it already. I shall go below; and won't I order aboutthat fat odious stewardess! Heureusement je sais faire aller monmonde. "

Down she went. 

It was not long before the other passengers followed her: throughoutthe afternoon I remained on deck alone. When I recall the tranquil, and even happy mood in which I passed those hours, and remember, atthe same time, the position in which I was placed; its hazardous--somewould have said its hopeless--character; I feel that, as--

 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars--a cage, so peril, loneliness, an uncertain future, are not oppressive evils, so long as the frame is healthy and the faculties are employed; solong, especially, as Liberty lends us her wings, and Hope guides us byher star. 

I was not sick till long after we passed Margate, and deep was thepleasure I drank in with the sea-breeze; divine the delight I drewfrom the heaving Channel waves, from the sea-birds on their ridges, from the white sails on their dark distance, from the quiet yetbeclouded sky, overhanging all. In my reverie, methought I saw thecontinent of Europe, like a wide dream-land, far away. Sunshine lay onit, making the long coast one line of gold; tiniest tracery ofclustered town and snow-gleaming tower, of woods deep massed, ofheights serrated, of smooth pasturage and veiny stream, embossed themetal-bright prospect. For background, spread a sky, solemn and darkblue, and--grand with imperial promise, soft with tints ofenchantment--strode from north to south a God-bent bow, an arch ofhope. 

Cancel the whole of that, if you please, reader--or rather let itstand, and draw thence a moral--an alliterative, text-hand copy--

 Day-dreams are delusions of the demon. 

Becoming excessively sick, I faltered down into the cabin. 

Miss Fanshawe's berth chanced to be next mine; and, I am sorry to say, she tormented me with an unsparing selfishness during the whole timeof our mutual distress. Nothing could exceed her impatience andfretfulness. The Watsons, who were very sick too, and on whom thestewardess attended with shameless partiality, were stoics comparedwith her. Many a time since have I noticed, in persons of GinevraFanshawe's light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style ofbeauty, an entire incapacity to endure: they seem to sour inadversity, like small beer in thunder. The man who takes such a womanfor his wife, ought to be prepared to guarantee her an existence allsunshine. Indignant at last with her teasing peevishness, I curtlyrequested her "to hold her tongue. " The rebuff did her good, and itwas observable that she liked me no worse for it. 

As dark night drew on, the sea roughened: larger waves swayed strongagainst the vessel's side. It was strange to reflect that blacknessand water were round us, and to feel the ship ploughing straight onher pathless way, despite noise, billow, and rising gale. Articles offurniture began to fall about, and it became needful to lash them totheir places; the passengers grew sicker than ever; Miss Fanshawedeclared, with groans, that she must die. 

"Not just yet, honey, " said the stewardess. "We're just in port. "Accordingly, in another quarter of an hour, a calm fell upon us all;and about midnight the voyage ended. 

I was sorry: yes, I was sorry. My resting-time was past; mydifficulties--my stringent difficulties--recommenced. When I went ondeck, the cold air and black scowl of the night seemed to rebuke mefor my presumption in being where I was: the lights of the foreignsea-port town, glimmering round the foreign harbour, met me likeunnumbered threatening eyes. Friends came on board to welcome theWatsons; a whole family of friends surrounded and bore away MissFanshawe; I--but I dared not for one moment dwell on a comparison ofpositions. 

Yet where should I go? I must go somewhere. Necessity dare not benice. As I gave the stewardess her fee--and she seemed surprised atreceiving a coin of more value than, from such a quarter, her coarsecalculations had probably reckoned on--I said, "Be kind enough todirect me to some quiet, respectable inn, where I can go for thenight. "

She not only gave me the required direction, but called acommissionaire, and bid him take charge of me, and--_not_ mytrunk, for that was gone to the custom-house. 

I followed this man along a rudely-paved street, lit now by a fitfulgleam of moonlight; he brought me to the inn. I offered him sixpence, which he refused to take; supposing it not enough, I changed it for ashilling; but this also he declined, speaking rather sharply, in alanguage to me unknown. A waiter, coming forward into the lamp-litinn-passage, reminded me, in broken English, that my money was foreignmoney, not current here. I gave him a sovereign to change. This littlematter settled, I asked for a bedroom; supper I could not take: I wasstill sea-sick and unnerved, and trembling all over. How deeply glad Iwas when the door of a very small chamber at length closed on me andmy exhaustion. Again I might rest: though the cloud of doubt would beas thick to-morrow as ever; the necessity for exertion more urgent, the peril (of destitution) nearer, the conflict (for existence) moresevere. 

CHAPTER VII. 

VILLETTE. 

I awoke next morning with courage revived and spirits refreshed:physical debility no longer enervated my judgment; my mind felt promptand clear. 

Just as I finished dressing, a tap came to the door: I said, "Comein, " expecting the chambermaid, whereas a rough man walked in andsaid, --

"Gif me your keys, Meess. "

"Why?" I asked. 

"Gif!" said he impatiently; and as he half-snatched them from my hand, he added, "All right! haf your tronc soon. "

Fortunately it did turn out all right: he was from the custom-house. Where to go to get some breakfast I could not tell; but I proceeded, not without hesitation, to descend. 

I now observed, what I had not noticed in my extreme weariness lastnight, viz. That this inn was, in fact, a large hotel; and as I slowlydescended the broad staircase, halting on each step (for I was inwonderfully little haste to get down), I gazed at the high ceilingabove me, at the painted walls around, at the wide windows whichfilled the house with light, at the veined marble I trod (for thesteps were all of marble, though uncarpeted and not very clean), andcontrasting all this with the dimensions of the closet assigned to meas a chamber, with the extreme modesty of its appointments, I fellinto a philosophizing mood. 

Much I marvelled at the sagacity evinced by waiters and chamber-maidsin proportioning the accommodation to the guest. How could inn-servants and ship-stewardesses everywhere tell at a glance that I, forinstance, was an individual of no social significance, and littleburdened by cash? They _did_ know it evidently: I saw quite wellthat they all, in a moment's calculation, estimated me at about thesame fractional value. The fact seemed to me curious and pregnant: Iwould not disguise from myself what it indicated, yet managed to keepup my spirits pretty well under its pressure. 

Having at last landed in a great hall, full of skylight glare, I mademy way somehow to what proved to be the coffee-room. It cannot bedenied that on entering this room I trembled somewhat; felt uncertain, solitary, wretched; wished to Heaven I knew whether I was doing rightor wrong; felt convinced that it was the last, but could not helpmyself. Acting in the spirit and with the calm of a fatalist, I satdown at a small table, to which a waiter presently brought me somebreakfast; and I partook of that meal in a frame of mind not greatlycalculated to favour digestion. There were many other peoplebreakfasting at other tables in the room; I should have felt rathermore happy if amongst them all I could have seen any women; however, there was not one--all present were men. But nobody seemed to think Iwas doing anything strange; one or two gentlemen glanced at meoccasionally, but none stared obtrusively: I suppose if there wasanything eccentric in the business, they accounted for it by this word"Anglaise!"

Breakfast over, I must again move--in what direction? "Go toVillette, " said an inward voice; prompted doubtless by therecollection of this slight sentence uttered carelessly and at randomby Miss Fanshawe, as she bid me good-by: "I wish you would come toMadame Beck's; she has some marmots whom you might look after; shewants an English gouvernante, or was wanting one two months ago. "

Who Madame Beck was, where she lived, I knew not; I had asked, but thequestion passed unheard: Miss Fanshawe, hurried away by her friends, left it unanswered. I presumed Villette to be her residence--toVillette I would go. The distance was forty miles. I knew I wascatching at straws; but in the wide and weltering deep where I foundmyself, I would have caught at cobwebs. Having inquired about themeans of travelling to Villette, and secured a seat in the diligence, I departed on the strength of this outline--this shadow of a project. Before you pronounce on the rashness of the proceeding, reader, lookback to the point whence I started; consider the desert I had left, note how little I perilled: mine was the game where the player cannotlose and may win. 

Of an artistic temperament, I deny that I am; yet I must possesssomething of the artist's faculty of making the most of presentpleasure: that is to say, when it is of the kind to my taste. Ienjoyed that day, though we travelled slowly, though it was cold, though it rained. Somewhat bare, flat, and treeless was the routealong which our journey lay; and slimy canals crept, like half-torpidgreen snakes, beside the road; and formal pollard willows edged levelfields, tilled like kitchen-garden beds. The sky, too, wasmonotonously gray; the atmosphere was stagnant and humid; yet amidstall these deadening influences, my fancy budded fresh and my heartbasked in sunshine. These feelings, however, were well kept in checkby the secret but ceaseless consciousness of anxiety lying in wait onenjoyment, like a tiger crouched in a jungle. The breathing of thatbeast of prey was in my ear always; his fierce heart panted closeagainst mine; he never stirred in his lair but I felt him: I knew hewaited only for sun-down to bound ravenous from his ambush. 

I had hoped we might reach Villette ere night set in, and that thus Imight escape the deeper embarrassment which obscurity seems to throwround a first arrival at an unknown bourne; but, what with our slowprogress and long stoppages--what with a thick fog and small, denserain--darkness, that might almost be felt, had settled on the city bythe time we gained its suburbs. 

I know we passed through a gate where soldiers were stationed--so muchI could see by lamplight; then, having left behind us the miryChaussée, we rattled over a pavement of strangely rough and flintysurface. At a bureau, the diligence stopped, and the passengersalighted. My first business was to get my trunk; a small matterenough, but important to me. Understanding that it was best not to beimportunate or over-eager about luggage, but to wait and watch quietlythe delivery of other boxes till I saw my own, and then promptly claimand secure it, I stood apart; my eye fixed on that part of the vehiclein which I had seen my little portmanteau safely stowed, and uponwhich piles of additional bags and boxes were now heaped. One by one, I saw these removed, lowered, and seized on. 

I was sure mine ought to be by this time visible: it was not. I hadtied on the direction-card with a piece of green ribbon, that I mightknow it at a glance: not a fringe or fragment of green wasperceptible. Every package was removed; every tin-case and brown-paperparcel; the oilcloth cover was lifted; I saw with distinct vision thatnot an umbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box remained. 

And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocket-bookenclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they?

I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could say nothingwhatever; not possessing a phrase of _speaking_ French: and it wasFrench, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling aroundme. _What_ should I do? Approaching the conductor, I just laid myhand on his arm, pointed to a trunk, thence to the diligence-roof, andtried to express a question with my eyes. He misunderstood me, seizedthe trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle. 

"Let that alone--will you?" said a voice in good English; then, incorrection, "Qu'est-ce que vous faîtes donc? Cette malle est à moi. "

But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; Iturned: "Sir, " said I, appealing to the stranger, without, in mydistress, noticing what he was like, "I cannot speak French. May Ientreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?"

Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was towhich my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in itsexpression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom ofinterference. 

"_Do_ ask him; I would do as much for you, " said I. 

I don't know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone--that is to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying, --"What sort of trunkwas yours?"

I described it, including in my description the green ribbon. Andforthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt, through allthe storm of French which followed, that he raked him fore and aft. Presently he returned to me. 

"The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he removedyour trunk after you saw it put on, and has left it behind at Boue-Marine with other parcels; he has promised, however, to forward itto-morrow; the day after, therefore, you will find it safe at thisbureau. "

"Thank you, " said I: but my heart sank. 

Meantime what should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw thefailure of courage in my face; he inquired kindly, "Have you anyfriends in this city?"

"No, and I don't know where to go. "

There was a little pause, in the course of which, as he turned morefully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw that he was a young, distinguished, and handsome man; he might be a lord, for anything Iknew: nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. Hisface was very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but notoverbearing. I was turning away, in the deep consciousness of allabsence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he. 

"Was all your money in your trunk?" he asked, stopping me. 

How thankful was I to be able to answer with truth--"No. I have enoughin my purse" (for I had near twenty francs) "to keep me at a quiet inntill the day after to-morrow; but I am quite a stranger in Villette, and don't know the streets and the inns. "

"I can give you the address of such an inn as you want, " said he; "andit is not far off: with my direction you will easily find it. "

He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words and gave it tome. I _did_ think him kind; and as to distrusting him, or hisadvice, or his address, I should almost as soon have thought ofdistrusting the Bible. There was goodness in his countenance, andhonour in his bright eyes. 

"Your shortest way will be to follow the Boulevard and cross thepark, " he continued; "but it is too late and too dark for a woman togo through the park alone; I will step with you thus far. "

He moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the smallsoaking rain. The Boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the waterdripping from its trees; the park was black as midnight. In the doublegloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only followhis tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followedthat frank tread, through continual night, to the world's end. 

"Now, " said he, when the park was traversed, "you will go along thisbroad street till you come to steps; two lamps will show you wherethey are: these steps you will descend: a narrower street lies below;following that, at the bottom you will find your inn. They speakEnglish there, so your difficulties are now pretty well over. Good-night. "

"Good-night, sir, " said I: "accept my sincerest thanks. " And weparted. 

The remembrance of his countenance, which I am sure wore a light notunbenignant to the friendless--the sound in my ear of his voice, whichspoke a nature chivalric to the needy and feeble, as well as theyouthful and fair--were a sort of cordial to me long after. He was atrue young English gentleman. 

On I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square, withthe grandest houses round, and amidst them the huge outline of morethan one overbearing pile; which might be palace or church--I couldnot tell. Just as I passed a portico, two mustachioed men camesuddenly from behind the pillars; they were smoking cigars: theirdress implied pretensions to the rank of gentlemen, but, poor things!they were very plebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, and, fastas I walked, they kept pace with me a long way. At last I met a sortof patrol, and my dreaded hunters were turned from the pursuit; butthey had driven me beyond my reckoning: when I could collect myfaculties, I no longer knew where I was; the staircase I must longsince have passed. Puzzled, out of breath, all my pulses throbbing ininevitable agitation, I knew not where to turn. It was terrible tothink of again encountering those bearded, sneering simpletons; yetthe ground must be retraced, and the steps sought out. 

I came at last to an old and worn flight, and, taking it for grantedthat this must be the one indicated, I descended them. The street intowhich they led was indeed narrow, but it contained no inn. On Iwandered. In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-pavedstreet, I saw a light burning over the door of a rather large house, loftier by a story than those round it. _This_ might be the innat last. I hastened on: my knees now trembled under me: I was gettingquite exhausted. 

No inn was this. A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochère:"Pensionnat de Demoiselles" was the inscription; and beneath, a name, "Madame Beck. "

I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in amoment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time. Providence said, "Stop here; this is _your_ inn. " Fate took me inher strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rang thedoor-bell. 

While I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the street-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted theirshapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again. Theyopened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me. 

"May I see Madame Beck?" I inquired. 

I believe if I had spoken French she would not have admitted me; but, as I spoke English, she concluded I was a foreign teacher come onbusiness connected with the pensionnat, and, even at that late hour, she let me in, without a word of reluctance, or a moment ofhesitation. 

The next moment I sat in a cold, glittering salon, with porcelainstove, unlit, and gilded ornaments, and polished floor. A pendule onthe mantel-piece struck nine o'clock. 

A quarter of an hour passed. How fast beat every pulse in my frame!How I turned cold and hot by turns! I sat with my eyes fixed on thedoor--a great white folding-door, with gilt mouldings: I watched tosee a leaf move and open. All had been quiet: not a mouse had stirred;the white doors were closed and motionless. 

"You ayre Engliss?" said a voice at my elbow. I almost bounded, sounexpected was the sound; so certain had I been of solitude. 

No ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect; merely amotherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a wrapping-gown, and aclean, trim nightcap. 

I said I was English, and immediately, without further prelude, wefell to a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck (for Madame Beckit was--she had entered by a little door behind me, and, being shodwith the shoes of silence, I had heard neither her entrance norapproach)--Madame Beck had exhausted her command of insular speechwhen she said, "You ayre Engliss, " and she now proceeded to work awayvolubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understoodme, but as I did not at all understand her--though we made together anawful clamour (anything like Madame's gift of utterance I had nothitherto heard or imagined)--we achieved little progress. She rang, ere long, for aid; which arrived in the shape of a "maîtresse, " whohad been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed aperfect adept in the English language. A bluff little personage thismaîtresse was--Labassecourienne from top to toe: and how she didslaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which she translated. I told her how I had left my own country, intenton extending my knowledge, and gaining my bread; how I was ready toturn my hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrong ordegrading; how I would be a child's-nurse, or a lady's-maid, and wouldnot refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this;and, questioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won herear:

"Il n'y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d'entreprises, " said she:"sont-elles donc intrépides ces femmes là!"

She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me--not pityingly, not with interest: never a gleam of sympathy, or a shade ofcompassion, crossed her countenance during the interview. I felt shewas not one to be led an inch by her feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed, consulting her judgment and studying my narrative. A bellrang. 

"Voilà pour la prière du soir!" said she, and rose. Through herinterpreter, she desired me to depart now, and come back on themorrow; but this did not suit me: I could not bear to return to theperils of darkness and the street. With energy, yet with a collectedand controlled manner, I said, addressing herself personally, and notthe maîtresse: "Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing myservices, your interests will be served and not injured: you will findme one who will wish to give, in her labour, a full equivalent for herwages; and if you hire me, it will be better that I should stay herethis night: having no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing thelanguage of the country, how can I secure a lodging?"

"It is true, " said she; "but at least you can give a reference?"

"None. "

She inquired after my luggage: I told her when it would arrive. Shemused. At that moment a man's step was heard in the vestibule, hastilyproceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my taleas if I had understood all that passed; for though it was then scarceintelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards). 

"Who goes out now?" demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread. 

"M. Paul, " replied the teacher. "He came this evening to give areading to the first class. "

"The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him. "

The teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered: asmall, dark and spare man, in spectacles. 

"Mon cousin, " began Madame, "I want your opinion. We know your skillin physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance. "

The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression ofthe lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant tosee through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him. 

"I read it, " he pronounced. 

"Et qu'en dites vous?"

"Mais--bien des choses, " was the oracular answer. 

"Bad or good?"

"Of each kind, without doubt, " pursued the diviner. 

"May one trust her word?"

"Are you negotiating a matter of importance?"

"She wishes me to engage her as bonne or gouvernante; tells a talefull of integrity, but gives no reference. "

"She is a stranger?"

"An Englishwoman, as one may see. "

"She speaks French?"

"Not a word. "

"She understands it?"

"No. "

"One may then speak plainly in her presence?"

"Doubtless. "

He gazed steadily. "Do you need her services?"

"I could do with them. You know I am disgusted with Madame Svini. "

Still he scrutinized. The judgment, when it at last came, was asindefinite as what had gone before it. 

"Engage her. If good predominates in that nature, the action willbring its own reward; if evil--eh bien! ma cousine, ce sera toujoursune bonne oeuvre. " And with a bow and a "bon soir, " this vague arbiterof my destiny vanished. 

And Madame did engage me that very night--by God's blessing I wasspared the necessity of passing forth again into the lonesome, dreary, hostile street. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

MADAME BECK. 

Being delivered into the charge of the maîtresse, I was led through along narrow passage into a foreign kitchen, very clean but verystrange. It seemed to contain no means of cooking--neither fireplacenor oven; I did not understand that the great black furnace whichfilled one corner, was an efficient substitute for these. Surely pridewas not already beginning its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a senseof relief when, instead of being left in the kitchen, as I halfanticipated, I was led forward to a small inner room termed a"cabinet. " A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, broughtmy supper: to wit--some meat, nature unknown, served in an odd andacid, but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes, made savoury with, Iknow not what: vinegar and sugar, I think: a tartine, or slice ofbread and butter, and a baked pear. Being hungry, I ate and wasgrateful. 

After the "prière du soir, " Madame herself came to have another lookat me. She desired me to follow her up-stairs. Through a series of thequeerest little dormitories--which, I heard afterwards, had once beennuns' cells: for the premises were in part of ancient date--andthrough the oratory--a long, low, gloomy room, where a crucifix hung, pale, against the wall, and two tapers kept dim vigils--she conductedme to an apartment where three children were asleep in three tinybeds. A heated stove made the air of this room oppressive; and, tomend matters, it was scented with an odour rather strong thandelicate: a perfume, indeed, altogether surprising and unexpectedunder the circumstances, being like the combination of smoke with somespirituous essence--a smell, in short, of whisky. 

Beside a table, on which flared the remnant of a candle guttering towaste in the socket, a coarse woman, heterogeneously clad in a broadstriped showy silk dress, and a stuff apron, sat in a chair fastasleep. To complete the picture, and leave no doubt as to the state ofmatters, a bottle and an empty glass stood at the sleeping beauty'selbow. 

Madame contemplated this remarkable tableau with great calm; sheneither smiled nor scowled; no impress of anger, disgust, or surprise, ruffled the equality of her grave aspect; she did not even wake thewoman! Serenely pointing to a fourth bed, she intimated that it was tobe mine; then, having extinguished the candle and substituted for it anight-lamp, she glided through an inner door, which she left ajar--theentrance to her own chamber, a large, well-furnished apartment; as wasdiscernible through the aperture. 

My devotions that night were all thanksgiving. Strangely had I beenled since morning--unexpectedly had I been provided for. Scarcelycould I believe that not forty-eight hours had elapsed since I leftLondon, under no other guardianship than that which protects thepassenger-bird--with no prospect but the dubious cloud-tracery ofhope. 

I was a light sleeper; in the dead of night I suddenly awoke. All washushed, but a white figure stood in the room--Madame in her night-dress. Moving without perceptible sound, she visited the threechildren in the three beds; she approached me: I feigned sleep, andshe studied me long. A small pantomime ensued, curious enough. Idaresay she sat a quarter of an hour on the edge of my bed, gazing atmy face. She then drew nearer, bent close over me; slightly raised mycap, and turned back the border so as to expose my hair; she looked atmy hand lying on the bedclothes. This done, she turned to the chairwhere my clothes lay: it was at the foot of the bed. Hearing her touchand lift them, I opened my eyes with precaution, for I own I feltcurious to see how far her taste for research would lead her. It ledher a good way: every article did she inspect. I divined her motivefor this proceeding, viz. The wish to form from the garments ajudgment respecting the wearer, her station, means, neatness, &c. Theend was not bad, but the means were hardly fair or justifiable. In mydress was a pocket; she fairly turned it inside out: she counted themoney in my purse; she opened a little memorandum-book, coolly perusedits contents, and took from between the leaves a small plaited lock ofMiss Marchmont's grey hair. To a bunch of three keys, being those ofmy trunk, desk, and work-box, she accorded special attention: withthese, indeed, she withdrew a moment to her own room. I softly rose inmy bed and followed her with my eye: these keys, reader, were notbrought back till they had left on the toilet of the adjoining roomthe impress of their wards in wax. All being thus done decently and inorder, my property was returned to its place, my clothes werecarefully refolded. Of what nature were the conclusions deduced fromthis scrutiny? Were they favourable or otherwise? Vain question. Madame's face of stone (for of stone in its present night aspect itlooked: it had been human, and, as I said before, motherly, in thesalon) betrayed no response. 

Her duty done--I felt that in her eyes this business was a duty--sherose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved towards her own chamber; at thedoor, she turned, fixing her eye on the heroine of the bottle, whostill slept and loudly snored. Mrs. Svini (I presume this was Mrs. Svini, Anglicé or Hibernicé, Sweeny)--Mrs. Sweeny's doom was in MadameBeck's eye--an immutable purpose that eye spoke: Madame's visitationsfor shortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this was veryun-English: truly I was in a foreign land. 

The morrow made me further acquainted with Mrs. Sweeny. It seems shehad introduced herself to her present employer as an English lady inreduced circumstances: a native, indeed, of Middlesex, professing tospeak the English tongue with the purest metropolitan accent. Madame--reliant on her own infallible expedients for finding out the truth intime--had a singular intrepidity in hiring service off-hand (as indeedseemed abundantly proved in my own case). She received Mrs. Sweeny asnursery-governess to her three children. I need hardly explain to thereader that this lady was in effect a native of Ireland; her station Ido not pretend to fix: she boldly declared that she had "had thebringing-up of the son and daughter of a marquis. " I think myself, shemight possibly have been a hanger-on, nurse, fosterer, or washerwoman, in some Irish family: she spoke a smothered tongue, curiously overlaidwith mincing cockney inflections. By some means or other she hadacquired, and now held in possession, a wardrobe of rather suspicioussplendour--gowns of stiff and costly silk, fitting her indifferently, and apparently made for other proportions than those they now adorned;caps with real lace borders, and--the chief item in the inventory, thespell by which she struck a certain awe through the household, quelling the otherwise scornfully disposed teachers and servants, and, so long as her broad shoulders _wore_ the folds of that majesticdrapery, even influencing Madame herself--_a real Indian shawl_--"un véritable cachemire, " as Madame Beck said, with unmixed reverenceand amaze. I feel quite sure that without this "cachemire" she wouldnot have kept her footing in the pensionnat for two days: by virtue ofit, and it only, she maintained the same a month. 

But when Mrs. Sweeny knew that I was come to fill her shoes, then itwas that she declared herself--then did she rise on Madame Beck in herfull power--then come down on me with her concentrated weight. Madamebore this revelation and visitation so well, so stoically, that I forvery shame could not support it otherwise than with composure. For onelittle moment Madame Beck absented herself from the room; ten minutesafter, an agent of the police stood in the midst of us. Mrs. Sweenyand her effects were removed. Madame's brow had not been ruffledduring the scene--her lips had not dropped one sharply-accented word. 

This brisk little affair of the dismissal was all settled beforebreakfast: order to march given, policeman called, mutineer expelled;"chambre d'enfans" fumigated and cleansed, windows thrown open, andevery trace of the accomplished Mrs. Sweeny--even to the fine essenceand spiritual fragrance which gave token so subtle and so fatal of thehead and front of her offending--was annihilated from the RueFossette: all this, I say, was done between the moment of MadameBeck's issuing like Aurora from her chamber, and that in which shecoolly sat down to pour out her first cup of coffee. 

About noon, I was summoned to dress Madame. (It appeared my place wasto be a hybrid between gouvernante and lady's-maid. ) Till noon, shehaunted the house in her wrapping-gown, shawl, and soundless slippers. How would the lady-chief of an English school approve this custom?

The dressing of her hair puzzled me; she had plenty of it: auburn, unmixed with grey: though she was forty years old. Seeing myembarrassment, she said, "You have not been a femme-de-chambre in yourown country?" And taking the brush from my hand, and setting me aside, not ungently or disrespectfully, she arranged it herself. Inperforming other offices of the toilet, she half-directed, half-aidedme, without the least display of temper or impatience. N. B. --That wasthe first and last time I was required to dress her. Henceforth, onRosine, the portress, devolved that duty. 

When attired, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a figure rathershort and stout, yet still graceful in its own peculiar way; that is, with the grace resulting from proportion of parts. Her complexion wasfresh and sanguine, not too rubicund; her eye, blue and serene; herdark silk dress fitted her as a French sempstress alone can make adress fit; she looked well, though a little bourgeoise; as bourgeoise, indeed, she was. I know not what of harmony pervaded her whole person;and yet her face offered contrast, too: its features were by no meanssuch as are usually seen in conjunction with a complexion of suchblended freshness and repose: their outline was stern: her foreheadwas high but narrow; it expressed capacity and some benevolence, butno expanse; nor did her peaceful yet watchful eye ever know the firewhich is kindled in the heart or the softness which flows thence. Hermouth was hard: it could be a little grim; her lips were thin. Forsensibility and genius, with all their tenderness and temerity, I feltsomehow that Madame would be the right sort of Minos in petticoats. 

In the long run, I found she was something else in petticoats too. Hername was Modeste Maria Beck, née Kint: it ought to have been Ignacia. She was a charitable woman, and did a great deal of good. There neverwas a mistress whose rule was milder. I was told that she never onceremonstrated with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny, despite her tipsiness, disorder, and general neglect; yet Mrs. Sweeny had to go the momenther departure became convenient. I was told, too, that neither mastersnor teachers were found fault with in that establishment; yet bothmasters and teachers were often changed: they vanished and othersfilled their places, none could well explain how. 

The establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat: the externesor day-pupils exceeded one hundred in number; the boarders were abouta score. Madame must have possessed high administrative powers: sheruled all these, together with four teachers, eight masters, sixservants, and three children, managing at the same time to perfectionthe pupils' parents and friends; and that without apparent effort;without bustle, fatigue, fever, or any symptom of undue, excitement:occupied she always was--busy, rarely. It is true that Madame had herown system for managing and regulating this mass of machinery; and avery pretty system it was: the reader has seen a specimen of it, inthat small affair of turning my pocket inside out, and reading myprivate memoranda. "Surveillance, " "espionage, "--these were herwatchwords. 

Still, Madame knew what honesty was, and liked it--that is, when itdid not obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will andinterest. She had a respect for "Angleterre;" and as to "lesAnglaises, " she would have the women of no other country about her ownchildren, if she could help it. 

Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting, spying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she wouldcome up to my room--a trace of real weariness on her brow--and shewould sit down and listen while the children said their little prayersto me in English: the Lord's Prayer, and the hymn beginning "GentleJesus, " these little Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee;and, when I had put them to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gainedenough French to be able to understand, and even answer her) aboutEngland and Englishwomen, and the reasons for what she was pleased toterm their superior intelligence, and more real and reliable probity. Very good sense she often showed; very sound opinions she oftenbroached: she seemed to know that keeping girls in distrustfulrestraint, in blind ignorance, and under a surveillance that left themno moment and no corner for retirement, was not the best way to makethem grow up honest and modest women; but she averred that ruinousconsequences would ensue if any other method were tried withcontinental children: they were so accustomed to restraint, thatrelaxation, however guarded, would be misunderstood and fatallypresumed on. She was sick, she would declare, of the means she had touse, but use them she must; and after discoursing, often with dignityand delicacy, to me, she would move away on her "souliers de silence, "and glide ghost-like through the house, watching and spyingeverywhere, peering through every keyhole, listening behind everydoor. 

After all, Madame's system was not bad--let me do her justice. Nothingcould be better than all her arrangements for the physical well-beingof her scholars. No minds were overtasked: the lessons were welldistributed and made incomparably easy to the learner; there was aliberty of amusement, and a provision for exercise which kept thegirls healthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor punyfaces were anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette. She never grudgeda holiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing, eating; her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary, and rational: many an austere English school-mistress would do vastlywell to imitate her--and I believe many would be glad to do so, ifexacting English parents would let them. 

As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff ofspies: she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she used, and whileshe would not scruple to handle the dirtiest for a dirty occasion--flinging this sort from her like refuse rind, after the orange hasbeen duly squeezed--I have known her fastidious in seeking pure metalfor clean uses; and when once a bloodless and rustless instrument wasfound, she was careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool. Yet, woe be to that man or woman who relied on her one inchbeyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy: interestwas the master-key of Madame's nature--the mainspring of her motives--the alpha and omega of her life. I have seen her _feelings_appealed to, and I have smiled in half-pity, half-scorn at theappellants. None ever gained her ear through that channel, or swayedher purpose by that means. On the contrary, to attempt to touch herheart was the surest way to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her asecret foe. It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched: itreminded her where she was impotent and dead. Never was thedistinction between charity and mercy better exemplified than in her. While devoid of sympathy, she had a sufficiency of rationalbenevolence: she would give in the readiest manner to people she hadnever seen--rather, however, to classes than to individuals. "Pour lespauvres, " she opened her purse freely--against _the poor man_, asa rule, she kept it closed. In philanthropic schemes for the benefitof society at large she took a cheerful part; no private sorrowtouched her: no force or mass of suffering concentrated in one hearthad power to pierce hers. Not the agony in Gethsemane, not the deathon Calvary, could have wrung from her eyes one tear. 

I say again, Madame was a very great and a very capable woman. Thatschool offered her for her powers too limited a sphere; she ought tohave swayed a nation: she should have been the leader of a turbulentlegislative assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten her, none irritatedher nerves, exhausted her patience, or over-reached her astuteness. Inher own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a firstminister and a superintendent of police. Wise, firm, faithless;secret, crafty, passionless; watchful and inscrutable; acute andinsensate--withal perfectly decorous--what more could be desired?

The sensible reader will not suppose that I gained all the knowledgehere condensed for his benefit in one month, or in one half-year. No!what I saw at first was the thriving outside of a large andflourishing educational establishment. Here was a great house, full ofhealthy, lively girls, all well-dressed and many of them handsome, gaining knowledge by a marvellously easy method, without painfulexertion or useless waste of spirits; not, perhaps, making very rapidprogress in anything; taking it easy, but still always employed, andnever oppressed. Here was a corps of teachers and masters, morestringently tasked, as all the real head-labour was to be done bythem, in order to save the pupils, yet having their duties so arrangedthat they relieved each other in quick succession whenever the workwas severe: here, in short, was a foreign school; of which the life, movement, and variety made it a complete and most charming contrast tomany English institutions of the same kind. 

Behind the house was a large garden, and, in summer, the pupils almostlived out of doors amongst the rose-bushes and the fruit-trees. Underthe vast and vine-draped berceau, Madame would take her seat on summerafternoons, and send for the classes, in turns, to sit round her andsew and read. Meantime, masters came and went, delivering short andlively lectures, rather than lessons, and the pupils made notes oftheir instructions, or did _not_ make them--just as inclinationprompted; secure that, in case of neglect, they could copy the notesof their companions. Besides the regular monthly _jours desortie_, the Catholic fête-days brought a succession of holidaysall the year round; and sometimes on a bright summer morning, or softsummer evening; the boarders were taken out for a long walk into thecountry, regaled with _gaufres_ and _vin blanc_, or new milkand _pain bis_, or _pistolets au beurre_ (rolls) and coffee. All this seemed very pleasant, and Madame appeared goodness itself;and the teachers not so bad but they might be worse; and the pupils, perhaps, a little noisy and rough, but types of health and glee. 

Thus did the view appear, seen through the enchantment of distance;but there came a time when distance was to melt for me--when I was tobe called down from my watch-tower of the nursery, whence I hadhitherto made my observations, and was to be compelled into closerintercourse with this little world of the Rue Fossette. 

I was one day sitting up-stairs, as usual, hearing the children theirEnglish lessons, and at the same time turning a silk dress for Madame, when she came sauntering into the room with that absorbed air and browof hard thought she sometimes wore, and which made her look so littlegenial. Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutessilent. Désirée, the eldest girl, was reading to me some little essayof Mrs. Barbauld's, and I was making her translate currently fromEnglish to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining that shecomprehended what she read: Madame listened. 

Presently, without preface or prelude, she said, almost in the tone ofone making an accusation, "Meess, in England you were a governess?"

"No, Madame, " said I smiling, "you are mistaken. "

"Is this your first essay at teaching--this attempt with my children?"

I assured her it was. Again she became silent; but looking up, as Itook a pin from the cushion, I found myself an object of study: sheheld me under her eye; she seemed turning me round in her thoughts--measuring my fitness for a purpose, weighing my value in a plan. Madame had, ere this, scrutinized all I had, and I believe sheesteemed herself cognizant of much that I was; but from that day, forthe space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests. Shelistened at the nursery door when I was shut in with the children; shefollowed me at a cautious distance when I walked out with them, stealing within ear-shot whenever the trees of park or boulevardafforded a sufficient screen: a strict preliminary process having thusbeen observed, she made a move forward. 

One morning, coming on me abruptly, and with the semblance of hurry, she said she found herself placed in a little dilemma. Mr. Wilson, theEnglish master, had failed to come at his hour, she feared he was ill;the pupils were waiting in classe; there was no one to give a lesson;should I, for once, object to giving a short dictation exercise, justthat the pupils might not have it to say they had missed their Englishlesson?

"In classe, Madame?" I asked. 

"Yes, in classe: in the second division. "

"Where there are sixty pupils, " said I; for I knew the number, andwith my usual base habit of cowardice, I shrank into my sloth like asnail into its shell, and alleged incapacity and impracticability as apretext to escape action. If left to myself, I should infallibly havelet this chance slip. Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses ofpractical ambition, I was capable of sitting twenty years teachinginfants the hornbook, turning silk dresses and making children'sfrocks. Not that true contentment dignified this infatuatedresignation: my work had neither charm for my taste, nor hold on myinterest; but it seemed to me a great thing to be without heavyanxiety, and relieved from intimate trial: the negation of severesuffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives--the life of thought, and that ofreality; and, provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency ofthe strange necromantic joys of fancy, the privileges of the lattermight remain limited to daily bread, hourly work, and a roof ofshelter. 

"Come, " said Madame, as I stooped more busily than ever over thecutting-out of a child's pinafore, "leave that work. "

"But Fifine wants it, Madame. "

"Fifine must want it, then, for I want _you_. "

And as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to have me--as shehad long been dissatisfied with the English master, with hisshortcomings in punctuality, and his careless method of tuition--as, too, _she_ did not lack resolution and practical activity, whether _I_ lacked them or not--she, without more ado, made merelinquish thimble and needle; my hand was taken into hers, and I wasconducted down-stairs. When we reached the carré, a large square hallbetween the dwelling-house and the pensionnat, she paused, dropped myhand, faced, and scrutinized me. I was flushed, and tremulous fromhead to foot: tell it not in Gath, I believe I was crying. In fact, the difficulties before me were far from being wholly imaginary; someof them were real enough; and not the least substantial lay in my wantof mastery over the medium through which I should be obliged to teach. I had, indeed, studied French closely since my arrival in Villette;learning its practice by day, and its theory in every leisure momentat night, to as late an hour as the rule of the house would allowcandle-light; but I was far from yet being able to trust my powers ofcorrect oral expression. 

"Dîtes donc, " said Madame sternly, "vous sentez vous réellement tropfaible?"

I might have said "Yes, " and gone back to nursery obscurity, andthere, perhaps, mouldered for the rest of my life; but looking up atMadame, I saw in her countenance a something that made me think twiceere I decided. At that instant she did not wear a woman's aspect, butrather a man's. Power of a particular kind strongly limned itself inall her traits, and that power was not my kind of power: neithersympathy, nor congeniality, nor submission, were the emotions itawakened. I stood--not soothed, nor won, nor overwhelmed. It seemed asif a challenge of strength between opposing gifts was given, and Isuddenly felt all the dishonour of my diffidence--all thepusillanimity of my slackness to aspire. 

"Will you, " she said, "go backward or forward?" indicating with herhand, first, the small door of communication with the dwelling-house, and then the great double portals of the classes or schoolrooms. 

"En avant, " I said. 

"But, " pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and continuing the hard look, from very antipathy to which I drew strength and determination, "canyou face the classes, or are you over-excited?"

She sneered slightly in saying this: nervous excitability was not muchto Madame's taste. 

"I am no more excited than this stone, " I said, tapping the flag withmy toe: "or than you, " I added, returning her look. 

"Bon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, decorous, English girlsyou are going to encounter. Ce sont des Labassecouriennes, rondes, franches, brusques, et tant soit peu rebelles. "

I said: "I know; and I know, too, that though I have studied Frenchhard since I came here, yet I still speak it with far too muchhesitation--too little accuracy to be able to command their respect Ishall make blunders that will lay me open to the scorn of the mostignorant. Still I mean to give the lesson. "

"They always throw over timid teachers, " said she. 

"I know that too, Madame; I have heard how they rebelled against andpersecuted Miss Turner"--a poor friendless English teacher, whomMadame had employed, and lightly discarded; and to whose piteoushistory I was no stranger. 

"C'est vrai, " said she, coolly. "Miss Turner had no more command overthem than a servant from the kitchen would have had. She was weak andwavering; she had neither tact nor intelligence, decision nor dignity. Miss Turner would not do for these girls at all. "

I made no reply, but advanced to the closed schoolroom door. 

"You will not expect aid from me, or from any one, " said Madame. "Thatwould at once set you down as incompetent for your office. "

I opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and followed her. Therewere three schoolrooms, all large. That dedicated to the seconddivision, where I was to figure, was considerably the largest, andaccommodated an assemblage more numerous, more turbulent, andinfinitely more unmanageable than the other two. In after days, when Iknew the ground better, I used to think sometimes (if such acomparison may be permitted), that the quiet, polished, tame firstdivision was to the robust, riotous, demonstrative second division, what the English House of Lords is to the House of Commons. 

The first glance informed me that many of the pupils were more thangirls--quite young women; I knew that some of them were of noblefamily (as nobility goes in Labassecour), and I was well convincedthat not one amongst them was ignorant of my position in Madame'shousehold. As I mounted the estràde (a low platform, raised a stepabove the flooring), where stood the teacher's chair and desk, Ibeheld opposite to me a row of eyes and brows that threatened stormyweather--eyes full of an insolent light, and brows hard and unblushingas marble. The continental "female" is quite a different being to theinsular "female" of the same age and class: I never saw such eyes andbrows in England. Madame Beck introduced me in one cool phrase, sailedfrom the room, and left me alone in my glory. 

I shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the under-current oflife and character it opened up to me. Then first did I begin rightlyto see the wide difference that lies between the novelist's and poet'sideal "jeune fille" and the said "jeune fille" as she really is. 

It seems that three titled belles in the first row had sat downpredetermined that a _bonne d'enfants_ should not give themlessons in English. They knew they had succeeded in expellingobnoxious teachers before now; they knew that Madame would at any timethrow overboard a professeur or maitresse who became unpopular withthe school--that she never assisted a weak official to retain hisplace--that if he had not strength to fight, or tact to win his way, down he went: looking at "Miss Snowe, " they promised themselves aneasy victory. 

Mesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angélique opened the campaign bya series of titterings and whisperings; these soon swelled intomurmurs and short laughs, which the remoter benches caught up andechoed more loudly. This growing revolt of sixty against one, soonbecame oppressive enough; my command of French being so limited, andexercised under such cruel constraint. 

Could I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as if I might havegained a hearing; for, in the first place, though I knew I looked apoor creature, and in many respects actually was so, yet nature hadgiven me a voice that could make itself heard, if lifted in excitementor deepened by emotion. In the second place, while I had no flow, onlya hesitating trickle of language, in ordinary circumstances, yet--under stimulus such as was now rife through the mutinous mass--Icould, in English, have rolled out readily phrases stigmatizing theirproceedings as such proceedings deserved to be stigmatized; and thenwith some sarcasm, flavoured with contemptuous bitterness for theringleaders, and relieved with easy banter for the weaker but lessknavish followers, it seemed to me that one might possibly get commandover this wild herd, and bring them into training, at least. All Icould now do was to walk up to Blanche--Mademoiselle de Melcy, a youngbaronne--the eldest, tallest, handsomest, and most vicious--standbefore her desk, take from under her hand her exercise-book, remountthe estrade, deliberately read the composition, which I found verystupid, and, as deliberately, and in the face of the whole school, tear the blotted page in two. 

This action availed to draw attention and check noise. One girl alone, quite in the background, persevered in the riot with undiminishedenergy. I looked at her attentively. She had a pale face, hair likenight, broad strong eyebrows, decided features, and a dark, mutinous, sinister eye: I noted that she sat close by a little door, which door, I was well aware, opened into a small closet where books were kept. She was standing up for the purpose of conducting her clamour withfreer energies. I measured her stature and calculated her strength Sheseemed both tall and wiry; but, so the conflict were brief and theattack unexpected, I thought I might manage her. 

Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as I possiblycould, in short, _ayant l'air de rien_, I slightly pushed thedoor and found it was ajar. In an instant, and with sharpness, I hadturned on her. In another instant she occupied the closet, the doorwas shut, and the key in my pocket. 

It so happened that this girl, Dolores by name, and a Catalonian byrace, was the sort of character at once dreaded and hated by all herassociates; the act of summary justice above noted proved popular:there was not one present but, in her heart, liked to see it done. They were stilled for a moment; then a smile--not a laugh--passed fromdesk to desk: then--when I had gravely and tranquilly returned to theestrade, courteously requested silence, and commenced a dictation asif nothing at all had happened--the pens travelled peacefully over thepages, and the remainder of the lesson passed in order and industry. 

"C'est bien, " said Madame Beck, when I came out of class, hot and alittle exhausted. "Ca ira. "

She had been listening and peeping through a spy-hole the whole time. 

From that day I ceased to be nursery governess, and became Englishteacher. Madame raised my salary; but she got thrice the work out ofme she had extracted from Mr. Wilson, at half the expense. 

CHAPTER IX. 

ISIDORE. 

My time was now well and profitably filled up. What with teachingothers and studying closely myself, I had hardly a spare moment. Itwas pleasant. I felt I was getting, on; not lying the stagnant prey ofmould and rust, but polishing my faculties and whetting them to a keenedge with constant use. Experience of a certain kind lay before me, onno narrow scale. Villette is a cosmopolitan city, and in this schoolwere girls of almost every European nation, and likewise of veryvaried rank in life. Equality is much practised in Labassecour; thoughnot republican in form, it is nearly so in substance, and at the desksof Madame Beck's establishment the young countess and the youngbourgeoise sat side by side. Nor could you always by outwardindications decide which was noble and which plebeian; except that, indeed, the latter had often franker and more courteous manners, whilethe former bore away the bell for a delicately-balanced combination ofinsolence and deceit. In the former there was often quick French bloodmixed with the marsh-phlegm: I regret to say that the effect of thisvivacious fluid chiefly appeared in the oilier glibness with whichflattery and fiction ran from the tongue, and in a manner lighter andlivelier, but quite heartless and insincere. 

To do all parties justice, the honest aboriginal Labassecouriennes hadan hypocrisy of their own, too; but it was of a coarse order, such ascould deceive few. Whenever a lie was necessary for their occasions, they brought it out with a careless ease and breadth altogetheruntroubled by the rebuke of conscience. Not a soul in Madame Beck'shouse, from the scullion to the directress herself, but was abovebeing ashamed of a lie; they thought nothing of it: to invent mightnot be precisely a virtue, but it was the most venial of faults. "J'aimenti plusieurs fois, " formed an item of every girl's and woman'smonthly confession: the priest heard unshocked, and absolvedunreluctant. If they had missed going to mass, or read a chapter of anovel, that was another thing: these were crimes whereof rebuke andpenance were the unfailing weed. 

While yet but half-conscious of this state of things, and unlearned inits results, I got on in my new sphere very well. After the first fewdifficult lessons, given amidst peril and on the edge of a moralvolcano that rumbled under my feet and sent sparks and hot fumes intomy eyes, the eruptive spirit seemed to subside, as far as I wasconcerned. My mind was a good deal bent on success: I could not bearthe thought of being baffled by mere undisciplined disaffection andwanton indocility, in this first attempt to get on in life. Many hoursof the night I used to lie awake, thinking what plan I had best adoptto get a reliable hold on these mutineers, to bring this stiff-neckedtribe under permanent influence. In, the first place, I saw plainlythat aid in no shape was to be expected from Madame: her righteousplan was to maintain an unbroken popularity with the pupils, at anyand every cost of justice or comfort to the teachers. For a teacher toseek her alliance in any crisis of insubordination was equivalent tosecuring her own expulsion. In intercourse with her pupils, Madameonly took to herself what was pleasant, amiable, and recommendatory;rigidly requiring of her lieutenants sufficiency for every annoyingcrisis, where to act with adequate promptitude was to be unpopular. Thus, I must look only to myself. 

Imprimis--it was clear as the day that this swinish multitude were notto be driven by force. They were to be humoured, borne with verypatiently: a courteous though sedate manner impressed them; a veryrare flash of raillery did good. Severe or continuous mentalapplication they could not, or would not, bear: heavy demand on thememory, the reason, the attention, they rejected point-blank. Where anEnglish girl of not more than average capacity and docility wouldquietly take a theme and bind herself to the task of comprehension andmastery, a Labassecourienne would laugh in your face, and throw itback to you with the phrase, --"Dieu, que c'est difficile! Je n'en veuxpas. Cela m'ennuie trop. "

A teacher who understood her business would take it back at once, without hesitation, contest, or expostulation--proceed with evenexaggerated care to smoothe every difficulty, to reduce it to thelevel of their understandings, return it to them thus modified, andlay on the lash of sarcasm with unsparing hand. They would feel thesting, perhaps wince a little under it; but they bore no maliceagainst this sort of attack, provided the sneer was not _sour_, but _hearty_, and that it held well up to them, in a clear, light, and bold type, so that she who ran might read, theirincapacity, ignorance, and sloth. They would riot for three additionallines to a lesson; but I never knew them rebel against a wound givento their self-respect: the little they had of that quality was trainedto be crushed, and it rather liked the pressure of a firm heel thanotherwise. 

By degrees, as I acquired fluency and freedom in their language, andcould make such application of its more nervous idioms as suited theircase, the elder and more intelligent girls began rather to like me intheir way: I noticed that whenever a pupil had been roused to feel inher soul the stirring of worthy emulation, or the quickening of honestshame, from that date she was won. If I could but once make their(usually large) ears burn under their thick glossy hair, all wascomparatively well. By-and-by bouquets began to be laid on my desk inthe morning; by way of acknowledgment for this little foreignattention, I used sometimes to walk with a select few duringrecreation. In the course of conversation it befel once or twice thatI made an unpremeditated attempt to rectify some of their singularlydistorted notions of principle; especially I expressed my ideas of theevil and baseness of a lie. In an unguarded moment, I chanced to saythat, of the two errors; I considered falsehood worse than anoccasional lapse in church-attendance. The poor girls were tutored toreport in Catholic ears whatever the Protestant teacher said. Anedifying consequence ensued. Something--an unseen, an indefinite, anameless--something stole between myself and these my best pupils: thebouquets continued to be offered, but conversation thenceforth becameimpracticable. As I paced the alleys or sat in the berceau, a girlnever came to my right hand but a teacher, as if by magic, appeared atmy left. Also, wonderful to relate, Madame's shoes of silence broughther continually to my back, as quick, as noiseless and unexpected, assome wandering zephyr. 

The opinion of my Catholic acquaintance concerning my spiritualprospects was somewhat naïvely expressed to me on one occasion. Apensionnaire, to whom I had rendered some little service, exclaimedone day as she sat beside me: "Mademoiselle, what a pity you are aProtestant!"

"Why, Isabelle?"

"Parceque, quand vous serez morte--vous brûlerez tout de suite dansl'Enfer. "

"Croyez-vous?"

"Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait; et d'ailleurs leprêtre me l'a dit. "

Isabelle was an odd, blunt little creature. She added, _sottovoce_: "Pour assurer votre salut là-haut, on ferait bien de vousbrûler toute vive ici-bas. "

I laughed, as, indeed, it was impossible to do otherwise. 

 * * * * *

Has the reader forgotten Miss Ginevra Fanshawe? If so, I must beallowed to re-introduce that young lady as a thriving pupil of MadameBeck's; for such she was. On her arrival in the Rue Fossette, two orthree days after my sudden settlement there, she encountered me withvery little surprise. She must have had good blood in her veins, fornever was any duchess more perfectly, radically, unaffectedly_nonchalante_ than she: a weak, transient amaze was all she knewof the sensation of wonder. Most of her other faculties seemed to bein the same flimsy condition: her liking and disliking, her love andhate, were mere cobweb and gossamer; but she had one thing about herthat seemed strong and durable enough, and that was--her selfishness. 

She was not proud; and--_bonne d'enfants_ as I was--she wouldforthwith have made of me a sort of friend and confidant. She teasedme with a thousand vapid complaints about school-quarrels andhousehold economy: the cookery was not to her taste; the people abouther, teachers and pupils, she held to be despicable, because they wereforeigners. I bore with her abuse of the Friday's salt fish and hardeggs--with her invective against the soup, the bread, the coffee--withsome patience for a time; but at last, wearied by iteration, I turnedcrusty, and put her to rights: a thing I ought to have done in thevery beginning, for a salutary setting down always agreed with her. 

Much longer had I to endure her demands on me in the way of work. Herwardrobe, so far as concerned articles of external wear, was well andelegantly supplied; but there were other habiliments not so carefullyprovided: what she had, needed frequent repair. She hated needle-drudgery herself, and she would bring her hose, &c. To me in heaps, tobe mended. A compliance of some weeks threatening to result in theestablishment of an intolerable bore--I at last distinctly told hershe must make up her mind to mend her own garments. She cried onreceiving this information, and accused me of having ceased to be herfriend; but I held by my decision, and let the hysterics pass as theycould. 

Notwithstanding these foibles, and various others needless to mention--but by no means of a refined or elevating character--how pretty shewas! How charming she looked, when she came down on a sunny Sundaymorning, well-dressed and well-humoured, robed in pale lilac silk, andwith her fair long curls reposing on her white shoulders. Sunday was aholiday which she always passed with friends resident in town; andamongst these friends she speedily gave me to understand was one whowould fain become something more. By glimpses and hints it was shownme, and by the general buoyancy of her look and manner it was ere longproved, that ardent admiration--perhaps genuine love--was at hercommand. She called her suitor "Isidore:" this, however, she intimatedwas not his real name, but one by which it pleased her to baptize him--his own, she hinted, not being "very pretty. " Once, when she had beenbragging about the vehemence of "Isidore's" attachment, I asked if sheloved him in return. 

"Comme cela, " said she: "he is handsome, and he loves me todistraction, so that I am well amused. Ca suffit. "

Finding that she carried the thing on longer than, from her veryfickle tastes, I had anticipated, I one day took it upon me to makeserious inquiries as to whether the gentleman was such as her parents, and especially her uncle--on whom, it appeared, she was dependent--would be likely to approve. She allowed that this was very doubtful, as she did not believe "Isidore" had much money. 

"Do you encourage him?" I asked. 

"Furieusement sometimes, " said she. 

"Without being certain that you will be permitted to marry him?"

"Oh, how dowdyish you are! I don't want to be married. I am tooyoung. "

"But if he loves you as much as you say, and yet it comes to nothingin the end, he will be made miserable. "

"Of course he will break his heart. I should be shocked and, disappointed if he didn't. "

"I wonder whether this M. Isidore is a fool?" said I. 

"He is, about me; but he is wise in other things, à ce qu'on dit. Mrs. Cholmondeley considers him extremely clever: she says he will pushhis way by his talents; all I know is, that he does little more than sighin my presence, and that I can wind him round my little finger. "

Wishing to get a more definite idea of this love-stricken M. Isidore;whose position seemed to me of the least secure, I requested her tofavour me with a personal description; but she could not describe: shehad neither words nor the power of putting them together so as to makegraphic phrases. She even seemed not properly to have noticed him:nothing of his looks, of the changes in his countenance, had touchedher heart or dwelt in her memory--that he was "beau, mais plutôt belhomme que joli garçon, " was all she could assert. My patience wouldoften have failed, and my interest flagged, in listening to her, butfor one thing. All the hints she dropped, all the details she gave, went unconsciously to prove, to my thinking, that M. Isidore's homagewas offered with great delicacy and respect. I informed her veryplainly that I believed him much too good for her, and intimated withequal plainness my impression that she was but a vain coquette. Shelaughed, shook her curls from her eyes, and danced away as if I hadpaid her a compliment. 

Miss Ginevra's school-studies were little better than nominal; therewere but three things she practised in earnest, viz. Music, singing, and dancing; also embroidering the fine cambric handkerchiefs whichshe could not afford to buy ready worked: such mere trifles as lessonsin history, geography, grammar, and arithmetic, she left undone, orgot others to do for her. Very much of her time was spent in visiting. Madame, aware that her stay at school was now limited to a certainperiod, which would not be extended whether she made progress or not, allowed her great licence in this particular. Mrs. Cholmondeley--her_chaperon_--a gay, fashionable lady, invited her whenever she hadcompany at her own house, and sometimes took her to evening-parties atthe houses of her acquaintance. Ginevra perfectly approved this modeof procedure: it had but one inconvenience; she was obliged to be welldressed, and she had not money to buy variety of dresses. All herthoughts turned on this difficulty; her whole soul was occupied withexpedients for effecting its solution. It was wonderful to witness theactivity of her otherwise indolent mind on this point, and to see themuch-daring intrepidity to which she was spurred by a sense ofnecessity, and the wish to shine. 

She begged boldly of Mrs. Cholmondeley--boldly, I say: not with an airof reluctant shame, but in this strain:--

"My darling Mrs. C. , I have nothing in the world fit to wear for yourparty next week; you _must_ give me a book-muslin dress, and thena _ceinture bleu celeste_: _do_--there's an angel! will you?"

The "darling Mrs. C. " yielded at first; but finding that applicationsincreased as they were complied with, she was soon obliged, like allMiss Fanshawe's friends, to oppose resistance to encroachment. After awhile I heard no more of Mrs. Cholmondeley's presents; but still, visiting went on, and the absolutely necessary dresses continuedto be supplied: also many little expensive _etcetera_--gloves, bouquets, even trinkets. These things, contrary to her custom, andeven nature--for she was not secretive--were most sedulously kept outof sight for a time; but one evening, when she was going to a largeparty for which particular care and elegance of costume were demanded, she could not resist coming to my chamber to show herself in all hersplendour. 

Beautiful she looked: so young, so fresh, and with a delicacy of skinand flexibility of shape altogether English, and not found in the listof continental female charms. Her dress was new, costly, and perfect. I saw at a glance that it lacked none of those finishing details whichcost so much, and give to the general effect such an air of tastefulcompleteness. 

I viewed her from top to toe. She turned airily round that I mightsurvey her on all sides. Conscious of her charms, she was in her besthumour: her rather small blue eyes sparkled gleefully. She was goingto bestow on me a kiss, in her school-girl fashion of showing herdelights but I said, "Steady! Let us be Steady, and know what we areabout, and find out the meaning of our magnificence"--and so put heroff at arm's length, to undergo cooler inspection. 

"Shall I do?" was her question. 

"Do?" said I. "There are different ways of doing; and, by my word, Idon't understand yours. "

"But how do I look?"

"You look well dressed. "

She thought the praise not warm enough, and proceeded to directattention to the various decorative points of her attire. "Look atthis _parure_, " said she. "The brooch, the ear-rings, thebracelets: no one in the school has such a set--not Madame herself"

"I see them all. " (Pause. ) "Did M. De Bassompierre give you thosejewels?"

"My uncle knows nothing about them. "

"Were they presents from Mrs. Cholmondeley?"

"Not they, indeed. Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy creature; shenever gives me anything now. "

I did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned abruptlyaway. 

"Now, old Crusty--old Diogenes" (these were her familiar terms for mewhen we disagreed), "what is the matter now?"

"Take yourself away. I have no pleasure in looking at you or your_parure_. "

For an instant, she seemed taken by surprise. 

"What now, Mother Wisdom? I have not got into debt for it--that is, not for the jewels, nor the gloves, nor the bouquet. My dress iscertainly not paid for, but uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in thebill: he never notices items, but just looks at the total; and he isso rich, one need not care about a few guineas more or less. "

"Will you go? I want to shut the door.... Ginevra, people may tell youyou are very handsome in that ball-attire; but, in _my_ eyes, youwill never look so pretty as you did in the gingham gown and plainstraw bonnet you wore when I first saw you. "

"Other people have not your puritanical tastes, " was her angry reply. "And, besides, I see no right you have to sermonize me. "

"Certainly! I have little right; and you, perhaps, have still less tocome flourishing and fluttering into my chamber--a mere jay inborrowed plumes. I have not the least respect for your feathers, MissFanshawe; and especially the peacock's eyes you call a _parure_:very pretty things, if you had bought them with money which was yourown, and which you could well spare, but not at all pretty underpresent circumstances. "

"On est là pour Mademoiselle Fanshawe!" was announced by the portress, and away she tripped. 

This semi-mystery of the _parure_ was not solved till two orthree days afterwards, when she came to make a voluntary confession. 

"You need not be sulky with me, " she began, "in the idea that I amrunning somebody, papa or M. De Bassompierre, deeply into debt. Iassure you nothing remains unpaid for, but the few dresses I havelately had: all the rest is settled. "

"There, " I thought, "lies the mystery; considering that they were notgiven you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own means are limited toa few shillings, of which I know you to be excessively careful. "

"Ecoutez!" she went on, drawing near and speaking in her mostconfidential and coaxing tone; for my "sulkiness" was inconvenient toher: she liked me to be in a talking and listening mood, even if Ionly talked to chide and listened to rail. "Ecoutez, chère grogneuse!I will tell you all how and about it; and you will then see, not onlyhow right the whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the firstplace, I _must_ go out. Papa himself said that he wished me tosee something of the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs. Cholmondeley, that, though I was a sweet creature enough, I had rathera bread-and-butter-eating, school-girl air; of which it was hisspecial desire that I should get rid, by an introduction to societyhere, before I make my regular début in England. Well, then, if I goout, I _must_ dress. Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and willgive nothing more; it would be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for_all_ the things I need: _that_ you can't deny--_that_ agreeswith your own preachments. Well, but SOMEBODY who heard me(quite by chance, I assure you) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of mydistressed circumstances, and what straits I was put to for anornament or two--_somebody_, far from grudging one a present, wasquite delighted at the idea of being permitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a _blanc-bec_ he looked when he firstspoke of it: how he hesitated and blushed, and positively trembledfrom fear of a repulse. "

"That will do, Miss Fanshawe. I suppose I am to understand that M. Isidore is the benefactor: that it is from him you have accepted thatcostly _parure_; that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves?"

"You express yourself so disagreeably, " said she, "one hardly knowshow to answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allowIsidore the pleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offerof a trifle. "

"It comes to the same thing.... Now, Ginevra, to speak the plaintruth, I don't very well understand these matters; but I believe youare doing very wrong--seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feelcertain that you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents anduncle have given their consent, and, for your part, you love himentirely?"

"Mais pas du tout!" (she always had recourse to French when about tosay something specially heartless and perverse). "Je suis sa reine, mais il n'est pas mon roi. "

"Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense andcoquetry. There is nothing great about you, yet you are aboveprofiting by the good nature and purse of a man to whom you feelabsolute indifference. You love M. Isidore far more than you think, orwill avow. "

"No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love athousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold toIsidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admirehim; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is.... "

And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her. 

"Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. Tome it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag. "

"It is something in this fashion, " she cried out ere long: "the man istoo romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than Ifind it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with allsorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rathertrying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to begoody, and to talk sense, --for he really thinks I am sensible. I amfar more at my ease with you, old lady--you, you dear crosspatch--whotake me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, andflirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweetthings you and I have agreed to be a part of my character. "

"This is all very well, " I said, making a strenuous effort to preservethat gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by thiswhimsical candour, "but it does not alter that wretched business ofthe presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, andsend them back. "

"Indeed, I won't, " said she, stoutly. 

"Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that byaccepting his presents you give him to understand he will one dayreceive an equivalent, in your regard... "

"But he won't, " she interrupted: "he has his equivalent now, in thepleasure of seeing me wear them--quite enough for him: he is onlybourgeois. "

This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of thetemporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. Sherattled on:

"My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fetteringmyself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I sawIsidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed he wouldbe content with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet andpart and flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, andbehold! I find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling andthoughtful. Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnés nesont pas à mon goût. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beaux fats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et lesplaisirs! A bas les grandes passions et les sévères vertus!"

She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none. 

"J'aime mon beau Colonel, " she went on: "je n'aimerai jamais sonrival. Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!"

I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment shouldbe relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing. 

CHAPTER X. 

DR JOHN. 

Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all theworld, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into nodeviation from the even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitousabout her family, vigilant for their interests and physical well-being; but she never seemed to know the wish to take her littlechildren upon her lap, to press their rosy lips with her own, togather them in a genial embrace, to shower on them softly thebenignant caress, the loving word. 

I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, viewing the littlebees afar off, as they walked in a distant alley with Trinette, their_bonne_; in her mien spoke care and prudence. I know she oftenpondered anxiously what she called "leur avenir;" but if the youngest, a puny and delicate but engaging child, chancing to spy her, brokefrom its nurse, and toddling down the walk, came all eager andlaughing and panting to clasp her knee, Madame would just calmly putout one hand, so as to prevent inconvenient concussion from thechild's sudden onset: "Prends garde, mon enfant!" she would sayunmoved, patiently permit it to stand near her a few moments, andthen, without smile or kiss, or endearing syllable, rise and lead itback to Trinette. 

Her demeanour to the eldest girl was equally characteristic in anotherway. This was a vicious child. "Quelle peste que cette Désirée! Quelpoison que cet enfant là!" were the expressions dedicated to her, alike in kitchen and in schoolroom. Amongst her other endowments sheboasted an exquisite skill in the art, of provocation, sometimesdriving her _bonne_ and the servants almost wild. She would stealto their attics, open their drawers and boxes, wantonly tear theirbest caps and soil their best shawls; she would watch her opportunityto get at the buffet of the salle-à-manger, where she would smasharticles of porcelain or glass--or to the cupboard of the storeroom, where she would plunder the preserves, drink the sweet wine, breakjars and bottles, and so contrive as to throw the onus of suspicion onthe cook and the kitchen-maid. All this when Madame saw, and of whichwhen she received report, her sole observation, uttered with matchlessserenity, was:

"Désirée a besoin d'une surveillance toute particulière. " Accordinglyshe kept this promising olive-branch a good deal at her side. Neveronce, I believe, did she tell her faithfully of her faults, explainthe evil of such habits, and show the results which must thence ensue. Surveillance must work the whole cure. It failed of course. Désiréewas kept in some measure from the servants, but she teased andpillaged her mamma instead. Whatever belonging to Madame's work-tableor toilet she could lay her hands on, she stole and hid. Madame sawall this, but she still pretended not to see: she had not rectitude ofsoul to confront the child with her vices. When an article disappearedwhose value rendered restitution necessary, she would profess to thinkthat Désirée had taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. Désirée was not to be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehoodto the aid of theft, and would deny having touched the brooch, ring, or scissors. Carrying on the hollow system, the mother would calmlyassume an air of belief, and afterwards ceaselessly watch and dog thechild till she tracked her: to her hiding-places--some hole in thegarden-wall--some chink or cranny in garret or out-house. This done, Madame would send Désirée out for a walk with her _bonne_, andprofit by her absence to rob the robber. Désirée proved herself thetrue daughter of her astute parent, by never suffering either hercountenance or manner to betray the least sign of mortification ondiscovering the loss. 

The second child, Fifine, was said to be like its dead father. Certainly, though the mother had given it her healthy frame, her blueeye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived its moral being. It wasan honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate, warm-tempered, bustlingcreature it was too, and of the sort likely to blunder often intoperils and difficulties. One day it bethought itself to fall from topto bottom of a steep flight of stone steps; and when Madame, hearingthe noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the salle-à-manger and picked it up, she said quietly, --"Cet enfant a un oscassé. "

At first we hoped this was not the case. It was, however, but tootrue: one little plump arm hung powerless. 

"Let Meess" (meaning me) "take her, " said Madame; "et qu'on aille toutde suite chercher un fiacre. "

In a _fiacre_ she promptly, but with admirable coolness and self-possession, departed to fetch a surgeon. 

It appeared she did not find the family-surgeon at home; but thatmattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute toher mind, and brought him back with her. Meantime I had cut thechild's sleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed. 

We none of us, I suppose (by _we_ I mean the bonne, the cook, theportress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in thesmall and heated chamber), looked very scrutinizingly at the newdoctor when he came into the room. I, at least, was taken up withendeavouring to soothe Fifine; whose cries (for she had good lungs)were appalling to hear. These cries redoubled in intensity as thestranger approached her bed; when he took her up, "Let alone!" shecried passionately, in her broken English (for she spoke English asdid the other children). "I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!"

"And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend, " was the answer, in perfectEnglish; "but he is busy at a place three leagues off, and I am comein his stead. So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commencebusiness; and we will soon have that unlucky little arm bandaged andin right order. "

Hereupon he called for a glass of _eau sucrée_, fed her with someteaspoonfuls of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank gourmande;anybody could win her heart through her palate), promised her morewhen the operation should be over, and promptly went to work. Someassistance being needed, he demanded it of the cook, a robust, strong-armed woman; but she, the portress, and the nurse instantly fled. Idid not like to touch that small, tortured limb, but thinking therewas no alternative, my hand was already extended to do what wasrequisite. I was anticipated; Madame Beck had put out her own hand:hers was steady while mine trembled. 

"Ca vaudra mieux, " said the doctor, turning from me to her. 

He showed wisdom in his choice. Mine would have been feigned stoicism, forced fortitude. Hers was neither forced nor feigned. 

"Merci, Madame; très bien, fort bien!" said the operator when he hadfinished. "Voilà un sang-froid bien opportun, et qui vaut mille élansde sensibilité déplacée. "

He was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment. It waslikely, too, that his whole general appearance, his voice, mien, andmanner, wrought impressions in his favour. Indeed, when you lookedwell at him, and when a lamp was brought in--for it was evening andnow waxing dusk--you saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less thanwoman, it could not well be otherwise. This young doctor (he_was_ young) had no common aspect. His stature looked imposinglytall in that little chamber, and amidst that group of Dutch-madewomen; his profile was clear, fine and expressive: perhaps his eyeglanced from face to face rather too vividly, too quickly, and toooften; but it had a most pleasant character, and so had his mouth; hischin was full, cleft, Grecian, and perfect. As to his smile, one couldnot in a hurry make up one's mind as to the descriptive epithet itmerited; there was something in it that pleased, but something toothat brought surging up into the mind all one's foibles and weakpoints: all that could lay one open to a laugh. Yet Fifine liked thisdoubtful smile, and thought the owner genial: much as he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him a friendly good-night. He patted thelittle hand kindly, and then he and Madame went down-stairs together;she talking in her highest tide of spirits and volubility, helistening with an air of good-natured amenity, dashed with thatunconscious roguish archness I find it difficult to describe. 

I noticed that though he spoke French well, he spoke English better;he had, too, an English complexion, eyes, and form. I noticed more. Ashe passed me in leaving the room, turning his face in my direction onemoment--not to address me, but to speak to Madame, yet so standing, that I almost necessarily looked up at him--a recollection which hadbeen struggling to form in my memory, since the first moment I heardhis voice, started up perfected. This was the very gentleman to whom Ihad spoken at the bureau; who had helped me in the matter of thetrunk; who had been my guide through the dark, wet park. Listening, ashe passed down the long vestibule out into the street, I recognisedhis very tread: it was the same firm and equal stride I had followedunder the dripping trees. 

 * * * * *

It was, to be concluded that this young surgeon-physician's firstvisit to the Rue Fossette would be the last. The respectable Dr. Pillule being expected home the next day, there appeared no reason whyhis temporary substitute should again represent him; but the Fates hadwritten their decree to the contrary. 

Dr. Pillule had been summoned to see a rich old hypochondriac at theantique university town of Bouquin-Moisi, and upon his prescribingchange of air and travel as remedies, he was retained to accompany thetimid patient on a tour of some weeks; it but remained, therefore, forthe new doctor to continue his attendance at the Rue Fossette. 

I often saw him when he came; for Madame would not trust the littleinvalid to Trinette, but required me to spend much of my time in thenursery. I think he was skilful. Fifine recovered rapidly under hiscare, yet even her convalescence did not hasten his dismissal. Destinyand Madame Beck seemed in league, and both had ruled that he shouldmake deliberate acquaintance with the vestibule, the private staircaseand upper chambers of the Rue Fossette. 

No sooner did Fifine emerge from his hands than Désirée declaredherself ill. That possessed child had a genius for simulation, andcaptivated by the attentions and indulgences of a sick-room, she cameto the conclusion that an illness would perfectly accommodate hertastes, and took her bed accordingly. She acted well, and her motherstill better; for while the whole case was transparent to Madame Beckas the day, she treated it with an astonishingly well-assured air ofgravity and good faith. 

What surprised me was, that Dr. John (so the young Englishman hadtaught Fifine to call him, and we all took from her the habit ofaddressing him by this name, till it became an established custom, andhe was known by no other in the Rue Fossette)--that Dr. John consentedtacitly to adopt Madame's tactics, and to fall in with her manoeuvres. He betrayed, indeed, a period of comic doubt, cast one or two rapidglances from the child to the mother, indulged in an interval of self-consultation, but finally resigned himself with a good grace to playhis part in the farce. Désirée eat like a raven, gambolled day andnight in her bed, pitched tents with the sheets and blankets, loungedlike a Turk amidst pillows and bolsters, diverted herself withthrowing her shoes at her bonne and grimacing at her sisters--over-flowed, in short, with unmerited health and evil spirits; onlylanguishing when her mamma and the physician paid their diurnal visit. Madame Beck, I knew, was glad, at any price, to have her daughter inbed out of the way of mischief; but I wondered that Dr. John did nottire of the business. 

Every day, on this mere pretext of a motive, he gave punctualattendance; Madame always received him with the same empressement, thesame sunshine for himself, the same admirably counterfeited air ofconcern for her child. Dr. John wrote harmless prescriptions for thepatient, and viewed her mother with a shrewdly sparkling eye. Madamecaught his rallying looks without resenting them--she had too muchgood sense for that. Supple as the young doctor seemed, one could notdespise him--this pliant part was evidently not adopted in the designto curry favour with his employer: while he liked his office at thepensionnat, and lingered strangely about the Rue Fossette, he wasindependent, almost careless in his carriage there; and yet, too, hewas often thoughtful and preoccupied. 

It was not perhaps my business to observe the mystery of his bearing, or search out its origin or aim; but, placed as I was, I could hardlyhelp it. He laid himself open to my observation, according to mypresence in the room just that degree of notice and consequence aperson of my exterior habitually expects: that is to say, about whatis given to unobtrusive articles of furniture, chairs of ordinaryjoiner's work, and carpets of no striking pattern. Often, whilewaiting for Madame, he would muse, smile, watch, or listen like a manwho thinks himself alone. I, meantime, was free to puzzle over hiscountenance and movements, and wonder what could be the meaning ofthat peculiar interest and attachment--all mixed up with doubt andstrangeness, and inexplicably ruled by some presiding spell--whichwedded him to this demi-convent, secluded in the built-up core of acapital. He, I believe, never remembered that I had eyes in my head, much less a brain behind them. 

Nor would he ever have found this out, but that one day, while he satin the sunshine and I was observing the colouring of his hair, whiskers, and complexion--the whole being of such a tone as a stronglight brings out with somewhat perilous force (indeed I recollect Iwas driven to compare his beamy head in my thoughts to that of the"golden image" which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up), an idea new, sudden, and startling, riveted my attention with an over-masteringstrength and power of attraction. I know not to this day how I lookedat him: the force of surprise, and also of conviction, made me forgetmyself; and I only recovered wonted consciousness when I saw that hisnotice was arrested, and that it had caught my movement in a clearlittle oval mirror fixed in the side of the window recess--by the aidof which reflector Madame often secretly spied persons walking in thegarden below. Though of so gay and sanguine a temperament, he was notwithout a certain nervous sensitiveness which made him ill at easeunder a direct, inquiring gaze. On surprising me thus, he turned andsaid, in a tone which, though courteous, had just so much dryness init as to mark a shade of annoyance, as well as to give to what wassaid the character of rebuke, "Mademoiselle does not spare me: I amnot vain enough to fancy that it is my merits which attract herattention; it must then be some defect. Dare I ask--what?"

I was confounded, as the reader may suppose, yet not with anirrecoverable confusion; being conscious that it was from no emotionof incautious admiration, nor yet in a spirit of unjustifiableinquisitiveness, that I had incurred this reproof. I might havecleared myself on the spot, but would not. I did not speak. I was notin the habit of speaking to him. Suffering him, then, to think what hechose and accuse me of what he would, I resumed some work I haddropped, and kept my head bent over it during the remainder of hisstay. There is a perverse mood of the mind which is rather soothedthan irritated by misconstruction; and in quarters where we can neverbe rightly known, we take pleasure, I think, in being consummatelyignored. What honest man, on being casually taken for a housebreaker, does not feel rather tickled than vexed at the mistake?

CHAPTER XI. 

THE PORTRESS'S CABINET. 

It was summer and very hot. Georgette, the youngest of Madame Beck'schildren, took a fever. Désirée, suddenly cured of her ailments, was, together with Fifine, packed off to Bonne-Maman, in the country, byway of precaution against infection. Medical aid was now reallyneeded, and Madame, choosing to ignore the return of Dr. Pillule, whohad been at home a week, conjured his English rival to continue hisvisits. One or two of the pensionnaires complained of headache, and inother respects seemed slightly to participate in Georgette's ailment. "Now, at last, " I thought, "Dr. Pillule must be recalled: the prudentdirectress will never venture to permit the attendance of so young aman on the pupils. "

The directress was very prudent, but she could also be intrepidlyventurous. She actually introduced Dr. John to the school-division ofthe premises, and established him in attendance on the proud andhandsome Blanche de Melcy, and the vain, flirting Angélique, herfriend. Dr. John, I thought, testified a certain gratification at thismark of confidence; and if discretion of bearing could have justifiedthe step, it would by him have been amply justified. Here, however, inthis land of convents and confessionals, such a presence as his wasnot to be suffered with impunity in a "pensionnat de demoiselles. " Theschool gossiped, the kitchen whispered, the town caught the rumour, parents wrote letters and paid visits of remonstrance. Madame, had shebeen weak, would now have been lost: a dozen rival educational houseswere ready to improve this false step--if false step it were--to herruin; but Madame was not weak, and little Jesuit though she might be, yet I clapped the hands of my heart, and with its voice cried "brava!"as I watched her able bearing, her skilled management, her temper andher firmness on this occasion. 

She met the alarmed parents with a good-humoured, easy grace fornobody matched her in, I know not whether to say the possession or theassumption of a certain "rondeur et franchise de bonne femme;" whichon various occasions gained the point aimed at with instant andcomplete success, where severe gravity and serious reasoning wouldprobably have failed. 

"Ce pauvre Docteur Jean!" she would say, chuckling and rubbingjoyously her fat little white hands; "ce cher jeune homme! le meilleurcréature du monde!" and go on to explain how she happened to beemploying him for her own children, who were so fond of him they wouldscream themselves into fits at the thought of another doctor; how, where she had confidence for her own, she thought it natural to reposetrust for others, and au reste, it was only the most temporaryexpedient in the world; Blanche and Angélique had the migraine; Dr. John had written a prescription; voilà tout!

The parents' mouths were closed. Blanche and Angélique saved her allremaining trouble by chanting loud duets in their physician's praise;the other pupils echoed them, unanimously declaring that when theywere ill they would have Dr. John and nobody else; and Madame laughed, and the parents laughed too. The Labassecouriens must have a largeorgan of philoprogenitiveness: at least the indulgence of offspring iscarried by them to excessive lengths; the law of most households beingthe children's will. Madame now got credit for having acted on thisoccasion in a spirit of motherly partiality: she came off with flyingcolours; people liked her as a directress better than ever. 

To this day I never fully understood why she thus risked her interestfor the sake of Dr. John. What people said, of course I know well: thewhole house--pupils, teachers, servants included--affirmed that shewas going to marry him. So they had settled it; difference of ageseemed to make no obstacle in their eyes: it was to be so. 

It must be admitted that appearances did not wholly discountenancethis idea; Madame seemed so bent on retaining his services, sooblivious of her former protégé, Pillule. She made, too, such a pointof personally receiving his visits, and was so unfailingly cheerful, blithe, and benignant in her manner to him. Moreover, she paid, aboutthis time, marked attention to dress: the morning dishabille, thenightcap and shawl, were discarded; Dr. John's early visits alwaysfound her with auburn braids all nicely arranged, silk dress trimlyfitted on, neat laced brodequins in lieu of slippers: in short thewhole toilette complete as a model, and fresh as a flower. I scarcelythink, however, that her intention in this went further than just toshow a very handsome man that she was not quite a plain woman; andplain she was not. Without beauty of feature or elegance of form, shepleased. Without youth and its gay graces, she cheered. One nevertired of seeing her: she was never monotonous, or insipid, orcolourless, or flat. Her unfaded hair, her eye with its temperate bluelight, her cheek with its wholesome fruit-like bloom--these thingspleased in moderation, but with constancy. 

Had she, indeed, floating visions of adopting Dr. John as a husband, taking him to her well-furnished home, endowing him with her savings, which were said to amount to a moderate competency, and making himcomfortable for the rest of his life? Did Dr. John suspect her of suchvisions? I have met him coming out of her presence with a mischievoushalf-smile about his lips, and in his eyes a look as of masculinevanity elate and tickled. With all his good looks and good-nature, hewas not perfect; he must have been very imperfect if he roguishlyencouraged aims he never intended to be successful. But did he notintend them to be successful? People said he had no money, that he waswholly dependent upon his profession. Madame--though perhaps somefourteen years his senior--was yet the sort of woman never to growold, never to wither, never to break down. They certainly were on goodterms. _He_ perhaps was not in love; but how many people ever_do_ love, or at least marry for love, in this world. We waitedthe end. 

For what _he_ waited, I do not know, nor for what he watched; butthe peculiarity of his manner, his expectant, vigilant, absorbed, eager look, never wore off: it rather intensified. He had never beenquite within the compass of my penetration, and I think he rangedfarther and farther beyond it. 

One morning little Georgette had been more feverish and consequentlymore peevish; she was crying, and would not be pacified. I thought aparticular draught ordered, disagreed with her, and I doubted whetherit ought to be continued; I waited impatiently for the doctor's comingin order to consult him. 

The door-bell rang, he was admitted; I felt sure of this, for I heardhis voice addressing the portress. It was his custom to mount straightto the nursery, taking about three degrees of the staircase at once, and coming upon us like a cheerful surprise. Five minutes elapsed--ten--and I saw and heard nothing of him. What could he be doing?Possibly waiting in the corridor below. Little Georgette still pipedher plaintive wail, appealing to me by her familiar term, "Minnie, Minnie, me very poorly!" till my heart ached. I descended to ascertainwhy he did not come. The corridor was empty. Whither was he vanished?Was he with Madame in the _salle-à-manger?_ Impossible: I hadleft her but a short time since, dressing in her own chamber. Ilistened. Three pupils were just then hard at work practising in threeproximate rooms--the dining-room and the greater and lesser drawing-rooms, between which and the corridor there was but the portress'scabinet communicating with the salons, and intended originally for aboudoir. Farther off, at a fourth instrument in the oratory, a wholeclass of a dozen or more were taking a singing lesson, and just thenjoining in a "barcarole" (I think they called it), whereof I yetremember these words "fraîchë, " "brisë, " and "Venisë. " Under thesecircumstances, what could I hear? A great deal, certainly; had it onlybeen to the purpose. 

Yes; I heard a giddy treble laugh in the above-mentioned littlecabinet, close by the door of which I stood--that door half-unclosed;a man's voice in a soft, deep, pleading tone, uttered some, words, whereof I only caught the adjuration, "For God's sake!" Then, after asecond's pause, forth issued Dr. John, his eye full shining, but notwith either joy or triumph; his fair English cheek high-coloured; abaffled, tortured, anxious, and yet a tender meaning on his brow. 

The open door served me as a screen; but had I been full in his way, Ibelieve he would have passed without seeing me. Some mortification, some strong vexation had hold of his soul: or rather, to write myimpressions now as I received them at the time I should say somesorrow, some sense of injustice. I did not so much think his pride washurt, as that his affections had been wounded--cruelly wounded, itseemed to me. But who was the torturer? What being in that house hadhim so much in her power? Madame I believed to be in her chamber; theroom whence he had stepped was dedicated to the portress's sole use;and she, Rosine Matou, an unprincipled though pretty little Frenchgrisette, airy, fickle, dressy, vain, and mercenary--it was not, surely, to _her_ hand he owed the ordeal through which he seemedto have passed?

But while I pondered, her voice, clear, though somewhat sharp, brokeout in a lightsome French song, trilling through the door still ajar:I glanced in, doubting my senses. There at the table she sat in asmart dress of "jaconas rose, " trimming a tiny blond cap: not a livingthing save herself was in the room, except indeed some gold fish in aglass globe, some flowers in pots, and a broad July sunbeam. 

Here was a problem: but I must go up-stairs to ask about the medicine. 

Dr. John sat in a chair at Georgette's bedside; Madame stood beforehim; the little patient had been examined and soothed, and now laycomposed in her crib. Madame Beck, as I entered, was discussing thephysician's own health, remarking on some real or fancied change inhis looks, charging him with over-work, and recommending rest andchange of air. He listened good-naturedly, but with laughingindifference, telling her that she was "trop bonne, " and that he feltperfectly well. Madame appealed to me--Dr. John following her movementwith a slow glance which seemed to express languid surprise atreference being made to a quarter so insignificant. 

"What do you think, Miss Lucie?" asked Madame. "Is he not paler andthinner?"

It was very seldom that I uttered more than monosyllables in Dr. John's presence; he was the kind of person with whom I was likely everto remain the neutral, passive thing he thought me. Now, however, Itook licence to answer in a phrase: and a phrase I purposely madequite significant. 

"He looks ill at this moment; but perhaps it is owing to sometemporary cause: Dr. John may have been vexed or harassed. " I cannottell how he took this speech, as I never sought his face forinformation. Georgette here began to ask me in her broken English ifshe might have a glass of _eau sucrée_. I answered her inEnglish. For the first time, I fancy, he noticed that I spoke hislanguage; hitherto he had always taken me for a foreigner, addressingme as "Mademoiselle, " and giving in French the requisite directionsabout the children's treatment. He seemed on the point of making aremark; but thinking better of it, held his tongue. 

Madame recommenced advising him; he shook his head, laughing, rose andbid her good-morning, with courtesy, but still with the regardless airof one whom too much unsolicited attention was surfeiting andspoiling. 

When he was gone, Madame dropped into the chair he had just left; sherested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiablevanished from her face: she looked stony and stern, almost mortifiedand morose. She sighed; a single, but a deep sigh. A loud bell rangfor morning-school. She got up; as she passed a dressing-table with aglass upon it, she looked at her reflected image. One single whitehair streaked her nut-brown tresses; she plucked it out with ashudder. In the full summer daylight, her face, though it still hadthe colour, could plainly be seen to have lost the texture of youth;and then, where were youth's contours? Ah, Madame! wise as you were, even _you_ knew weakness. Never had I pitied Madame before, butmy heart softened towards her, when she turned darkly from the glass. A calamity had come upon her. That hag Disappointment was greeting herwith a grisly "All-hail, " and her soul rejected the intimacy. 

But Rosine! My bewilderment there surpasses description. I embracedfive opportunities of passing her cabinet that day, with a view tocontemplating her charms, and finding out the secret of theirinfluence. She was pretty, young, and wore a well-made dress. All verygood points, and, I suppose, amply sufficient to account, in anyphilosophic mind, for any amount of agony and distraction in a youngman, like Dr. John. Still, I could not help forming half a wish thatthe said doctor were my brother; or at least that he had a sister or amother who would kindly sermonize him. I say _half_ a wish; Ibroke it, and flung it away before it became a whole one, discoveringin good time its exquisite folly. "Somebody, " I argued, "might as wellsermonize Madame about her young physician: and what good would thatdo?"

I believe Madame sermonized herself. She did not behave weakly, ormake herself in any shape ridiculous. It is true she had neitherstrong feelings to overcome, nor tender feelings by which to bemiserably pained. It is true likewise that she had an importantavocation, a real business to fill her time, divert her thoughts, anddivide her interest. It is especially true that she possessed agenuine good sense which is not given to all women nor to all men; andby dint of these combined advantages she behaved wisely--she behavedwell. Brava! once more, Madame Beck. I saw you matched against anApollyon of a predilection; you fought a good fight, and you overcame!

CHAPTER XII. 

THE CASKET. 

Behind the house at the Rue Fossette there was a garden--large, considering that it lay in the heart of a city, and to my recollectionat this day it seems pleasant: but time, like distance, lends tocertain scenes an influence so softening; and where all is stonearound, blank wall and hot pavement, how precious seems one shrub, howlovely an enclosed and planted spot of ground!

There went a tradition that Madame Beck's house had in old days been aconvent. That in years gone by--how long gone by I cannot tell, but Ithink some centuries--before the city had over-spread this quarter, and when it was tilled ground and avenue, and such deep and leafyseclusion as ought to embosom a religious house-that something hadhappened on this site which, rousing fear and inflicting horror, hadleft to the place the inheritance of a ghost-story. A vague tale wentof a black and white nun, sometimes, on some night or nights of theyear, seen in some part of this vicinage. The ghost must have beenbuilt out some ages ago, for there were houses all round now; butcertain convent-relics, in the shape of old and huge fruit-trees, yetconsecrated the spot; and, at the foot of one--a Methuselah of a pear-tree, dead, all but a few boughs which still faithfully renewed theirperfumed snow in spring, and their honey-sweet pendants in autumn--yousaw, in scraping away the mossy earth between the half-bared roots, aglimpse of slab, smooth, hard, and black. The legend went, unconfirmedand unaccredited, but still propagated, that this was the portal of avault, imprisoning deep beneath that ground, on whose surface grassgrew and flowers bloomed, the bones of a girl whom a monkish conclaveof the drear middle ages had here buried alive for some sin againsther vow. Her shadow it was that tremblers had feared, through longgenerations after her poor frame was dust; her black robe and whiteveil that, for timid eyes, moonlight and shade had mocked, as theyfluctuated in the night-wind through the garden-thicket. 

Independently of romantic rubbish, however, that old garden had itscharms. On summer mornings I used to rise early, to enjoy them alone;on summer evenings, to linger solitary, to keep tryste with the risingmoon, or taste one kiss of the evening breeze, or fancy rather thanfeel the freshness of dew descending. The turf was verdant, thegravelled walks were white; sun-bright nasturtiums clustered beautifulabout the roots of the doddered orchard giants. There was a largeberceau, above which spread the shade of an acacia; there was asmaller, more sequestered bower, nestled in the vines which ran allalong a high and grey wall, and gathered their tendrils in a knot ofbeauty, and hung their clusters in loving profusion about the favouredspot where jasmine and ivy met and married them. 

Doubtless at high noon, in the broad, vulgar middle of the day, whenMadame Beck's large school turned out rampant, and externes andpensionnaires were spread abroad, vying with the denizens of the boys'college close at hand, in the brazen exercise of their lungs andlimbs--doubtless _then_ the garden was a trite, trodden-downplace enough. But at sunset or the hour of _salut_, when theexternes were gone home, and the boarders quiet at their studies;pleasant was it then to stray down the peaceful alleys, and hear thebells of St. Jean Baptiste peal out with their sweet, soft, exaltedsound. 

I was walking thus one evening, and had been detained farther withinthe verge of twilight than usual, by the still-deepening calm, themellow coolness, the fragrant breathing with which flowers no sunshinecould win now answered the persuasion of the dew. I saw by a light inthe oratory window that the Catholic household were then gathered toevening prayer--a rite, from attendance on which, I now and then, as aProtestant, exempted myself. 

"One moment longer, " whispered solitude and the summer moon, "staywith us: all is truly quiet now; for another quarter of an hour yourpresence will not be missed: the day's heat and bustle have tired you;enjoy these precious minutes. "

The windowless backs of houses built in this garden, and in particularthe whole of one side, was skirted by the rear of a long line ofpremises--being the boarding-houses of the neighbouring college. Thisrear, however, was all blank stone, with the exception of certainattic loopholes high up, opening from the sleeping-rooms of the women-servants, and also one casement in a lower story said to mark thechamber or study of a master. But, though thus secure, an alley, whichran parallel with the very high wall on that side the garden, wasforbidden to be entered by the pupils. It was called indeed "l'alléedéfendue, " and any girl setting foot there would have rendered herselfliable to as severe a penalty as the mild rules of Madame Beck'sestablishment permitted. Teachers might indeed go there with impunity;but as the walk was narrow, and the neglected shrubs were grown verythick and close on each side, weaving overhead a roof of branch andleaf which the sun's rays penetrated but in rare chequers, this alleywas seldom entered even during day, and after dusk was carefullyshunned. 

From the first I was tempted to make an exception to this rule ofavoidance: the seclusion, the very gloom of the walk attracted me. Fora long time the fear of seeming singular scared me away; but bydegrees, as people became accustomed to me and my habits, and to suchshades of peculiarity as were engrained in my nature--shades, certainly not striking enough to interest, and perhaps not prominentenough to offend, but born in and with me, and no more to be partedwith than my identity--by slow degrees I became a frequenter of thisstrait and narrow path. I made myself gardener of some tintlessflowers that grew between its closely-ranked shrubs; I cleared awaythe relics of past autumns, choking up a rustic seat at the far end. Borrowing of Goton, the cuisinière, a pail of water and a scrubbing-brush, I made this seat clean. Madame saw me at work and smiledapprobation: whether sincerely or not I don't know; but she_seemed_ sincere. 

"Voyez-vous, " cried she, "comme elle est propre, cette demoiselleLucie? Vous aimez done cette allée, Meess?" "Yes, " I said, "it isquiet and shady. "

"C'est juste, " cried she with an air of bonté; and she kindlyrecommended me to confine myself to it as much as I chose, saying, that as I was not charged with the surveillance, I need not troublemyself to walk with the pupils: only I might permit her children tocome there, to talk English with me. 

On the night in question, I was sitting on the hidden seat reclaimedfrom fungi and mould, listening to what seemed the far-off sounds ofthe city. Far off, in truth, they were not: this school was in thecity's centre; hence, it was but five minutes' walk to the park, scarce ten to buildings of palatial splendour. Quite near were widestreets brightly lit, teeming at this moment with life: carriages wererolling through them to balls or to the opera. The same hour whichtolled curfew for our convent, which extinguished each lamp, anddropped the curtain round each couch, rang for the gay city about usthe summons to festal enjoyment. Of this contrast I thought not, however: gay instincts my nature had few; ball or opera I had neverseen; and though often I had heard them described, and even wished tosee them, it was not the wish of one who hopes to partake a pleasureif she could only reach it--who feels fitted to shine in some brightdistant sphere, could she but thither win her way; it was no yearningto attain, no hunger to taste; only the calm desire to look on a newthing. 

A moon was in the sky, not a full moon, but a young crescent. I sawher through a space in the boughs overhead. She and the stars, visiblebeside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhoodknew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in itscurve leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an oldfield, in Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned backbeside a stately spire in this continental capital. 

Oh, my childhood! I had feelings: passive as I lived, little as Ispoke, cold as I looked, when I thought of past days, I _could_feel. About the present, it was better to be stoical; about thefuture--such a future as mine--to be dead. And in catalepsy and a deadtrance, I studiously held the quick of my nature. 

At that time, I well remember whatever could excite--certain accidentsof the weather, for instance, were almost dreaded by me, because theywoke the being I was always lulling, and stirred up a craving cry Icould not satisfy. One night a thunder-storm broke; a sort ofhurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayedto their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny:I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, and creeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, itwas wild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered roundthe night-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: tooresistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black andfull of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never deliveredto man--too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split andpierced by white and blinding bolts. 

I did long, achingly, then and for four and twenty hours afterwards, for something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead meupwards and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it wasnecessary to knock on the head; which I did, figuratively, after themanner of Jael to Sisera, driving a nail through their temples. UnlikeSisera, they did not die: they were but transiently stunned, and atintervals would turn on the nail with a rebellious wrench: then didthe temples bleed, and the brain thrill to its core. 

To-night, I was not so mutinous, nor so miserable. My Sisera lay quietin the tent, slumbering; and if his pain ached through his slumbers, something like an angel--the ideal--knelt near, dropping balm on thesoothed temples, holding before the sealed eyes a magic glass, ofwhich the sweet, solemn visions were repeated in dreams, and sheddinga reflex from her moonlight wings and robe over the transfixedsleeper, over the tent threshold, over all the landscape lyingwithout. Jael, the stern woman; sat apart, relenting somewhat over hercaptive; but more prone to dwell on the faithful expectation of Hebercoming home. By which words I mean that the cool peace and dewysweetness of the night filled me with a mood of hope: not hope on anydefinite point, but a general sense of encouragement and heart-ease. 

Should not such a mood, so sweet, so tranquil, so unwonted, have beenthe harbinger of good? Alas, no good came of it! I Presently the rudeReal burst coarsely in--all evil grovelling and repellent as she toooften is. 

Amid the intense stillness of that pile of stone overlooking the walk, the trees, the high wall, I heard a sound; a casement [all the windowshere are casements, opening on hinges] creaked. Ere I had time to lookup and mark where, in which story, or by whom unclosed, a treeoverhead shook, as if struck by a missile; some object dropped proneat my feet. 

Nine was striking by St. Jean Baptiste's clock; day was fading, but itwas not dark: the crescent moon aided little, but the deep gilding ofthat point in heaven where the sun beamed last, and the crystallineclearness of a wide space above, sustained the summer twilight; evenin my dark walk I could, by approaching an opening, have managed toread print of a small type. Easy was it to see then that the missilewas a box, a small box of white and coloured ivory; its loose lidopened in my hand; violets lay within, violets smothering a closelyfolded bit of pink paper, a note, superscribed, "Pour la robe grise. "I wore indeed a dress of French grey. 

Good. Was this a billet-doux? A thing I had heard of, but hitherto hadnot had the honour of seeing or handling. Was it this sort ofcommodity I held between my finger and thumb at this moment?

Scarcely: I did not dream it for a moment. Suitor or admirer my verythoughts had not conceived. All the teachers had dreams of some lover;one (but she was naturally of a credulous turn) believed in a futurehusband. All the pupils above fourteen knew of some prospectivebridegroom; two or three were already affianced by their parents, andhad been so from childhood: but into the realm of feelings and hopeswhich such prospects open, my speculations, far less my presumptions, had never once had warrant to intrude. If the other teachers went intotown, or took a walk on the boulevards, or only attended mass, theywere very certain (according to the accounts brought back) to meetwith some individual of the "opposite sex, " whose rapt, earnest gazeassured them of their power to strike and to attract. I can't say thatmy experience tallied with theirs, in this respect. I went to churchand I took walks, and am very well convinced that nobody minded me. There was not a girl or woman in the Rue Fossette who could not, anddid not testify to having received an admiring beam from our youngdoctor's blue eyes at one time or other. I am obliged, howeverhumbling it may sound, to except myself: as far as I was concerned, those blue eyes were guiltless, and calm as the sky, to whose tinttheirs seemed akin. So it came to pass that I heard the others talk, wondered often at their gaiety, security, and self-satisfaction, butdid not trouble myself to look up and gaze along the path they seemedso certain of treading. This then was no billet-doux; and it was insettled conviction to the contrary that I quietly opened it. Thus itran--I translate:--

"Angel of my dreams! A thousand, thousand thanks for the promise kept:scarcely did I venture to hope its fulfilment. I believed you, indeed, to be half in jest; and then you seemed to think the enterprise besetwith such danger--the hour so untimely, the alley so strictlysecluded--often, you said, haunted by that dragon, the Englishteacher--une véritable bégueule Britannique à ce que vous dites--espèce de monstre, brusque et rude comme un vieux caporal degrenadiers, et revêche comme une religieuse" (the reader will excusemy modesty in allowing this flattering sketch of my amiable self toretain the slight veil of the original tongue). "You are aware, " wenton this precious effusion, "that little Gustave, on account of hisillness, has been removed to a master's chamber--that favouredchamber, whose lattice overlooks your prison-ground. There, I, thebest uncle in the world, am admitted to visit him. How tremblingly Iapproached the window and glanced into your Eden--an Eden for me, though a desert for you!--how I feared to behold vacancy, or thedragon aforesaid! How my heart palpitated with delight when, throughapertures in the envious boughs, I at once caught the gleam of yourgraceful straw-hat, and the waving of your grey dress--dress that Ishould recognise amongst a thousand. But why, my angel, will you notlook up? Cruel, to deny me one ray of those adorable eyes!--how asingle glance would have revived me! I write this in fiery haste;while the physician examines Gustave, I snatch an opportunity toenclose it in a small casket, together with a bouquet of flowers, the sweetest that blow--yet less sweet than thee, my Peri--myall-charming! ever thine-thou well knowest whom!"

"I wish I did know whom, " was my comment; and the wish bore evencloser reference to the person addressed in this choice document, thanto the writer thereof. Perhaps it was from the fiancé of one ofthe engaged pupils; and, in that case, there was no great harm done orintended--only a small irregularity. Several of the girls, themajority, indeed, had brothers or cousins at the neighbouring college. But "la robe grise, le chapeau de paille, " here surely was a clue--avery confusing one. The straw-hat was an ordinary garden head-screen, common to a score besides myself. The grey dress hardly gave moredefinite indication. Madame Beck herself ordinarily wore a grey dressjust now; another teacher, and three of the pensionnaires, had hadgrey dresses purchased of the same shade and fabric as mine: it was asort of every-day wear which happened at that time to be in vogue. 

Meanwhile, as I pondered, I knew I must go in. Lights, moving in thedormitory, announced that prayers were over, and the pupils going tobed. Another half-hour and all doors would be locked--all lightsextinguished. The front door yet stood open, to admit into the heatedhouse the coolness of the summer night; from the portress's cabinetclose by shone a lamp, showing the long vestibule with the two-leaveddrawing-room doors on one side, the great street-door closing thevista. 

All at once, quick rang the bell--quick, but not loud--a cautioustinkle--a sort of warning metal whisper. Rosine darted from hercabinet and ran to open. The person she admitted stood with her twominutes in parley: there seemed a demur, a delay. Rosine came to thegarden door, lamp in hand; she stood on the steps, lifting her lamp, looking round vaguely. 

"Quel conte!" she cried, with a coquettish laugh. "Personne n'y aété. "

"Let me pass, " pleaded a voice I knew: "I ask but five minutes;" and afamiliar shape, tall and grand (as we of the Rue Fossette all thoughtit), issued from the house, and strode down amongst the beds andwalks. It was sacrilege--the intrusion of a man into that spot, atthat hour; but he knew himself privileged, and perhaps he trusted tothe friendly night. He wandered down the alleys, looking on this sideand on that--he was lost in the shrubs, trampling flowers and breakingbranches in his search--he penetrated at last the "forbidden walk. "There I met him, like some ghost, I suppose. 

"Dr. John! it is found. "

He did not ask by whom, for with his quick eye he perceived that Iheld it in my hand. 

"Do not betray her, " he said, looking at me as if I were indeed adragon. 

"Were I ever so disposed to treachery, I cannot betray what I do notknow, " was my answer. "Read the note, and you will see how little itreveals. "

"Perhaps you have read it, " I thought to myself; and yet I could notbelieve he wrote it: that could hardly be his style: besides, I wasfool enough to think there would be a degree of hardship in hiscalling me such names. His own look vindicated him; he grew hot, andcoloured as he read. 

"This is indeed too much: this is cruel, this is humiliating, " werethe words that fell from him. 

I thought it _was_ cruel, when I saw his countenance so moved. Nomatter whether he was to blame or not; somebody, it seemed to me, mustbe more to blame. 

"What shall you do about it?" he inquired of me. "Shall you tellMadame Beck what you have found, and cause a stir--an esclandre?"

I thought I ought to tell, and said so; adding that I did not believethere would be either stir or esclandre: Madame was much too prudentto make a noise about an affair of that sort connected with herestablishment. 

He stood looking down and meditating. He was both too proud and toohonourable to entreat my secresy on a point which duty evidentlycommanded me to communicate. I wished to do right, yet loathed togrieve or injure him. Just then Rosine glanced out through the opendoor; she could not see us, though between the trees I could plainlysee her: her dress was grey, like mine. This circumstance, taken inconnection with prior transactions, suggested to me that perhaps thecase, however deplorable, was one in which I was under no obligationwhatever to concern myself. Accordingly, I said, --"If you can assureme that none of Madame Beck's pupils are implicated in this business, I shall be very happy to stand aloof from all interference. Take thecasket, the bouquet, and the billet; for my part, I gladly forget thewhole affair. "

"Look there!" he whispered suddenly, as his hand closed on what Ioffered, and at the same time he pointed through the boughs. 

I looked. Behold Madame, in shawl, wrapping-gown, and slippers, softlydescending the steps, and stealing like a cat round the garden: in twominutes she would have been upon Dr. John. If _she_ were like acat, however, _he_, quite as much, resembled a leopard: nothingcould be lighter than his tread when he chose. He watched, and as sheturned a corner, he took the garden at two noiseless bounds. Shereappeared, and he was gone. Rosine helped him, instantly interposingthe door between him and his huntress. I, too, might have got, away, but I preferred to meet Madame openly. 

Though it was my frequent and well-known custom to spend twilight inthe garden, yet, never till now, had I remained so late. Full sure wasI that Madame had missed--was come in search of me, and designed nowto pounce on the defaulter unawares. I expected a reprimand. No. Madame was all goodness. She tendered not even a remonstrance; shetestified no shade of surprise. With that consummate tact of hers, inwhich I believe she was never surpassed by living thing, she evenprofessed merely to have issued forth to taste "la brise du soir. "

"Quelle belle nuit!" cried she, looking up at the stars--the moon wasnow gone down behind the broad tower of Jean Baptiste. "Qu'il faitbon? que l'air est frais!"

And, instead of sending me in, she detained me to take a few turnswith her down the principal alley. When at last we both re-entered, sheleaned affably on my shoulder by way of support in mounting the front-door steps; at parting, her cheek was presented to my lips, and "Bonsoir, my bonne amie; dormez bien!" was her kindly adieu for the night. 

I caught myself smiling as I lay awake and thoughtful on my couch--smiling at Madame. The unction, the suavity of her behaviour offered, for one who knew her, a sure token that suspicion of some kind wasbusy in her brain. From some aperture or summit of observation, through parted bough or open window, she had doubtless caught aglimpse, remote or near, deceptive or instructive, of that night'stransactions. Finely accomplished as she was in the art ofsurveillance, it was next to impossible that a casket could be throwninto her garden, or an interloper could cross her walks to seek it, without that she, in shaken branch, passing shade, unwonted footfall, or stilly murmur (and though Dr. John had spoken very low in the fewwords he dropped me, yet the hum of his man's voice pervaded, Ithought, the whole conventual ground)--without, I say, that she shouldhave caught intimation of things extraordinary transpiring on herpremises. _What_ things, she might by no means see, or at thattime be able to discover; but a delicious little ravelled plot laytempting her to disentanglement; and in the midst, folded round andround in cobwebs, had she not secured "Meess Lucie" clumsily involved, like the foolish fly she was?

CHAPTER XIII. 

A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON. 

I had occasion to smile--nay, to laugh, at Madame again, within thespace of four and twenty hours after the little scene treated of inthe last chapter. 

Villette owns a climate as variable, though not so humid, as that ofany English town. A night of high wind followed upon that soft sunset, and all the next day was one of dry storm--dark, beclouded, yetrainless, --the streets were dim with sand and dust, whirled from theboulevards. I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted meto spend the evening-time of study and recreation where I had spent ityesterday. My alley, and, indeed, all the walks and shrubs in thegarden, had acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest; theirseclusion was now become precarious; their calm--insecure. Thatcasement which rained billets, had vulgarized the once dear nook itoverlooked; and elsewhere, the eyes of the flowers had gained vision, and the knots in the tree-boles listened like secret ears. Some plantsthere were, indeed, trodden down by Dr. John in his search, and hishasty and heedless progress, which I wished to prop up, water, andrevive; some footmarks, too, he had left on the beds: but these, inspite of the strong wind, I found a moment's leisure to efface veryearly in the morning, ere common eyes had discovered them. With apensive sort of content, I sat down to my desk and my German, whilethe pupils settled to their evening lessons; and the other teacherstook up their needlework. 

The scene of the "etude du soir" was always the refectory, a muchsmaller apartment than any of the three classes or schoolrooms; forhere none, save the boarders, were ever admitted, and these numberedonly a score. Two lamps hung from the ceiling over the two tables;these were lit at dusk, and their kindling was the signal for school-books being set aside, a grave demeanour assumed, general silenceenforced, and then commenced "la lecture pieuse. " This said "lecturepieuse" was, I soon found, mainly designed as a wholesomemortification of the Intellect, a useful humiliation of the Reason;and such a dose for Common Sense as she might digest at her leisure, and thrive on as she best could. 

The book brought out (it was never changed, but when finished, recommenced) was a venerable volume, old as the hills--grey as theHôtel de Ville. 

I would have given two francs for the chance of getting that book onceinto my bands, turning over the sacred yellow leaves, ascertaining thetitle, and perusing with my own eyes the enormous figments which, asan unworthy heretic, it was only permitted me to drink in with mybewildered ears. This book contained legends of the saints. Good God!(I speak the words reverently) what legends they were. Whatgasconading rascals those saints must have been, if they first boastedthese exploits or invented these miracles. These legends, however, were no more than monkish extravagances, over which one laughedinwardly; there were, besides, priestly matters, and the priestcraftof the book was far worse than its monkery. The ears burned on eachside of my head as I listened, perforce, to tales of moral martyrdominflicted by Rome; the dread boasts of confessors, who had wickedlyabused their office, trampling to deep degradation high-born ladies, making of countesses and princesses the most tormented slaves underthe sun. Stories like that of Conrad and Elizabeth of Hungary, recurred again and again, with all its dreadful viciousness, sickeningtyranny and black impiety: tales that were nightmares of oppression, privation, and agony. 

I sat out this "lecture pieuse" for some nights as well as I could, and as quietly too; only once breaking off the points of my scissorsby involuntarily sticking them somewhat deep in the worm-eaten boardof the table before me. But, at last, it made me so burning hot, andmy temples, and my heart, and my wrist throbbed so fast, and my sleepafterwards was so broken with excitement, that I could sit no longer. Prudence recommended henceforward a swift clearance of my person fromthe place, the moment that guilty old book was brought out. No MauseHeadrigg ever felt a stronger call to take up her testimony againstSergeant Bothwell, than I--to speak my mind in this matter of thepopish "lecture pieuse. " However, I did manage somehow to curb andrein in; and though always, as soon as Rosine came to light the lamps, I shot from the room quickly, yet also I did it quietly; seizing thatvantage moment given by the little bustle before the dead silence, andvanishing whilst the boarders put their books away. 

When I vanished--it was into darkness; candles were not allowed to becarried about, and the teacher who forsook the refectory, had only theunlit hall, schoolroom, or bedroom, as a refuge. In winter I soughtthe long classes, and paced them fast to keep myself warm--fortunateif the moon shone, and if there were only stars, soon reconciled totheir dim gleam, or even to the total eclipse of their absence. Insummer it was never quite dark, and then I went up-stairs to my ownquarter of the long dormitory, opened my own casement (that chamberwas lit by five casements large as great doors), and leaning out, looked forth upon the city beyond the garden, and listened to band-music from the park or the palace-square, thinking meantime my ownthoughts, living my own life, in my own still, shadow-world. 

This evening, fugitive as usual before the Pope and his works, Imounted the staircase, approached the dormitory, and quietlyopened the door, which was always kept carefully shut, and which, like every other door in this house, revolved noiselessly on well-oiledhinges. Before I _saw_, I _felt_ that life was in the great room, usually void: not that there was either stir or breath, or rustle ofsound, but Vacuum lacked, Solitude was not at home. All the whitebeds--the "lits d'ange, " as they were poetically termed--lay visibleat a glance; all were empty: no sleeper reposed therein. The sound ofa drawer cautiously slid out struck my ear; stepping a little to oneside, my vision took a free range, unimpeded by falling curtains. Inow commanded my own bed and my own toilet, with a locked work-boxupon it, and locked drawers underneath. 

Very good. A dumpy, motherly little body, in decent shawl and thecleanest of possible nightcaps, stood before this toilet, hard at workapparently doing me the kindness of "tidying out" the "meuble. " Openstood the lid of the work-box, open the top drawer; duly andimpartially was each succeeding drawer opened in turn: not an articleof their contents but was lifted and unfolded, not a paper but wasglanced over, not a little box but was unlidded; and beautiful was theadroitness, exemplary the care with which the search was accomplished. Madame wrought at it like a true star, "unhasting yet unresting. " Iwill not deny that it was with a secret glee I watched her. Had I beena gentleman I believe Madame would have found favour in my eyes, shewas so handy, neat, thorough in all she did: some people's movementsprovoke the soul by their loose awkwardness, hers--satisfied by theirtrim compactness. I stood, in short, fascinated; but it was necessaryto make an effort to break this spell a retreat must be beaten. Thesearcher might have turned and caught me; there would have beennothing for it then but a scene, and she and I would have had to comeall at once, with a sudden clash, to a thorough knowledge of eachother: down would have gone conventionalities, away swept disguises, and _I_ should have looked into her eyes, and she into mine--weshould have known that we could work together no more, and parted inthis life for ever. 

Where was the use of tempting such a catastrophe? I was not angry, andhad no wish in the world to leave her. I could hardly get anotheremployer whose yoke would be so light and so, easy of carriage; andtruly I liked Madame for her capital sense, whatever I might think ofher principles: as to her system, it did me no harm; she might work mewith it to her heart's content: nothing would come of the operation. Loverless and inexpectant of love, I was as safe from spies in myheart-poverty, as the beggar from thieves in his destitution of purse. I turned, then, and fled; descending the stairs with progress as swiftand soundless as that of the spider, which at the same instant randown the bannister. 

How I laughed when I reached the schoolroom. I knew now she hadcertainly seen Dr. John in the garden; I knew what her thoughts were. The spectacle of a suspicious nature so far misled by its owninventions, tickled me much. Yet as the laugh died, a kind of wrathsmote me, and then bitterness followed: it was the rock struck, andMeribah's waters gushing out. I never had felt so strange andcontradictory an inward tumult as I felt for an hour that evening:soreness and laughter, and fire, and grief, shared my heart betweenthem. I cried hot tears: not because Madame mistrusted me--I did notcare twopence for her mistrust--but for other reasons. Complicated, disquieting thoughts broke up the whole repose of my nature. However, that turmoil subsided: next day I was again Lucy Snowe. 

On revisiting my drawers, I found them all securely locked; theclosest subsequent examination could not discover change or apparentdisturbance in the position of one object. My few dresses were foldedas I had left them; a certain little bunch of white violets that hadonce been silently presented to me by a stranger (a stranger to me, for we had never exchanged words), and which I had dried and kept forits sweet perfume between the folds of my best dress, lay thereunstirred; my black silk scarf, my lace chemisette and collars, wereunrumpled. Had she creased one solitary article, I own I should havefelt much greater difficulty in forgiving her; but finding allstraight and orderly, I said, "Let bygones be bygones. I am unharmed:why should I bear malice?"

 * * * * *

A thing there was which puzzled myself, and I sought in my brain a keyto that riddle almost as sedulously as Madame had sought a guide touseful knowledge in my toilet drawers. How was it that Dr. John, if hehad not been accessory to the dropping of that casket into the garden, should have known that it _was_ dropped, and appeared so promptlyon the spot to seek it? So strong was the wish to clear up this pointthat I began to entertain this daring suggestion: "Why may I not, incase I should ever have the opportunity, ask Dr. John himself toexplain this coincidence?"

And so long as Dr. John was absent, I really believed I had courage totest him with such a question. 

Little Georgette was now convalescent; and her physician accordinglymade his visits very rare: indeed, he would have ceased themaltogether, had not Madame insisted on his giving an occasional calltill the child should be quite well. 

She came into the nursery one evening just after I had listened toGeorgette's lisped and broken prayer, and had put her to bed. Takingthe little one's hand, she said, "Cette enfant a toujours un peu defièvre. " And presently afterwards, looking at me with a quicker glancethan was habitual to her quiet eye, "Le Docteur John l'a-t-il vuedernièrement? Non, n'est-ce pas?"

Of course she knew this better than any other person in the house. "Well, " she continued, "I am going out, pour faire quelques courses enfiacre. I shall call on Dr. John, and send him to the child. I willthat he sees her this evening; her cheeks are flushed, her pulse isquick; _you_ will receive him--for my part, I shall be fromhome. "

Now the child was well enough, only warm with the warmth of July; itwas scarcely less needful to send for a priest to administer extremeunction than for a doctor to prescribe a dose; also Madame rarely made"courses, " as she called them, in the evening: moreover, this was thefirst time she had chosen to absent herself on the occasion of a visitfrom Dr. John. The whole arrangement indicated some plan; this I saw, but without the least anxiety. "Ha! ha! Madame, " laughed Light-heartthe Beggar, "your crafty wits are on the wrong tack. "

She departed, attired very smartly, in a shawl of price, and a certain_chapeau vert tendre_--hazardous, as to its tint, for anycomplexion less fresh than her own, but, to her, not unbecoming. Iwondered what she intended: whether she really would send Dr. John ornot; or whether indeed he would come: he might be engaged. 

Madame had charged me not to let Georgette sleep till the doctor came;I had therefore sufficient occupation in telling her nursery tales andpalavering the little language for her benefit. I affected Georgette;she was a sensitive and a loving child: to hold her in my lap, orcarry her in my arms, was to me a treat. To-night she would have melay my head on the pillow of her crib; she even put her little armsround my neck. Her clasp, and the nestling action with which shepressed her cheek to mine, made me almost cry with a tender pain. Feeling of no kind abounded in that house; this pure little drop froma pure little source was too sweet: it penetrated deep, and subduedthe heart, and sent a gush to the eyes. Half an hour or an hourpassed; Georgette murmured in her soft lisp that she was growingsleepy. "And you _shall_ sleep, " thought I, "malgré maman andmédecin, if they are not here in ten minutes. "

Hark! There was the ring, and there the tread, astonishing thestaircase by the fleetness with which it left the steps behind. Rosineintroduced Dr. John, and, with a freedom of manner not altogetherpeculiar to herself, but characteristic of the domestics of Villettegenerally, she stayed to hear what he had to say. Madame's presencewould have awed her back to her own realm of the vestibule and thecabinet--for mine, or that of any other teacher or pupil, she carednot a jot. Smart, trim and pert, she stood, a hand in each pocket ofher gay grisette apron, eyeing Dr. John with no more fear or shynessthan if he had been a picture instead of a living gentleman. 

"Le marmot n'a rien, nest-ce pas?" said she, indicating Georgette witha jerk of her chin. 

"Pas beaucoup, " was the answer, as the doctor hastily scribbled withhis pencil some harmless prescription. 

"Eh bien!" pursued Rosine, approaching him quite near, while he put uphis pencil. "And the box--did you get it? Monsieur went off like acoup-de-vent the other night; I had not time to ask him. "

"I found it: yes. "

"And who threw it, then?" continued Rosine, speaking quite freely thevery words I should so much have wished to say, but had no address orcourage to bring it out: how short some people make the road to apoint which, for others, seems unattainable!

"That may be my secret, " rejoined Dr. John briefly, but with no, sortof hauteur: he seemed quite to understand the Rosine or grisettecharacter. 

"Mais enfin, " continued she, nothing abashed, "monsieur knew it wasthrown, since be came to seek it--how did he know?"

"I was attending a little patient in the college near, " said he, "andsaw it dropped out of his chamber window, and so came to pick it up. "

How simple the whole explanation! The note had alluded to a physicianas then examining "Gustave. "

"Ah ça!" pursued Rosine; "il n'y a donc rien là-dessous: pas demystère, pas d'amourette, par exemple?"

"Pas plus que sur ma main, " responded the doctor, showing his palm. 

"Quel dommage!" responded the grisette: "et moi--à qui tout celacommençait à donner des idées. "

"Vraiment! vous en êtes pour vos frais, " was the doctor's coolrejoinder. 

She pouted. The doctor could not help laughing at the sort of "moue"she made: when he laughed, he had something peculiarly good-naturedand genial in his look. I saw his hand incline to his pocket. 

"How many times have you opened the door for me within this lastmonth?" he asked. 

"Monsieur ought to have kept count of that, " said Rosine, quitereadily. 

"As if I had not something better to do!" rejoined he; but I saw himgive her a piece of gold, which she took unscrupulously, and thendanced off to answer the door-bell, ringing just now every fiveminutes, as the various servants came to fetch the half-boarders. 

The reader must not think too hardly of Rosine; on the whole, she wasnot a bad sort of person, and had no idea there could be any disgracein grasping at whatever she could get, or any effrontery in chatteringlike a pie to the best gentleman in Christendom. 

I had learnt something from the above scene besides what concerned theivory box: viz. , that not on the robe de jaconas, pink or grey, noryet on the frilled and pocketed apron, lay the blame of breaking Dr. John's heart: these items of array were obviously guiltless asGeorgette's little blue tunic. So much the better. But who then wasthe culprit? What was the ground--what the origin--what the perfectexplanation of the whole business? Some points had been cleared, buthow many yet remained obscure as night!

"However, " I said to myself, "it is no affair of yours;" and turningfrom the face on which I had been unconsciously dwelling with aquestioning gaze, I looked through the window which commanded thegarden below. Dr. John, meantime, standing by the bed-side, was slowlydrawing on his gloves and watching his little patient, as her eyesclosed and her rosy lips parted in coming sleep. I waited till heshould depart as usual, with a quick bow and scarce articulate "good-night. ". Just as he took his hat, my eyes, fixed on the tall housesbounding the garden, saw the one lattice, already commemorated, cautiously open; forth from the aperture projected a hand and a whitehandkerchief; both waved. I know not whether the signal was answeredfrom some viewless quarter of our own dwelling; but immediately afterthere fluttered from, the lattice a falling object, white and light--billet the second, of course. 

"There!" I ejaculated involuntarily. 

"Where?", asked Dr. John with energy, making direct for the window. "What, is it?"

"They have gone and done it again, " was my reply. "A handkerchiefwaved and something fell:" and I pointed to the lattice, now closedand looking hypocritically blank. 

"Go, at once; pick it up and bring it here, " was his prompt direction;adding, "Nobody will take notice of _you: I_ should be seen. "

Straight I went. After some little search, I found a folded paper, lodged on the lower branch of a shrub; I seized and brought it directto Dr. John. This time, I believe not even Rosine saw me. 

He instantly tore the billet into small pieces, without reading it. "It is not in the least _her_ fault, you must remember, " he said, looking at me. 

"_Whose_ fault?" I asked. "_Who_ is it?"

"You don't yet know, then?"

"Not in the least. "

"Have you no guess?"

"None. "

"If I knew you better, I might be tempted to risk some confidence, andthus secure you as guardian over a most innocent and excellent, butsomewhat inexperienced being. "

"As a duenna?" I asked. 

"Yes, " said he abstractedly. "What snares are round her!" he added, musingly: and now, certainly for the first time, he examined my face, anxious, doubtless, to see if any kindly expression there, wouldwarrant him in recommending to my care and indulgence someethereal creature, against whom powers of darkness were plotting. I felt no particular vocation to undertake the surveillance ofethereal creatures; but recalling the scene at the bureau, it seemedto me that I owed _him_ a good turn: if I _could_ help him then Iwould, and it lay not with me to decide how. With as little reluctanceas might be, I intimated that "I was willing to do what I couldtowards taking care of any person in whom he might be interested. ". 

"I am no farther interested than as a spectator, " said he, with amodesty, admirable, as I thought, to witness. "I happen to beacquainted with the rather worthless character of the person, who, from the house opposite, has now twice invaded the, sanctity of thisplace; I have also met in society the object at whom these vulgarattempts are aimed. Her exquisite superiority and innate refinementought, one would think, to scare impertinence from her very idea. Itis not so, however; and innocent, unsuspicious as she is, I wouldguard her from evil if I could. In person, however, I can do nothing Icannot come near her"--he paused. 

"Well, I am willing to help you, " said I, "only tell me how. " Andbusily, in my own mind, I ran over the list of our inmates, seekingthis paragon, this pearl of great price, this gem without flaw. "Itmust be Madame, " I concluded. "_She_ only, amongst us all, hasthe art even to _seem_ superior: but as to being unsuspicious, inexperienced, &c. , Dr. John need not distract himself about that. However, this is just his whim, and I will not contradict him; heshall be humoured: his angel shall be an angel. 

"Just notify the quarter to which my care is to be directed, " Icontinued gravely: chuckling, however, to myself over the thought ofbeing set to chaperon Madame Beck or any of her pupils. Now Dr. Johnhad a fine set of nerves, and he at once felt by instinct, what nomore coarsely constituted mind would have detected; namely, that I wasa little amused at him. The colour rose to his cheek; with half asmile he turned and took his hat--he was going. My heart smote me. 

"I will--I will help you, " said I eagerly. "I will do what you wish. Iwill watch over your angel; I will take care of her, only tell me whoshe is. "

"But you _must_ know, " said he then with earnestness, yetspeaking very low. "So spotless, so good, so unspeakably beautiful!impossible that one house should contain two like her. I allude, ofcourse--"

Here the latch of Madame Beck's chamber-door (opening into thenursery) gave a sudden click, as if the hand holding it had beenslightly convulsed; there was the suppressed explosion of anirrepressible sneeze. These little accidents will happen to the bestof us. Madame--excellent woman! was then on duty. She had come homequietly, stolen up-stairs on tip-toe; she was in her chamber. If shehad not sneezed, she would have heard all, and so should I; but thatunlucky sternutation routed Dr. John. While he stood aghast, she cameforward alert, composed, in the best yet most tranquil spirits: nonovice to her habits but would have thought she had just come in, andscouted the idea of her ear having been glued to the key-hole for atleast ten minutes. She affected to sneeze again, declared she was"enrhumée, " and then proceeded volubly to recount her "courses enfiacre. " The prayer-bell rang, and I left her with the doctor. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FÊTE. 

As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country. I was sorry; I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer thanbefore. But I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robustlife; I might have had companions, and I chose solitude. Each of theteachers in turn made me overtures of special intimacy; I tried themall. One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarsefeeler, and an egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externallyrefined--at heart, corrupt--without a creed, without a principle, without an affection: having penetrated the outward crust of decorumin this character, you found a slough beneath. She had a wonderfulpassion for presents; and, in this point, the third teacher--a personotherwise characterless and insignificant--closely resembled her. Thislast-named had also one other distinctive property--that of avarice. In her reigned the love of money for its own sake. The sight of apiece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten, singular towitness. She once, as a mark of high favour, took me up-stairs, and, opening a secret door, showed me a hoard--a mass of coarse, largecoin--about fifteen guineas, in five-franc pieces. She loved thishoard as a bird loves its eggs. These were her savings. She would comeand talk to me about them with an infatuated and persevering dotage, strange to behold in a person not yet twenty-five. 

The Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal and profligate (indisposition, that is: as to action, I do not know). That latterquality showed its snake-head to me but once, peeping out verycautiously. A curious kind of reptile it seemed, judging from theglimpse I got; its novelty whetted my curiosity: if it would have comeout boldly, perhaps I might philosophically have stood my ground, andcoolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly tail-tip;but it merely rustled in the leaves of a bad novel; and, onencountering a hasty and ill-advised demonstration of wrath, recoiledand vanished, hissing. She hated me from that day. 

This Parisienne was always in debt; her salary being anticipated, notonly in dress, but in perfumes, cosmetics, confectionery, andcondiments. What a cold, callous epicure she was in all things! I seeher now. Thin in face and figure, sallow in complexion, regular infeatures, with perfect teeth, lips like a thread, a large, prominentchin, a well-opened, but frozen eye, of light at once craving andingrate. She mortally hated work, and loved what she called pleasure;being an insipid, heartless, brainless dissipation of time. 

Madame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She oncetalked to me about her, with an odd mixture of discrimination, indifference, and antipathy. I asked why she kept her in theestablishment. She answered plainly, "because it suited her interestto do so;" and pointed out a fact I had already noticed, namely, thatMademoiselle St. Pierre possessed, in an almost unique degree, thepower of keeping order amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. Acertain petrifying influence accompanied and surrounded her: withoutpassion, noise, or violence, she held them in check as a breezelessfrost-air might still a brawling stream. She was of little use as faras communication of knowledge went, but for strict surveillance andmaintenance of rules she was invaluable. "Je sais bien qu'elle n'a pasde principes, ni, peut-être, de moeurs, " admitted Madame frankly; butadded with philosophy, "son maintien en classe est toujours convenableet rempli même d'une certaine dignité: c'est tout ce qu'il faut. Niles élèves ni les parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par conséquent, moi non plus. "

 * * * * *

A strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school: great painswere taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle essence of Romanismpervaded every arrangement: large sensual indulgence (so to speak) waspermitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Eachmind was being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection fromdwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation wasseized and made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove tobring up her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy, hale, joyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. "Eat, drink, andlive!" she says. "Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. Ihold their cure--guide their course: I guarantee their final fate. " Abargain, in which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Luciferjust offers the same terms: "All this power will I give thee, and theglory of it; for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will Igive it. If thou, therefore, wilt worship me, all shall be thine!"

About this time--in the ripest glow of summer--Madame Beck's housebecame as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long thebroad folding-doors and the two-leaved casements stood wide open:settled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were faroff, sailing away beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such asEngland--that dear land of mists--but withdrawn wholly from the driercontinent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof: classeswere held, and meals partaken of, in the "grand berceau. " Moreover, there was a note of holiday preparation, which almost turned freedominto licence. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant;but before that, a great day--an important ceremony--none other thanthe fête of Madame--awaited celebration. 

The conduct of this fête devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle St. Pierre:Madame herself being supposed to stand aloof, disinterestedlyunconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially, she never knew, never in the least suspected, that a subscription wasannually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsomepresent. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of theaccount a brief, secret consultation on this point in Madame's ownchamber. 

"What will you have this year?" was asked by her Parisian lieutenant. 

"Oh, no matter! Let it alone. Let the poor children keep theirfrancs, " And Madame looked benign and modest. 

The St. Pierre would here protrude her chin; she knew Madame by heart;she always called her airs of "bonté"--"des grimaces. " She never evenprofessed to respect them one instant. 

"Vite!" she would say coldly. "Name the article. Shall it be jewelleryor porcelain, haberdashery or silver?"

"Eh bien! Deux ou trois cuillers, et autant de fourchettes en argent. "

And the result was a handsome case, containing 300 francs worth ofplate. 

The programme of the fête-day's proceedings comprised: Presentation ofplate, collation in the garden, dramatic performance (with pupils andteachers for actors), a dance and supper. Very gorgeous seemed theeffect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zélie St. Pierreunderstood these things and managed them ably. 

The play was the main point; a month's previous drilling being thererequired. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care;then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue ofcountless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierre did not suffice: other management, other accomplishments thanhers were requisite here. They were supplied in the person of amaster--M. Paul Emanuel, professor of literature. It was never mylot to be present at the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I oftensaw him as he crossed the _carré_ (a square hall between thedwelling-house and school-house). I heard him, too, in the warmevenings, lecturing with open doors, and his name, with anecdotes ofhim, resounded in ones ears from all sides. Especially our formeracquaintance, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe, --who had been selected to take aprominent part in the play--used, in bestowing upon me a large portionof her leisure, to lard her discourse with frequent allusions to hissayings and doings. She esteemed him hideously plain, and used toprofess herself frightened almost into hysterics at the sound of hisstep or voice. A dark little man he certainly was; pungent andaustere. Even to me he seemed a harsh apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad, sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wideand quivering nostril, his thorough glance, and hurried bearing. Irritable he was; one heard that, as he apostrophized with vehemencethe awkward squad under his orders. Sometimes he would break out onthese raw amateur actresses with a passion of impatience at theirfalseness of conception, their coldness of emotion, their feeblenessof delivery. "Ecoutez!" he would cry; and then his voice rang throughthe premises like a trumpet; and when, mimicking it, came the smallpipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or a Blanche, one understood why ahollow groan of scorn, or a fierce hiss of rage, rewarded the tameecho. 

"Vous n'êtes donc que des poupées, " I heard him thunder. "Vous n'avezpas de passions--vous autres. Vous ne sentez donc rien? Votre chairest de neige, votre sang de glace! Moi, je veux que tout celas'allume, qu'il ait une vie, une âme!"

Vain resolve! And when he at last found it _was_ vain, hesuddenly broke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teachingthem a grand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels, and came nextday with a compact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly;he presently knocked it all into their smooth round pates. 

Mademoiselle St. Pierre always presided at M. Emanuel's lessons, and Iwas told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, hertact and grace, impressed that gentleman very favourably. She had, indeed, the art of pleasing, for a given time, whom she would; but thefeeling would not last: in an hour it was dried like dew, vanishedlike gossamer. 

The day preceding Madame's fête was as much a holiday as the fêteitself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging anddecorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayestbustle; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person findrest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refugein the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, findingwarmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort ofcompanionship in my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged buttwo sentences that day with any living being: not that I feltsolitary; I was glad to be quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to passthrough the rooms once or twice, observe what changes were beingwrought, how a green-room and a dressing-room were being contrived, alittle stage with scenery erected, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunctionwith Mademoiselle St. Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager bandof pupils, amongst them Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under hiscontrol. 

The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot andunclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windowswere set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom--andfreedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachersand pupils descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:anticipating "avec délices" the toilette of the evening, they seemedto take a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury ofslovenliness; like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. Aboutnine o'clock A. M. , an important functionary, the "coiffeur, " arrived. Sacrilegious to state, he fixed his head-quarters in the oratory, andthere, in presence of _bénitier_, candle, and crucifix, solemnisedthe mysteries of his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to passthrough his hands; emerging from them with head as smooth as ashell, intersected by faultless white lines, and wreathed about withGrecian plaits that shone as if lacquered. I took my turn with therest, and could hardly believe what the glass said when I applied toit for information afterwards; the lavished garlandry of woven brownhair amazed me--I feared it was not all my own, and it requiredseveral convincing pulls to give assurance to the contrary. I thenacknowledged in the coiffeur a first-rate artist--one who certainlymade the most of indifferent materials. 

The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions, arrayings and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was, and evermust be an enigma, how they contrived to spend so much time in doingso little. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: theresult simple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin'scolours), a pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves--such was thegala uniform, to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers andpupils devoted three mortal hours. But though simple, it must beallowed the array was perfect--perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness;every head being also dressed with exquisite nicety, and a certaincompact taste--suiting the full, firm comeliness of Labassecouriencontours, though too stiff for any more flowing and flexible style ofbeauty--the general effect was, on the whole, commendable. 

In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feelingmyself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage wasnot in me to put on a transparent white dress: something thin I mustwear--the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabricssufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon acrape-like material of purple-gray--the colour, in short, of dun mist, lying on a moor in bloom. My _tailleuse_ had kindly made it aswell as she could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was "sitriste--si pen voyant, " care in the fashion was the more imperative:it was well she took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, nojewel to relieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose ofcomplexion. 

We become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform routine ofdaily drudgery, but they _will_ force upon us their unwelcomeblank on those bright occasions when beauty should shine. 

However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; anadvantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant orstriking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance; her dress wasalmost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet, and a largebrooch bright with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on thestairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that shethought I was looking well--a point unlikely to engage her interest--but she considered me dressed "convenablement, " "décemment, " and laConvenance et la Décence were the two calm deities of Madame'sworship. She even paused, laid on my shoulder her gloved hand, holdingan embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, and confided to my ear asarcasm on the other teachers (whom she had just been complimenting totheir faces). "Nothing so absurd, " she said, "as for des femmes mûres'to dress themselves like girls of fifteen'--quant à la. St. Pierre, elle a l'air d'une vieille coquette qui fait l'ingénue. "

Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else, I felt apleasure in betaking myself--not to the garden, where servants werebusy propping up long tables, placing seats, and spreading cloths inreadiness for the collation but to the schoolrooms, now empty, quiet, cool, and clean; their walls fresh stained, their planked floors freshscoured and scarce dry; flowers fresh gathered adorning the recessesin pots, and draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows. 

Withdrawing to the first classe, a smaller and neater room than theothers, and taking from the glazed bookcase, of which I kept the key, a volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. Theglass-door of this "classe, " or schoolroom, opened into the largeberceau; acacia-boughs caressed its panes, as they stretched across tomeet a rose-bush blooming by the opposite lintel: in this rose-bushbees murmured busy and happy. I commenced reading. Just as the stillyhum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat werebeginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and tolure me along the track of reverie, down into some deep dell ofdreamland--just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell towhich that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me backto consciousness. 

Now the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, orservants, or _coiffeurs_, or _tailleuses_, went and came ontheir several errands. Moreover, there was good reason to expect itwould ring all the afternoon, since about one hundred externes wereyet to arrive in carriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected torest during the evening, when parents and friends would gatherthronging to the play. Under these circumstances, a ring--even a sharpring--was a matter of course: yet this particular peal had an accentof its own, which chased my dream, and startled my book from my knee. 

I was stooping to pick up this last, when--firm, fast, straight--righton through vestibule--along corridor, across carré, through firstdivision, second division, grand salle--strode a step, quick, regular, intent. The closed door of the first classe--my sanctuary--offered noobstacle; it burst open, and a paletôt and a bonnet grec filled thevoid; also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily divedinto me. 

"C'est cela!" said a voice. "Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise. Tantpis. Toute Anglaise, et, par conséquent, toute bégueule qu'elle soit--elle fera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi. "

Then, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thought I had notcaught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings), and in a jargonthe most execrable that ever was heard, "Meess----, play you must: Iam planted there. "

"What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?" I inquired: for M. PaulEmanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement. 

"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make theprude. I read your skull that night you came; I see your moyens: playyou can; play you must. "

"But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?"

"There is no time to be lost, " he went on, now speaking in French;"and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, allminauderies. You must take a part. "

"In the vaudeville?"

"In the vaudeville. You have said it. "

I gasped, horror-struck. _What_ did the little man mean?

"Listen!" he said. "The case shall be stated, and you shall thenanswer me Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever afterestimate you. "

The scarce-suppressed impetus of a most irritable nature glowed in hischeek, fed with sharp shafts his glances, a nature--the injudicious, the mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen, the affected, above all, theunyielding, might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence andattention was the best balm to apply: I listened. 

"The whole matter is going to fail, " he began. "Louise Vanderkelkovhas fallen ill--at least so her ridiculous mother asserts; for my part, Ifeel sure she might play if she would: it is only good-will that lacks. She was charged with a _rôle_, as you know, or do _not_ know--it isequal: without that _rôle_ the play is stopped. There are now but afew hours in which to learn it: not a girl in this school would hearreason, and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not anamiable, part; their vile _amour-propre_--that base quality of whichwomen have so much--would revolt from it. Englishwomen are eitherthe best or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les déteste commela peste, ordinairement" (this between his recreant teeth). "I apply toan Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer--Yes, or No?"

A thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, thelimited time, the public display... Inclination recoiled, Abilityfaltered, Self-respect (that "vile quality") trembled. "Non, non, non!" said all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in hisvexed, fiery, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all itsmenace, my lips dropped the word "oui". For a moment his rigidcountenance relaxed with a quiver of content: quickly bent up again, however, he went on, --

"Vite à l'ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your _rôle_: read. "And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled andstamped. He gave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was adisagreeable part--a man's--an empty-headed fop's. One could put intoit neither heart nor soul: I hated it. The play--a mere trifle--ranchiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a faircoquette. One lover was called the "Ours, " a good and gallant butunpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was abutterfly, a talker, and a traitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor. 

I did my best--which was bad, I know: it provoked M. Paul; he fumed. Putting both--hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than mybest; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed tobe partially content. "Ca ira!" he cried; and as voices began soundingfrom the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, headded: "You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this. Come withme. "

Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself inthe same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, up-stairs, up two pair of stairs, nay, actually up three (for this fierylittle man seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere); to thesolitary and lofty attic was I borne, put in and locked in, the keybeing, in the door, and that key he took with him and vanished. 

The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know howunpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so littleceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter, it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it; olddresses draped its unstained wall--cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Wellwas it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and bycockroaches--nay, rumour affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the gardenhad once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, acrosswhich, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn, by wayof screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendent each from itspin, like a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, andbehind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believethis, nor was I troubled by apprehension thereof; but I saw a verydark and large rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from thatsqualid alcove; and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black-beetle, dotting the floor. These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than itwould be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heatof the place. The last inconvenience would soon have becomeintolerable, had I not found means to open and prop up the skylight, thus admitting some freshness. Underneath this aperture I pushed alarge empty chest, and having mounted upon it a smaller box, and wipedfrom both the dust, I gathered my dress (my best, the reader mustremember, and therefore a legitimate object of care) fastidiouslyaround me, ascended this species of extempore throne, and beingseated, commenced the acquisition of my task; while I learned, notforgetting to keep a sharp look-out on the black-beetles andcockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of the rats, I satin mortal dread. 

My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really wasimpossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and beresigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short apiece was not more than memory could master at a few hours' notice. Ilearned and learned on, first in a whisper, and then aloud. Perfectlysecure from human audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin. Entering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spiritinspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this "fat, " bymaking him as fatuitous as I possibly could. 

In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide intoevening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grewexcessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtlessthey were just then devouring in the garden far below. (I had seen inthe vestibule a basketful of small _pâtés à la crême_, than whichnothing in the whole range of cookery seemed to me better). A_pâté_, or a square of cake, it seemed to me would come very_àpropos;_ and as my relish for those dainties increased, itbegan to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday, fastingand in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street-door andvestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; andalso the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormented pavement. I knewthat the house and garden were thronged, and that all was gay and gladbelow; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were fading from mysight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march, mount mythrone unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient andapprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to killtime. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key inthe lock came to my ear--no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just seethrough the dusk that it _was_ M. Paul, for light enough stilllingered to show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and thesallow ivory of his brow) looked in. 

"Brava!" cried he, holding the door open and remaining at thethreshold. "J'ai tout entendu. C'est assez bien. Encore!"

A moment I hesitated. 

"Encore!" said he sternly. "Et point de grimaces! A bas la timidité!"

Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken italone. 

"Enfin, elle sait, " said he, half dissatisfied, "and one cannot befastidious or exacting under the circumstances. " Then he added, "Youmay yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!" And he wasgoing. 

"Monsieur, " I called out, taking courage. 

"Eh bien! Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"

"J'ai bien faim. "

"Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?"

"I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here. "

"Ah! C'est vrai, " cried he. 

In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverserepetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic, instantly took me down--down--down to the very kitchen. I thought Ishould have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered toproduce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To mygreat joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wineand sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a_petit pâté à la crême_ I cannot tell; but he went out andprocured me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ateand drank, keeping the _petit pâté_ till the last, as a _bonnebouche_. M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon memore than I could swallow. 

"A la bonne heure, " he cried, when I signified that I really couldtake no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared theadditional roll on which he had just spread butter. "You will set medown as a species of tyrant and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret;whereas, after all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feelcourage and strength to appear?"

I said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused, and could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the orderof beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominantforce sufficient to crush him at once. 

"Come then, " said he, offering his hand. 

I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me torun at his side in order to keep pace. In the carré he stopped amoment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classeswere open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees intubs, and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side;groups of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walkedamongst the flowers. Within, the long vista of the school-roomspresented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streamingmultitude, all rose, and blue, and half translucent white. There werelustres burning overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn greencurtain, a row of footlights. 

"Nest-ce pas que c'est beau?" demanded my companion. 

I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Pauldiscovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for mypains. 

"I will do my best, but I wish it was over, " said I; then I asked:"Are we to walk through that crowd?"

"By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the garden--here. "

In an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived mesomewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowingwindows lit the court brightly, and even the alleys--dimly. Heaven wascloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft arethe nights of the Continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; nochilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning. 

Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of thefirst classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; wepassed, and then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing thefirst classe from the grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was sofull of light: it deafened me, it was clamorous with voices: itstifled me, it was so hot, choking, thronged. 

"De l'ordre! Du silence!" cried M. Paul. "Is this chaos?", hedemanded; and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as manygestures, he turned out half the persons present, and obliged theremnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume: they werethe performers, and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expectedthe Englishwoman would play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought ofshining off before hundreds--my entrance seemed to transfix her withamazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check. 

Having surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me. 

"You, too, must be dressed for your part. "

"Dressed--dressed like a man!" exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, dartingforwards; adding with officiousness, "I will dress her myself. "

To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I hadconsented to take a man's name and part; as to his dress--_haltelà!_ No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul mightstorm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voiceas resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady inutterance. 

He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would hestood silent. But Zélie again interposed. 

"She will make a capital _petit-mâitre_. Here are the garments, all--all complete: somewhat too large, but--I will arrange all that. Come, chère amie--belle Anglaise!"

And she sneered, for I was not "belle. " She seized my hand, she wasdrawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable--neutral. 

"You must not resist, " pursued St. Pierre--for resist I did. "You willspoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of thecompany, sacrifice everything to your _amour-propre_. This wouldbe too bad--monsieur will never permit this?"

She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave herone, and then he gave me one. "Stop!" he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybodyawaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceivedthat, and took heart. 

"You do not like these clothes?" he asked, pointing to the masculinevestments. 

"I don't object to some of them, but I won't have them all. "

"How must it be, then? How accept a man's part, and go on the stagedressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true--a_vaudeville de pensionnat;_ certain modifications I mightsanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the noblersex. "

"And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobodymust meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dressmyself. "

Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gaveit to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone, I grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman's garbwithout the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed, in addition, alittle vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletôt of small dimensions;the whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Havingloosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back-hair close, and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in myhand and came out. M. Paul was waiting, and so were the others. Helooked at me. "That may pass in a pensionnat, " he pronounced. Thenadded, not unkindly, "Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sangfroid--un peud'aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien. "

St. Pierre sneered again, in her cold snaky manner. 

I was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning uponher and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, Ishould feel disposed to call her out. 

"After the play, after the play, " said M. Paul. "I will then divide mypair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute accordingto form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England. "

But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul, setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a generaladdressing soldiers about to charge. I don't know what he said, exceptthat he recommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of herpersonal insignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluousfor some of us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to thestage. The bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words. 

"Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it, " whispered M. Paul in myear. "Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats. "

He vanished. The curtain drew up--shrivelled to the ceiling: thebright lights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thoughtof the black-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said mysay badly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; itrevealed to me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so muchas my own voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing tome. Nor did I think of them. When my tongue once got free, and myvoice took its true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought ofnothing but the personage I represented--and of M. Paul, who waslistening, watching, prompting in the side-scenes. 

By-and-by, feeling the right power come--the spring demanded gush andrise inwardly--I became sufficiently composed to notice my fellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra Fanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed admirably: infact she was in her element. I observed that she once or twice threw acertain marked fondness and pointed partiality into her manner towardsme--the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she favour me, suchglances did she dart out into the listening and applauding crowd, thatto me--who knew her--it presently became evident she was acting_at_ some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsomeand distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path of thosearrows--taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure toreceive them--stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known form--that of Dr. John. 

The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr. John's look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drewout of it a history; I put my idea into the part I per formed; I threwit into my wooing of Ginevra. In the "Ours, " or sincere lover, I sawDr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalledand out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where _he_ wasoutcast _I_ could please. Now I know acted as if wishful andresolute to win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the nature of the _rôle_, gilding it from top to toe. Between the acts M. Paul, told us he knew not what possessed us, andhalf expostulated. "C'est peut-être plus beau que votre modèle, " saidhe, "mais ce n'est pas juste. " I know not what possessed me either;but somehow, my longing was to eclipse the "Ours, " _i. E. _, Dr. John. Ginevra was tender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric?Retaining the letter, I recklessly altered the spirit of the_rôle_. Without heart, without interest, I could not play it atall. It must be played--in went the yearned-for seasoning--thusfavoured, I played it with relish. 

What I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected to feel anddo, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold, reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another: erelong, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to pleasemyself. Yet the next day, when I thought it over, I quite disapprovedof these amateur performances; and though glad that I had obliged M. Paul, and tried my own strength for once, I took a firm resolution, never to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramaticexpression had revealed itself as part of my nature; to cherish andexercise this new-found faculty might gift me with a world of delight, but it would not do for a mere looker-on at life: the strength andlonging must be put by; and I put them by, and fastened them in withthe lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has sincepicked. 

No sooner was the play over, and _well_ over, than the cholericand arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour ofmanagerial responsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterialausterity; in a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, andsocial, shook hands with us all round, thanked us separately, andannounced his determination that each of us should in turn be hispartner in the coming ball. On his claiming my promise, I told him Idid not dance. "For once I must, " was the answer; and if I had notslipped aside and kept out of his way, he would have compelled me tothis second performance. But I had acted enough for one evening; itwas time I retired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun-coloureddress did well enough under a paletôt on the stage, but would not suita waltz or a quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobservedI could observe--the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passedbefore me as a spectacle. 

Again Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and the gayestpresent; she was selected to open the ball: very lovely she looked, very gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled. Such scenes wereher triumphs--she was the child of pleasure. Work or suffering foundher listless and dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expandedher butterfly's wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots, madeher flash like a gem, and flush like a flower. At all ordinary dietand plain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams and ices likea humming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was her element, and sweetcake her daily bread. Ginevra lived her full life in a ball-room;elsewhere she drooped dispirited. 

Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the meresake of M. Paul, her partner, or that she lavished her best gracesthat night for the edification of her companions only, or for that ofthe parents and grand-parents, who filled the carré, and lined theball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives sochilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk onequadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animationand good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavyfestal mass which lighted the whole; she tasted a condiment which gaveit zest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicestattractions. 

In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seenwho was not married and a father--M. Paul excepted--that gentleman, too, being the sole creature of his sex permitted to lead out a pupilto the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as amatter of old-established custom (for he was a kinsman of MadameBeck's, and high in her confidence), partly because he would alwayshave his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because--wilful, passionate, partial, as he might be--he was the soul of honour, andmight be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest; in perfectsecurity that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many ofthe girls--it may be noted in parenthesis--were not pure-minded atall, very much otherwise; but they no more dare betray their naturalcoarseness in M. Paul's presence, than they dare tread purposely onhis corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speakabove their breath while some crisis of irritability was covering hishuman visage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. M. Paul, then, might dance with whom he would--and woe be to the interference whichput him out of step. 

Others there were admitted as spectators--with (seeming) reluctance, through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special anddifficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious good-nature, and whom sheall the evening--with her own personal surveillance--kept far aloof atthe remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carré--a small, forlorn band of "jeunes gens;" these being all of the best families, grown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in theschool. That whole evening was Madame on duty beside these "jeunesgens"--attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as adragon. There was a sort of cordon stretched before them, which theywearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revivethemselves by one dance with that "belle blonde, " or that "joliebrune, " or "cette jeune fille magnifique aux cheveux noirs comme lejais. "

"Taisez-vous!" Madame would reply, heroically and inexorably. "Vous nepasserez pas à moins que ce ne soit sur mon cadavre, et vous nedanserez qu'avec la nonnette du jardin" (alluding to the legend). Andshe majestically walked to and fro along their disconsolate andimpatient line, like a little Bonaparte in a mouse-coloured silk gown. 

Madame knew something of the world; Madame knew much of human nature. I don't think that another directress in Villette would have dared toadmit a "jeune homme" within her walls; but Madame knew that bygranting such admission, on an occasion like the present, a boldstroke might be struck, and a great point gained. 

In the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, forit was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly:the admission of these rattlesnakes, so fascinating and so dangerous, served to draw out Madame precisely in her strongest character--thatof a first-rate _surveillante_. Thirdly: their presence furnisheda most piquant ingredient to the entertainment: the pupils knew it, and saw it, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off, animated them with a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children's pleasure spread to the parents; life and mirthcirculated quickly round the ball-room; the "jeunes gens" themselves, though restrained, were amused: for Madame never permitted them tofeel dull--and thus Madame Beck's fête annually ensured a successunknown to the fête of any other directress in the land. 

I observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at largethrough the classes: there was about him a manly, responsible look, that redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his beauty; but as soon asthe ball began, Madame ran up to him. 

"Come, Wolf; come, " said she, laughing: "you wear sheep's clothing, but you must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a finemenagerie of twenty here in the carré: let me place you amongst mycollection. "

"But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice. "

"Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness: it is impiety. Sortez, sortez, au plus vite. "

She drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon. 

Ginevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in myretreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (ademonstration I could very well have dispensed with) cast her armsround my neck. 

"Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!" she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, halfhysterical. 

"What in the world is the matter?" I drily said. 

"How do I look--how do I look to-night?" she demanded. 

"As usual, " said I; "preposterously vain. "

"Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite ofyou, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful; I feelit, I see it--for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?"

"I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of yourbent. "

The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her armthrough mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistanceremonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feastand triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow--whether it waspossible it could feed to satiety--whether any whisper ofconsideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate itsvainglorious exultation. 

Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on allsides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, shespread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying withmock respect, she said: "I would not be you for a kingdom. "

The remark was too _naïve_ to rouse anger; I merely said: "Verygood. "

"And what would _you_ give to be ME?" she inquired. 

"Not a bad sixpence--strange as it may sound, " I replied. "You are buta poor creature. "

"You don't think so in your heart. "

"No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I onlyoccasionally turn you over in my brain. "

"Well, but, " said she, in an expostulatory tone, "just listen to thedifference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and howmiserable are you. "

"Go on; I listen. "

"In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, andthough my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then, I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had acontinental education, and though I can't spell, I have abundantaccomplishments. I _am_ pretty; _you_ can't deny that; I may haveas many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking thehearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of themjust now, which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turnred and pale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, andlanguishing ones at me. There is _me_--happy ME; now for _you_, poor soul!

"I suppose you are nobody's daughter, since you took care of littlechildren when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; youcan't call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractiveaccomplishments--no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what theyare; you can't even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the otherteachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, andnever will be: you don't know the feeling, and so much the better, forthough you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will youever break. Isn't it all true?"

"A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There mustbe good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zélie St. Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not giveto purchase you, body and soul. "

"Just because I am not clever, and that is all _you_ think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness. "

"On the contrary, I consider you _are_ clever, in your way--verysmart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts--that edifyingamusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter; pray on whomdoes your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?"

She approached her lips to my ear--"Isidore and Alfred de Hamal areboth here?" she whispered. 

"Oh! they are? I should like to see them. "

"There's a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me, I will point them out. "

She proudly led the way--"But you cannot see them well from theclasses, " said she, turning, "Madame keeps them too far off. Let uscross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind:we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind. "

For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went--penetrated intothe corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the_carré_, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near viewof the band of "jeunes gens. "

I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal evenundirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured littledandy. I say _little_ dandy, though he was not beneath the middlestandard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were hishands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll:so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved andcravated--he was charming indeed. I said so. "What, a dear personage!"cried I, and commended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked her what shethought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of thatheart she had broken--whether he kept them in a scent-vial, andconserved them in otto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture ofapprobation, that the colonel's hands were scarce larger than MissFanshawe's own, and suggested that this circumstance might beconvenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doated: and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisiteclassic headpiece, I confessed I had no language to do suchperfections justice. 

"And if he were your lover?" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra. 

"Oh! heavens, what bliss!" said I; "but do not be inhuman, MissFanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing pooroutcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise. "

"You like him, then?"

"As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers. "

Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; shecould then readily credit that they were mine too. 

"Now for Isidore, " I went on. I own I felt still more curious to seehim than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter. 

"Alfred was admitted here to-night, " said she, "through the influenceof his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him, can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all theevening, and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I amnow happy as a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance firstat him and then at the other, and madden them both. "

"But that other--where is he? Show me Isidore. "

"I don't like. "

"Why not?"

"I am ashamed of him. "

"For what reason?"

"Because--because" (in a whisper) "he has such--such whiskers, orange--red--there now!"

"The murder is out, " I subjoined. "Never mind, show him all the same;I engage not to faint. "

She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me. 

"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor. "

"There is no draught, Dr. John, " said I, turning. 

"She takes cold so easily, " he pursued, looking at Ginevra withextreme kindness. "She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her ashawl. "

"Permit me to judge for myself, " said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. "Iwant no shawl. "

"Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated. "

"Always preaching, " retorted she; "always coddling and admonishing. "

The answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart washurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, heturned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plentyof shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one. 

"She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her, " said I, foldingit well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and herarms. "Is that Isidore?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper. 

She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded. 

"Is _that_ Isidore?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could havegiven her a dozen. 

"C'est lui-même, " said she. "How coarse he is, compared with theColonel-Count! And then--oh ciel!--the whiskers!"

Dr. John now passed on. 

"The Colonel-Count!" I echoed. "The doll--the puppet--the manikin--thepoor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John his valet, hisfoot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman--handsome as avision--offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promisesto protect your flimsy person and feckless mind through the storms andstruggles of life--and you hang back--you scorn, you sting, youtorture him! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Whereis it? Does it lie all in your beauty--your pink and white complexion, and your yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet, and bendhis neck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection, his tenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble, cordial love--and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are onlydissembling: you are not in earnest: you love him; you long for him;but you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours?"

"Bah! How you run on! I don't understand half you have said. "

I had got her out into the garden ere this. I now set her down on aseat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which shemeant in the end to accept--the man or the monkey. 

"Him you call the man, " said she, "is bourgeois, sandy-haired, andanswers to the name of John!--cela suffit: je n'en veux pas. Colonelde Hamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweet appearance, with pale interesting face, and hair and eyes likean Italian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible--a manquite in my way; not sensible and serious like the other; but one withwhom I can talk on equal terms--who does not plague and bore, andharass me with depths, and heights, and passions, and talents forwhich I have no taste. There now. Don't hold me so fast. "

I slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care to pursueher. 

Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of thecorridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on thegarden-steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. Hiswell-proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whetherthere was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat inhis hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were mosthandsome and manly. _His_ features were not delicate, not slightlike those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble;though well cut, they were not so chiselled, so frittered away, as tolose in expression or significance what they gained in unmeaningsymmetry. Much feeling spoke in them at times, and more sat silent inhis eye. Such at least were my thoughts of him: to me he seemed allthis. An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me, as I looked atthis man, and reflected that _he_ could not be slighted. 

It was, not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, ourterms of acquaintance not warranting such a step; I had only meant toview him in the crowd--myself unseen: coming upon him thus alone, Iwithdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who hadbeen with me: therefore he descended the steps, and followed me downthe alley. 

"You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knewher, " said he. 

"Yes: I know her. "

"Intimately?"

"Quite as intimately as I wish. "

"What have you done with her now?"

"Am I her keeper?" I felt inclined to ask; but I simply answered, "Ihave shaken her well, and would have shaken her better, but sheescaped out of my hands and ran away. "

"Would you favour me, " he asked, "by watching over her this oneevening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent--does not, forinstance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?"

"I may, perhaps, look after her a little; since you wish it; but shelikes her own way too well to submit readily to control. "

"She is so young, so thoroughly artless, " said he. 

"To me she is an enigma, " I responded. 

"Is she?" he asked--much interested. "How?"

"It would be difficult to say how--difficult, at least, to tell_you_ how. "

"And why me?"

"I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend. "

"But she has not the slightest idea how much I _am_ her friend. That is precisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire did sheever speak of me to you?"

"Under the name of 'Isidore' she has talked about you often; but Imust add that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discoveredthat you and 'Isidore' are identical. It is only, Dr. John, withinthat brief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is theperson, under this roof, in whom you have long been interested--thatshe is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for hersake you venture into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped byrivals. "

"You know all?"

"I know so much. "

"For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society. Mrs. Cholmondeley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine; thus I seeher every Sunday. But you observed that under the name of 'Isidore'she often spoke of me: may I--without inviting you to a breach ofconfidence--inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of herremarks? I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormentedwith uncertainty as to how I stand with her. "

"Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind. "

"Still, you can gather some general idea--?"

"I can, " thought I, "but it would not do to communicate that generalidea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you wouldnot believe me. "

"You are silent, " he pursued. "I suppose you have no good news toimpart. No matter. If she feels for me positive coldness and aversion, it is a sign I do not deserve her. "

"Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior ofColonel de Hamal?"

"I love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any human being, and would care for and guard her better than he. Respecting de Hamal, I fear she is under an illusion; the man's character is known to me, all his antecedents, all his scrapes. He is not worthy of yourbeautiful young friend. "

"My 'beautiful young friend' ought to know that, and to know or feelwho is worthy of her, " said I. "If her beauty or her brains will notserve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience. "

"Are you not a little severe?"

"I am excessively severe--more severe than I choose to show you. Youshould hear the strictures with which I favour my 'beautiful youngfriend, ' only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want oftender considerateness for her delicate nature. "

"She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her. You--everywoman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent, girlish fairy a sort of motherly or elder-sisterly fondness. Gracefulangel! Does not your heart yearn towards her when she pours into yourear her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged!" And hesighed. 

"I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and then, " saidI. "But excuse me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant?What a god-like person is that de Hamal! What a nose on his face--perfect! Model one in putty or clay, you could not make a better orstraighter, or neater; and then, such classic lips and chin--and hisbearing--sublime. "

"De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very white-liveredhero. "

"You, Dr. John, and every man of a less-refined mould than he, mustfeel for him a sort of admiring affection, such as Mars and thecoarser deities may be supposed to have borne the young, gracefulApollo. "

"An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes!" said Dr. John curtly, "whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the waistband any day, andlay low in the kennel if I liked. "

"The sweet seraph!" said I. "What a cruel idea! Are you not a littlesevere, Dr. John?"

And now I paused. For the second time that night I was going beyondmyself--venturing out of what I looked on as my natural habits--speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which startled mestrangely when I halted to reflect. On rising that morning, had Ianticipated that before night I should have acted the part of a gaylover in a vaudeville; and an hour after, frankly discussed with Dr. John the question of his hapless suit, and rallied him on hisillusions? I had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forwardto an ascent in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn. 

The Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were now returning; thereflex from the window again lit his face: he smiled, but his eye wasmelancholy. How I wished that he could feel heart's-ease! How Igrieved that he brooded over pain, and pain from such a cause! He, with his great advantages, _he_ to love in vain! I did not thenknow that the pensiveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds;nor did I reflect that some herbs, "though scentless when entire, yield fragrance when they're bruised. "

"Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve, " I broke out. "If there is inGinevra one spark of worthiness of your affection, she will--she_must_ feel devotion in return. Be cheerful, be hopeful, Dr. John. Who should hope, if not you?"

In return for this speech I got--what, it must be supposed, Ideserved--a look of surprise: I thought also of some disapprobation. We parted, and I went into the house very chill. The clocks struck andthe bells tolled midnight; people were leaving fast: the fête wasover; the lamps were fading. In another hour all the dwelling-house, and all the pensionnat, were dark and hushed. I too was in bed, butnot asleep. To me it was not easy to sleep after a day of suchexcitement. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE LONG VACATION. 

Following Madame Beck's fête, with its three preceding weeks ofrelaxation, its brief twelve hours' burst of hilarity and dissipation, and its one subsequent day of utter languor, came a period ofreaction; two months of real application, of close, hard study. Thesetwo months, being the last of the "année scolaire, " were indeed theonly genuine working months in the year. To them was procrastinated--into them concentrated, alike by professors, mistresses, and pupils--the main burden of preparation for the examinations preceding thedistribution of prizes. Candidates for rewards had then to work ingood earnest; masters and teachers had to set their shoulders to thewheel, to urge on the backward, and diligently aid and train the morepromising. A showy demonstration--a telling exhibition--must be got upfor public view, and all means were fair to this end. 

I scarcely noted how the other teachers went to work; I had my ownbusiness to mind; and _my_ task was not the least onerous, beingto imbue some ninety sets of brains with a due tincture of what theyconsidered a most complicated and difficult science, that of theEnglish language; and to drill ninety tongues in what, for them, wasan almost impossible pronunciation--the lisping and hissing dentals ofthe Isles. 

The examination-day arrived. Awful day! Prepared for with anxiouscare, dressed for with silent despatch--nothing vaporous or flutteringnow--no white gauze or azure streamers; the grave, close, compact wasthe order of the toilette. It seemed to me that I was this day, especially doomed--the main burden and trial falling on me alone ofall the female teachers. The others were not expected to examine inthe studies they taught; the professor of literature, M. Paul, takingupon himself this duty. He, this school autocrat, gathered all andsundry reins into the hollow of his one hand; he irefully rejected anycolleague; he would not have help. Madame herself, who evidentlyrather wished to undertake the examination in geography--her favouritestudy, which she taught well--was forced to succumb, and besubordinate to her despotic kinsman's direction. The whole staff ofinstructors, male and female, he set aside, and stood on theexaminer's estrade alone. It irked him that he was forced to make oneexception to this rule. He could not manage English: he was obliged toleave that branch of education in the English teacher's hands; whichhe did, not without a flash of naïve jealousy. 

A constant crusade against the "amour-propre" of every human being buthimself, was the crotchet of this able, but fiery and grasping littleman. He had a strong relish for public representation in his ownperson, but an extreme abhorrence of the like display in any other. Hequelled, he kept down when he could; and when he could not, he fumedlike a bottled storm. 

On the evening preceding the examination-day, I was walking in thegarden, as were the other teachers and all the boarders. M. Emanueljoined me in the "allée défendue;" his cigar was at his lips; hispaletôt--a most characteristic garment of no particular shape--hungdark and menacing; the tassel of his bonnet grec sternly shadowed hisleft temple; his black whiskers curled like those of a wrathful cat;his blue eye had a cloud in its glitter. 

"Ainsi, " he began, abruptly fronting and arresting me, "vous alleztrôner comme une reine; demain--trôner à mes côtés? Sans doute voussavourez d'avance les délices de l'autorité. Je crois voir en je nesais quoi de rayonnante, petite ambitieuse!"

Now the fact was, he happened to be entirely mistaken. I did not--could not--estimate the admiration or the good opinion of tomorrow'saudience at the same rate he did. Had that audience numbered as manypersonal friends and acquaintance for me as for him, I know not how itmight have been: I speak of the case as it stood. On me school-triumphs shed but a cold lustre. I had wondered--and I wondered now--how it was that for him they seemed to shine as with hearth-warmthand hearth-glow. _He_ cared for them perhaps too much; _I_, probably, too little. However, I had my own fancies as well as he. Iliked, for instance, to see M. Emanuel jealous; it lit up his nature, and woke his spirit; it threw all sorts of queer lights and shadowsover his dun face, and into his violet-azure eyes (he used to say thathis black hair and blue eyes were "une de ses beautés"). There was arelish in his anger; it was artless, earnest, quite unreasonable, butnever hypocritical. I uttered no disclaimer then of the complacency heattributed to me; I merely asked where the English examination camein--whether at the commencement or close of the day?

"I hesitate, " said he, "whether at the very beginning, before manypersons are come, and when your aspiring nature will not be gratifiedby a large audience, or quite at the close, when everybody is tired, and only a jaded and worn-out attention will be at your service. "

"Que vous êtes dur, Monsieur!" I said, affecting dejection. 

"One ought to be 'dur' with you. You are one of those beings who mustbe _kept down_. I know you! I know you! Other people in thishouse see you pass, and think that a colourless shadow has gone by. Asfor me, I scrutinized your face once, and it sufficed. "

"You are satisfied that you understand me?"

Without answering directly, he went on, "Were you not gratified whenyou succeeded in that vaudeville? I watched you and saw a passionateardour for triumph in your physiognomy. What fire shot into theglance! Not mere light, but flame: je me tiens pour averti. "

"What feeling I had on that occasion, Monsieur--and pardon me, if Isay, you immensely exaggerate both its quality and quantity--was quiteabstract. I did not care for the vaudeville. I hated the part youassigned me. I had not the slightest sympathy with the audience belowthe stage. They are good people, doubtless, but do I know them? Arethey anything to me? Can I care for being brought before their viewagain to-morrow? Will the examination be anything but a task to me--atask I wish well over?"

"Shall I take it out of your hands?"

"With all my heart; if you do not fear failure. "

"But I should fail. I only know three phrases of English, and a fewwords: par exemple, de sonn, de mone, de stares--est-ce bien dit? Myopinion is that it would be better to give up the thing altogether: tohave no English examination, eh?"

"If Madame consents, I consent. "

"Heartily?"

"Very heartily. "

He smoked his cigar in silence. He turned suddenly. 

"Donnez-moi la main, " said he, and the spite and jealousy melted outof his face, and a generous kindliness shone there instead. 

"Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends, " he pursued. "Theexamination shall take place, and I will choose a good moment; andinstead of vexing and hindering, as I felt half-inclined ten minutesago--for I have my malevolent moods: I always had from childhood--Iwill aid you sincerely. After all, you are solitary and a stranger, and have your way to make and your bread to earn; it may be well thatyou should become known. We will be friends: do you agree?"

"Out of my heart, Monsieur. I am glad of a friend. I like that betterthan a triumph. "

"Pauvrette?" said he, and turned away and left the alley. 

The examination passed over well; M. Paul was as good as his word, anddid his best to make my part easy. The next day came the distributionof prizes; that also passed; the school broke up; the pupils wenthome, and now began the long vacation. 

That vacation! Shall I ever forget it? I think not. Madame Beck went, the first day of the holidays, to join her children at the sea-side;all the three teachers had parents or friends with whom they tookrefuge; every professor quitted the city; some went to Paris, some toBoue-Marine; M. Paul set forth on a pilgrimage to Rome; the house wasleft quite empty, but for me, a servant, and a poor deformed andimbecile pupil, a sort of crétin, whom her stepmother in a distantprovince would not allow to return home. 

My heart almost died within me; miserable longings strained itschords. How long were the September days! How silent, how lifeless!How vast and void seemed the desolate premises! How gloomy theforsaken garden--grey now with the dust of a town summer departed. Looking forward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardlyknew how I was to live to the end. My spirits had long been graduallysinking; now that the prop of employment was withdrawn, they went downfast. Even to look forward was not to hope: the dumb future spoke nocomfort, offered no promise, gave no inducement to bear present evilin reliance on future good. A sorrowful indifference to existenceoften pressed on me--a despairing resignation to reach betimes the endof all things earthly. Alas! When I had full leisure to look on lifeas life must be looked on by such as me, I found it but a hopelessdesert: tawny sands, with no green fields, no palm-tree, no well inview. The hopes which are dear to youth, which bear it up and lead iton, I knew not and dared not know. If they knocked at my heartsometimes, an inhospitable bar to admission must be inwardly drawn. When they turned away thus rejected, tears sad enough sometimesflowed: but it could not be helped: I dared not give such guestslodging. So mortally did I fear the sin and weakness of presumption. 

Religious reader, you will preach to me a long sermon about what Ihave just written, and so will you, moralist: and you, stern sage:you, stoic, will frown; you, cynic, sneer; you, epicure, laugh. Well, each and all, take it your own way. I accept the sermon, frown, sneer, and laugh; perhaps you are all right: and perhaps, circumstanced likeme, you would have been, like me, wrong. The first month was, indeed, a long, black, heavy month to me. 

The crétin did not seem unhappy. I did my best to feed her well andkeep her warm, and she only asked food and sunshine, or when thatlacked, fire. Her weak faculties approved of inertion: her brain, hereyes, her ears, her heart slept content; they could not wake to work, so lethargy was their Paradise. 

Three weeks of that vacation were hot, fair, and dry, but the fourthand fifth were tempestuous and wet. I do not know why that change inthe atmosphere made a cruel impression on me, why the raging storm andbeating rain crushed me with a deadlier paralysis than I hadexperienced while the air had remained serene; but so it was; and mynervous system could hardly support what it had for many days andnights to undergo in that huge empty house. How I used to pray toHeaven for consolation and support! With what dread force theconviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent foe, never to beconciliated. I did not, in my heart, arraign the mercy or justice ofGod for this; I concluded it to be a part of his great plan that somemust deeply suffer while they live, and I thrilled in the certaintythat of this number, I was one. 

It was some relief when an aunt of the crétin, a kind old woman, cameone day, and took away my strange, deformed companion. The haplesscreature had been at times a heavy charge; I could not take her outbeyond the garden, and I could not leave her a minute alone: for herpoor mind, like her body, was warped: its propensity was to evil. Avague bent to mischief, an aimless malevolence, made constantvigilance indispensable. As she very rarely spoke, and would sit forhours together moping and mowing, and distorting her features withindescribable grimaces, it was more like being prisoned with somestrange tameless animal, than associating with a human being. Thenthere were personal attentions to be rendered which required the nerveof a hospital nurse; my resolution was so tried, it sometimes felldead-sick. These duties should not have fallen on me; a servant, nowabsent, had rendered them hitherto, and in the hurry of holidaydeparture, no substitute to fill this office had been provided. Thistax and trial were by no means the least I have known in life. Still, menial and distasteful as they were, my mental pain was far morewasting and wearing. Attendance on the crétin deprived me often of thepower and inclination to swallow a meal, and sent me faint to thefresh air, and the well or fountain in the court; but this duty neverwrung my heart, or brimmed my eyes, or scalded my cheek with tears hotas molten metal. 

The crétin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I lackedcourage to venture very far from the Rue Fossette, but by degrees Isought the city gates, and passed them, and then went wandering awayfar along chaussées, through fields, beyond cemeteries, Catholic andProtestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I knownot where. A goad thrust me on, a fever forbade me to rest; a want ofcompanionship maintained in my soul the cravings of a most deadlyfamine. I often walked all day, through the burning noon and the aridafternoon, and the dusk evening, and came back with moonrise. 

While wandering in solitude, I would sometimes picture the presentprobable position of others, my acquaintance. There was Madame Beck ata cheerful watering-place with her children, her mother, and a wholetroop of friends who had sought the same scene of relaxation. ZélieSt. Pierre was at Paris, with her relatives; the other teachers wereat their homes. There was Ginevra Fanshawe, whom certain of herconnections had carried on a pleasant tour southward. Ginevra seemedto me the happiest. She was on the route of beautiful scenery; theseSeptember suns shone for her on fertile plains, where harvest andvintage matured under their mellow beam. These gold and crystal moonsrose on her vision over blue horizons waved in mounted lines. 

But all this was nothing; I too felt those autumn suns and saw thoseharvest moons, and I almost wished to be covered in with earth andturf, deep out of their influence; for I could not live in theirlight, nor make them comrades, nor yield them affection. But Ginevrahad a kind of spirit with her, empowered to give constant strength andcomfort, to gladden daylight and embalm darkness; the best of the goodgenii that guard humanity curtained her with his wings, and canopiedher head with his bending form. By True Love was Ginevra followed:never could she be alone. Was she insensible to this presence? Itseemed to me impossible: I could not realize such deadness. I imaginedher grateful in secret, loving now with reserve; but purposing one dayto show how much she loved: I pictured her faithful hero halfconscious of her coy fondness, and comforted by that consciousness: Iconceived an electric chord of sympathy between them, a fine chain ofmutual understanding, sustaining union through a separation of ahundred leagues--carrying, across mound and hollow, communication byprayer and wish. Ginevra gradually became with me a sort of heroine. One day, perceiving this growing illusion, I said, "I really believemy nerves are getting overstretched: my mind has suffered somewhat toomuch a malady is growing upon it--what shall I do? How shall I keepwell?"

Indeed there was no way to keep well under the circumstances. At lasta day and night of peculiarly agonizing depression were succeeded byphysical illness, I took perforce to my bed. About this time theIndian summer closed and the equinoctial storms began; and for ninedark and wet days, of which the hours rushed on all turbulent, deaf, dishevelled--bewildered with sounding hurricane--I lay in a strangefever of the nerves and blood. Sleep went quite away. I used to risein the night, look round for her, beseech her earnestly to return. Arattle of the window, a cry of the blast only replied---Sleep nevercame!

I err. She came once, but in anger. Impatient of my importunity shebrought with her an avenging dream. By the clock of St. Jean Baptiste, that dream remained scarce fifteen minutes--a brief space, butsufficing to wring my whole frame with unknown anguish; to confer anameless experience that had the hue, the mien, the terror, the verytone of a visitation from eternity. Between twelve and one that nighta cup was forced to my lips, black, strong, strange, drawn from nowell, but filled up seething from a bottomless and boundless sea. Suffering, brewed in temporal or calculable measure, and mixed formortal lips, tastes not as this suffering tasted. Having drank andwoke, I thought all was over: the end come and past by. Tremblingfearfully--as consciousness returned--ready to cry out on some fellow-creature to help me, only that I knew no fellow-creature was nearenough to catch the wild summons--Goton in her far distant attic couldnot hear--I rose on my knees in bed. Some fearful hours went over me:indescribably was I torn, racked and oppressed in mind. Amidst thehorrors of that dream I think the worst lay here. Methought the well-loved dead, who had loved _me_ well in life, met me elsewhere, alienated: galled was my inmost spirit with an unutterable sense ofdespair about the future. Motive there was none why I should try torecover or wish to live; and yet quite unendurable was the pitilessand haughty voice in which Death challenged me to engage his unknownterrors. When I tried to pray I could only utter these words: "From myyouth up Thy terrors have I suffered with a troubled mind. "

Most true was it. 

On bringing me my tea next morning Goton urged me to call in a doctor. I would not: I thought no doctor could cure me. 

One evening--and I was not delirious: I was in my sane mind, I got up--I dressed myself, weak and shaking. The solitude and the stillness ofthe long dormitory could not be borne any longer; the ghastly whitebeds were turning into spectres--the coronal of each became a death's-head, huge and sun-bleached--dead dreams of an elder world andmightier race lay frozen in their wide gaping eyeholes. That eveningmore firmly than ever fastened into my soul the conviction that Fatewas of stone, and Hope a false idol--blind, bloodless, and of granitecore. I felt, too, that the trial God had appointed me was gaining itsclimax, and must now be turned by my own hands, hot, feeble, tremblingas they were. It rained still, and blew; but with more clemency, Ithought, than it had poured and raged all day. Twilight was falling, and I deemed its influence pitiful; from the lattice I saw comingnight-clouds trailing low like banners drooping. It seemed to me thatat this hour there was affection and sorrow in Heaven above for allpain suffered on earth beneath; the weight of my dreadful dream becamealleviated--that insufferable thought of being no more loved--no moreowned, half-yielded to hope of the contrary--I was sure this hopewould shine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof, which wascrushing as the slab of a tomb, and went outside the city to a certainquiet hill, a long way distant in the fields. Covered with a cloak (Icould not be delirious, for I had sense and recollection to put onwarm clothing), forth I set. The bells of a church arrested me inpassing; they seemed to call me in to the _salut_, and I went in. Any solemn rite, any spectacle of sincere worship, any opening forappeal to God was as welcome to me then as bread to one in extremityof want. I knelt down with others on the stone pavement. It was an oldsolemn church, its pervading gloom not gilded but purpled by lightshed through stained glass. 

Few worshippers were assembled, and, the _salut_ over, half ofthem departed. I discovered soon that those left remained to confess. I did not stir. Carefully every door of the church was shut; a holyquiet sank upon, and a solemn shade gathered about us. After a space, breathless and spent in prayer, a penitent approached theconfessional. I watched. She whispered her avowal; her shrift waswhispered back; she returned consoled. Another went, and another. Apale lady, kneeling near me, said in a low, kind voice:--"Go you now, I am not quite prepared. "

Mechanically obedient, I rose and went. I knew what I was about; mymind had run over the intent with lightning-speed. To take this stepcould not make me more wretched than I was; it might soothe me. 

The priest within the confessional never turned his eyes to regard me;he only quietly inclined his ear to my lips. He might be a good man, but this duty had become to him a sort of form: he went through itwith the phlegm of custom. I hesitated; of the formula of confession Iwas ignorant: instead of commencing, then, with the prelude usual, Isaid:--"Mon père, je suis Protestante. "

He directly turned. He was not a native priest: of that class, thecast of physiognomy is, almost invariably, grovelling: I saw by hisprofile and brow he was a Frenchman; though grey and advanced inyears, he did not, I think, lack feeling or intelligence. He inquired, not unkindly, why, being a Protestant, I came to him?

I said I was perishing for a word of advice or an accent of comfort. Ihad been living for some weeks quite alone; I had been ill; I had apressure of affliction on my mind of which it would hardly any longerendure the weight. 

"Was it a sin, a crime?" he inquired, somewhat startled. I reassuredhim on this point, and, as well as I could, I showed him the mereoutline of my experience. 

He looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled. "You take me unawares, " saidhe. "I have not had such a case as yours before: ordinarily we knowour routine, and are prepared; but this makes a great break in thecommon course of confession. I am hardly furnished with counselfitting the circumstances. "

Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief ofcommunication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet consecrated--the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating, long pent-uppain into a vessel whence it could not be again diffused--had done megood. I was already solaced. 

"Must I go, father?" I asked of him as he sat silent. 

"My daughter, " he said kindly--and I am sure he was a kind man: he hada compassionate eye--"for the present you had better go: but I assureyou your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is aptto become formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured yourheart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, andtake it with me to my oratory. Were you of our faith I should knowwhat to say--a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom ofretreat, and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is wellknown, has no satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men havebidden penitents like you to hasten their path upward by penance, self-denial, and difficult good works. Tears are given them here formeat and drink--bread of affliction and waters of affliction--theirrecompence comes hereafter. It is my own conviction that theseimpressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God tobring you back to the true Church. You were made for our faith: dependupon it our faith alone could heal and help you--Protestantism isaltogether too dry, cold, prosaic for you. The further I look intothis matter, the more plainly I see it is entirely out of the commonorder of things. On no account would I lose sight of you. Go, mydaughter, for the present; but return to me again. "

I rose and thanked him. I was withdrawing when he signed me to return. 

"You must not come to this church, " said he: "I see you are ill, andthis church is too cold; you must come to my house: I live----" (andhe gave me his address). "Be there to-morrow morning at ten. "

In reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil, and gathering round me my cloak, I glided away. 

Did I, do you suppose, reader, contemplate venturing again within thatworthy priest's reach? As soon should I have thought of walking into aBabylonish furnace. That priest had arms which could influence me: hewas naturally kind, with a sentimental French kindness, to whosesoftness I knew myself not wholly impervious. Without respecting somesorts of affection, there was hardly any sort having a fibre of rootin reality, which I could rely on my force wholly to withstand. Had Igone to him, he would have shown me all that was tender, andcomforting, and gentle, in the honest Popish superstition. Then hewould have tried to kindle, blow and stir up in me the zeal of goodworks. I know not how it would all have ended. We all think ourselvesstrong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many; theprobabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at thehour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing thisheretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certainCarmelite convent on the Boulevard of Crécy, in Villette. There wassomething of Fénélon about that benign old priest; and whatever mostof his brethren may be, and whatever I may think of his Church andcreed (and I like neither), of himself I must ever retain a gratefulrecollection. He was kind when I needed kindness; he did me good. MayHeaven bless him!

Twilight had passed into night, and the lamps were lit in the streetsere I issued from that sombre church. To turn back was now becomepossible to me; the wild longing to breathe this October wind on thelittle hill far without the city walls had ceased to be an imperativeimpulse, and was softened into a wish with which Reason could cope:she put it down, and I turned, as I thought, to the Rue Fossette. ButI had become involved in a part of the city with which I was notfamiliar; it was the old part, and full of narrow streets ofpicturesque, ancient, and mouldering houses. I was much too weak to bevery collected, and I was still too careless of my own welfare andsafety to be cautious; I grew embarrassed; I got immeshed in a networkof turns unknown. I was lost and had no resolution to ask guidance ofany passenger. 

If the storm had lulled a little at sunset, it made up now for losttime. Strong and horizontal thundered the current of the wind fromnorth-west to south-east; it brought rain like spray, and sometimes asharp hail, like shot: it was cold and pierced me to the vitals. Ibent my head to meet it, but it beat me back. My heart did not fail atall in this conflict; I only wished that I had wings and could ascendthe gale, spread and repose my pinions on its strength, career in itscourse, sweep where it swept. While wishing this, I suddenly feltcolder where before I was cold, and more powerless where before I wasweak. I tried to reach the porch of a great building near, but themass of frontage and the giant spire turned black and vanished from myeyes. Instead of sinking on the steps as I intended, I seemed to pitchheadlong down an abyss. I remember no more. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Where my soul went during that swoon I cannot tell. Whatever she saw, or wherever she travelled in her trance on that strange night she kepther own secret; never whispering a word to Memory, and bafflingimagination by an indissoluble silence. She may have gone upward, andcome in sight of her eternal home, hoping for leave to rest now, anddeeming that her painful union with matter was at last dissolved. While she so deemed, an angel may have warned her away from heaven'sthreshold, and, guiding her weeping down, have bound her, once more, all shuddering and unwilling, to that poor frame, cold and wasted, ofwhose companionship she was grown more than weary. 

I know she re-entered her prison with pain, with reluctance, with amoan and a long shiver. The divorced mates, Spirit and Substance, werehard to re-unite: they greeted each other, not in an embrace, but aracking sort of struggle. The returning sense of sight came upon me, red, as if it swam in blood; suspended hearing rushed back loud, likethunder; consciousness revived in fear: I sat up appalled, wonderinginto what region, amongst what strange beings I was waking. At first Iknew nothing I looked on: a wall was not a wall--a lamp not a lamp. Ishould have understood what we call a ghost, as well as I did thecommonest object: which is another way of intimating that all my eyerested on struck it as spectral. But the faculties soon settled eachin his place; the life-machine presently resumed its wonted andregular working. 

Still, I knew not where I was; only in time I saw I had been removedfrom the spot where I fell: I lay on no portico-step; night andtempest were excluded by walls, windows, and ceiling. Into some houseI had been carried--but what house?

I could only think of the pensionnat in the Rue Fossette. Still half-dreaming, I tried hard to discover in what room they had put me;whether the great dormitory, or one of the little dormitories. I waspuzzled, because I could not make the glimpses of furniture I sawaccord with my knowledge of any of these apartments. The empty whitebeds were wanting, and the long line of large windows. "Surely, "thought I, "it is not to Madame Beck's own chamber they have carriedme!" And here my eye fell on an easy-chair covered with blue damask. Other seats, cushioned to match, dawned on me by degrees; and at lastI took in the complete fact of a pleasant parlour, with a wood fire ona clear-shining hearth, a carpet where arabesques of bright bluerelieved a ground of shaded fawn; pale walls over which a slight butendless garland of azure forget-me-nots ran mazed and bewilderedamongst myriad gold leaves and tendrils. A gilded mirror filled up thespace between two windows, curtained amply with blue damask. In thismirror I saw myself laid, not in bed, but on a sofa. I lookedspectral; my eyes larger and more hollow, my hair darker than wasnatural, by contrast with my thin and ashen face. It was obvious, notonly from the furniture, but from the position of windows, doors, andfireplace, that this was an unknown room in an unknown house. 

Hardly less plain was it that my brain was not yet settled; for, as Igazed at the blue arm-chair, it appeared to grow familiar; so did acertain scroll-couch, and not less so the round centre-table, with ablue-covering, bordered with autumn-tinted foliage; and, above all, two little footstools with worked covers, and a small ebony-framedchair, of which the seat and back were also worked with groups ofbrilliant flowers on a dark ground. 

Struck with these things, I explored further. Strange to say, oldacquaintance were all about me, and "auld lang syne" smiled out ofevery nook. There were two oval miniatures over the mantel-piece, ofwhich I knew by heart the pearls about the high and powdered "heads;"the velvets circling the white throats; the swell of the full muslinkerchiefs: the pattern of the lace sleeve-ruffles. Upon the mantel-shelf there were two china vases, some relics of a diminutive tea-service, as smooth as enamel and as thin as egg-shell, and a whitecentre ornament, a classic group in alabaster, preserved under glass. Of all these things I could have told the peculiarities, numbered theflaws or cracks, like any _clairvoyante_. Above all, there was apair of handscreens, with elaborate pencil-drawings finished like lineengravings; these, my very eyes ached at beholding again, recallinghours when they had followed, stroke by stroke and touch by touch, atedious, feeble, finical, school-girl pencil held in these fingers, now so skeleton-like. 

Where was I? Not only in what spot of the world, but in what year ofour Lord? For all these objects were of past days, and of a distantcountry. Ten years ago I bade them good-by; since my fourteenth yearthey and I had never met. I gasped audibly, "Where am I?"

A shape hitherto unnoticed, stirred, rose, came forward: a shapeinharmonious with the environment, serving only to complicate theriddle further. This was no more than a sort of native bonne, in acommon-place bonne's cap and print-dress. She spoke neither French norEnglish, and I could get no intelligence from her, not understandingher phrases of dialect. But she bathed my temples and forehead withsome cool and perfumed water, and then she heightened the cushion onwhich I reclined, made signs that I was not to speak, and resumed herpost at the foot of the sofa. 

She was busy knitting; her eyes thus drawn from me, I could gaze onher without interruption. I did mightily wonder how she came there, orwhat she could have to do among the scenes, or with the days of mygirlhood. Still more I marvelled what those scenes and days could nowhave to do with me. 

Too weak to scrutinize thoroughly the mystery, I tried to settle it bysaying it was a mistake, a dream, a fever-fit; and yet I knew therecould be no mistake, and that I was not sleeping, and I believed I wassane. I wished the room had not been so well lighted, that I might notso clearly have seen the little pictures, the ornaments, the screens, the worked chair. All these objects, as well as the blue-damaskfurniture, were, in fact, precisely the same, in every minutestdetail, with those I so well remembered, and with which I had been sothoroughly intimate, in the drawing-room of my godmother's house atBretton. Methought the apartment only was changed, being of differentproportions and dimensions. 

I thought of Bedreddin Hassan, transported in his sleep from Cairo tothe gates of Damascus. Had a Genius stooped his dark wing down thestorm to whose stress I had succumbed, and gathering me from thechurch-steps, and "rising high into the air, " as the eastern talesaid, had he borne me over land and ocean, and laid me quietly downbeside a hearth of Old England? But no; I knew the fire of that hearthburned before its Lares no more--it went out long ago, and thehousehold gods had been carried elsewhere. 

The bonne turned again to survey me, and seeing my eyes wide open, and, I suppose, deeming their expression perturbed and excited, sheput down her knitting. I saw her busied for a moment at a littlestand; she poured out water, and measured drops from a phial: glass inhand, she approached me. What dark-tinged draught might she now beoffering? what Genii-elixir or Magi-distillation?

It was too late to inquire--I had swallowed it passively, and at once. A tide of quiet thought now came gently caressing my brain; softer andsofter rose the flow, with tepid undulations smoother than balm. Thepain of weakness left my limbs, my muscles slept. I lost power tomove; but, losing at the same time wish, it was no privation. Thatkind bonne placed a screen between me and the lamp; I saw her rise todo this, but do not remember seeing her resume her place: in theinterval between the two acts, I "fell on sleep. "

 * * * * *

At waking, lo! all was again changed. The light of high day surroundedme; not, indeed, a warm, summer light, but the leaden gloom of raw andblustering autumn. I felt sure now that I was in the pensionnat--sureby the beating rain on the casement; sure by the "wuther" of windamongst trees, denoting a garden outside; sure by the chill, thewhiteness, the solitude, amidst which I lay. I say _whiteness_--for the dimity curtains, dropped before a French bed, bounded my view. 

I lifted them; I looked out. My eye, prepared to take in the range ofa long, large, and whitewashed chamber, blinked baffled, onencountering the limited area of a small cabinet--a cabinet withseagreen walls; also, instead of five wide and naked windows, therewas one high lattice, shaded with muslin festoons: instead of twodozen little stands of painted wood, each holding a basin and an ewer, there was a toilette-table dressed, like a lady for a ball, in a whiterobe over a pink skirt; a polished and large glass crowned, and apretty pin-cushion frilled with lace, adorned it. This toilette, together with a small, low, green and white chintz arm-chair, awashstand topped with a marble slab, and supplied with utensils ofpale greenware, sufficiently furnished the tiny chamber. 

Reader; I felt alarmed! Why? you will ask. What was there in thissimple and somewhat pretty sleeping-closet to startle the most timid?Merely this--These articles of furniture could not be real, solid arm-chairs, looking-glasses, and washstands--they must be the ghosts ofsuch articles; or, if this were denied as too wild an hypothesis--and, confounded as I was, I _did_ deny it--there remained but toconclude that I had myself passed into an abnormal state of mind; inshort, that I was very ill and delirious: and even then, mine was thestrangest figment with which delirium had ever harassed a victim. 

I knew--I was obliged to know--the green chintz of that little chair;the little snug chair itself, the carved, shining-black, foliatedframe of that glass; the smooth, milky-green of the china vessels onthe stand; the very stand too, with its top of grey marble, splinteredat one corner;--all these I was compelled to recognise and to hail, aslast night I had, perforce, recognised and hailed the rosewood, thedrapery, the porcelain, of the drawing-room. 

Bretton! Bretton! and ten years ago shone reflected in that mirror. And why did Bretton and my fourteenth year haunt me thus? Why, if theycame at all, did they not return complete? Why hovered before mydistempered vision the mere furniture, while the rooms and thelocality were gone? As to that pincushion made of crimson satin, ornamented with gold beads and frilled with thread-lace, I had thesame right to know it as to know the screens--I had made it myself. Rising with a start from the bed, I took the cushion in my hand andexamined it. There was the cipher "L. L. B. " formed in gold beds, andsurrounded with an oval wreath embroidered in white silk. These werethe initials of my godmother's name--Lonisa Lucy Bretton. 

"Am I in England? Am I at Bretton?" I muttered; and hastily pulling upthe blind with which the lattice was shrouded, I looked out to try anddiscover _where_ I was; half-prepared to meet the calm, old, handsome buildings and clean grey pavement of St. Ann's Street, and tosee at the end the towers of the minster: or, if otherwise, fullyexpectant of a town view somewhere, a rue in Villette, if not a streetin a pleasant and ancient English city. 

I looked, on the contrary, through a frame of leafage, clusteringround the high lattice, and forth thence to a grassy mead-like level, a lawn-terrace with trees rising from the lower ground beyond--highforest-trees, such as I had not seen for many a day. They were nowgroaning under the gale of October, and between their trunks I tracedthe line of an avenue, where yellow leaves lay in heaps and drifts, orwere whirled singly before the sweeping west wind. Whatever landscapemight lie further must have been flat, and these tall beeches shut itout. The place seemed secluded, and was to me quite strange: I did notknow it at all. 

Once more I lay down. My bed stood in a little alcove; on turning myface to the wall, the room with its bewildering accompaniments becameexcluded. Excluded? No! For as I arranged my position in this hope, behold, on the green space between the divided and looped-up curtains, hung a broad, gilded picture-frame enclosing a portrait. It was drawn--well drawn, though but a sketch--in water-colours; a head, a boy'shead, fresh, life-like, speaking, and animated. It seemed a youth ofsixteen, fair-complexioned, with sanguine health in his cheek; hairlong, not dark, and with a sunny sheen; penetrating eyes, an archmouth, and a gay smile. On the whole a most pleasant face to look at, especially for, those claiming a right to that youth's affections--parents, for instance, or sisters. Any romantic little school-girlmight almost have loved it in its frame. Those eyes looked as if whensomewhat older they would flash a lightning-response to love: I cannottell whether they kept in store the steady-beaming shine of faith. Forwhatever sentiment met him in form too facile, his lips menaced, beautifully but surely, caprice and light esteem. 

Striving to take each new discovery as quietly as I could, I whisperedto myself--

"Ah! that portrait used to hang in the breakfast-room, over themantel-piece: somewhat too high, as I thought. I well remember how Iused to mount a music-stool for the purpose of unhooking it, holdingit in my hand, and searching into those bonny wells of eyes, whoseglance under their hazel lashes seemed like a pencilled laugh; andwell I liked to note the colouring of the cheek, and the expression ofthe mouth. " I hardly believed fancy could improve on the curve of thatmouth, or of the chin; even _my_ ignorance knew that both werebeautiful, and pondered perplexed over this doubt: "How it was thatwhat charmed so much, could at the same time so keenly pain?" Once, byway of test, I took little Missy Home, and, lifting her in my arms, told her to look at the picture. 

"Do you like it, Polly?" I asked. She never answered, but gazed long, and at last a darkness went trembling through her sensitive eye, asshe said, "Put me down. " So I put her down, saying to myself: "Thechild feels it too. "

All these things do I now think over, adding, "He had his faults, yetscarce ever was a finer nature; liberal, suave, impressible. " Myreflections closed in an audibly pronounced word, "Graham!"

"Graham!" echoed a sudden voice at the bedside. "Do you want Graham?"

I looked. The plot was but thickening; the wonder but culminating. Ifit was strange to see that well-remembered pictured form on the wall, still stranger was it to turn and behold the equally well-rememberedliving form opposite--a woman, a lady, most real and substantial, tall, well-attired, wearing widow's silk, and such a cap as bestbecame her matron and motherly braids of hair. Hers, too, was a goodface; too marked, perhaps, now for beauty, but not for sense orcharacter. She was little changed; something sterner, something morerobust--but she was my godmother: still the distinct vision of Mrs. Bretton. 

I kept quiet, yet internally _I_ was much agitated: my pulsefluttered, and the blood left my cheek, which turned cold. 

"Madam, where am I?" I inquired. 

"In a very safe asylum; well protected for the present; make your mindquite easy till you get a little better; you look ill this morning. "

"I am so entirely bewildered, I do not know whether I can trust mysenses at all, or whether they are misleading me in every particular:but you speak English, do you not, madam?"

"I should think you might hear that: it would puzzle me to hold a longdiscourse in French. "

"You do not come from England?"

"I am lately arrived thence. Have you been long in this country? Youseem to know my son?"

"Do, I, madam? Perhaps I do. Your son--the picture there?"

"That is his portrait as a youth. While looking at it, you pronouncedhis name. "

"Graham Bretton?"

She nodded. 

"I speak to Mrs. Bretton, formerly of Bretton, ----shire?"

"Quite right; and you, I am told, are an English teacher in a foreignschool here: my son recognised you as such. "

"How was I found, madam, and by whom?"

"My son shall tell you that by-and-by, " said she; "but at present youare too confused and weak for conversation: try to eat some breakfast, and then sleep. "

Notwithstanding all I had undergone--the bodily fatigue, theperturbation of spirits, the exposure to weather--it seemed that I wasbetter: the fever, the real malady which had oppressed my frame, wasabating; for, whereas during the last nine days I had taken no solidfood, and suffered from continual thirst, this morning, on breakfastbeing offered, I experienced a craving for nourishment: an inwardfaintness which caused me eagerly to taste the tea this lady offered, and to eat the morsel of dry toast she allowed in accompaniment. Itwas only a morsel, but it sufficed; keeping up my strength till sometwo or three hours afterwards, when the bonne brought me a little cupof broth and a biscuit. 

As evening began to darken, and the ceaseless blast still blew wildand cold, and the rain streamed on, deluge-like, I grew weary--veryweary of my bed. The room, though pretty, was small: I felt itconfining: I longed for a change. The increasing chill and gatheringgloom, too, depressed me; I wanted to see--to feel firelight. Besides, I kept thinking of the son of that tall matron: when should I see him?Certainly not till I left my room. 

At last the bonne came to make my bed for the night. She prepared towrap me in a blanket and place me in the little chintz chair; but, declining these attentions, I proceeded to dress myself:

The business was just achieved, and I was sitting down to take breath, when Mrs. Bretton once more appeared. 

"Dressed!" she exclaimed, smiling with that smile I so well knew--apleasant smile, though not soft. "You are quite better then? Quitestrong--eh?"

She spoke to me so much as of old she used to speak that I almostfancied she was beginning to know me. There was the same sort ofpatronage in her voice and manner that, as a girl, I had alwaysexperienced from her--a patronage I yielded to and even liked; it wasnot founded on conventional grounds of superior wealth or station (inthe last particular there had never been any inequality; her degreewas mine); but on natural reasons of physical advantage: it was theshelter the tree gives the herb. I put a request without furtherceremony. 

"Do let me go down-stairs, madam; I am so cold and dull here. "

"I desire nothing better, if you are strong enough to bear thechange, " was her reply. "Come then; here is an arm. " And she offeredme hers: I took it, and we descended one flight of carpeted steps to alanding where a tall door, standing open, gave admission into theblue-damask room. How pleasant it was in its air of perfect domesticcomfort! How warm in its amber lamp-light and vermilion fire-flush! Torender the picture perfect, tea stood ready on the table--an Englishtea, whereof the whole shining service glanced at me familiarly; fromthe solid silver urn, of antique pattern, and the massive pot of thesame metal, to the thin porcelain cups, dark with purple and gilding. I knew the very seed-cake of peculiar form, baked in a peculiar mould, which always had a place on the tea-table at Bretton. Graham liked it, and there it was as of yore--set before Graham's plate with the silverknife and fork beside it. Graham was then expected to tea: Graham wasnow, perhaps, in the house; ere many minutes I might see him. 

"Sit down--sit down, " said my conductress, as my step faltered alittle in passing to the hearth. She seated me on the sofa, but I soonpassed behind it, saying the fire was too hot; in its shade I foundanother seat which suited me better. Mrs. Bretton was never wont tomake a fuss about any person or anything; without remonstrance shesuffered me to have my own way. She made the tea, and she took up thenewspaper. I liked to watch every action of my godmother; all hermovements were so young: she must have been now above fifty, yetneither her sinews nor her spirit seemed yet touched by the rust ofage. Though portly, she was alert, and though serene, she was at timesimpetuous--good health and an excellent temperament kept her green asin her spring. 

While she read, I perceived she listened--listened for her son. Shewas not the woman ever to confess herself uneasy, but there was yet nolull in the weather, and if Graham were out in that hoarse wind--roaring still unsatisfied--I well knew his mother's heart would be outwith him. 

"Ten minutes behind his time, " said she, looking at her watch; then, in another minute, a lifting of her eyes from the page, and a slightinclination of her head towards the door, denoted that she heard somesound. Presently her brow cleared; and then even my ear, lesspractised, caught the iron clash of a gate swung to, steps on gravel, lastly the door-bell. He was come. His mother filled the teapot fromthe urn, she drew nearer the hearth the stuffed and cushioned bluechair--her own chair by right, but I saw there was one who might withimpunity usurp it. And when that _one_ came up the stairs--whichhe soon did, after, I suppose, some such attention to the toilet asthe wild and wet night rendered necessary, and strode straight in--

"Is it you, Graham?" said his mother, hiding a glad smile and speakingcurtly. 

"Who else should it be, mamma?" demanded the Unpunctual, possessinghimself irreverently of the abdicated throne. 

"Don't you deserve cold tea, for being late?"

"I shall not get my deserts, for the urn sings cheerily. "

"Wheel yourself to the table, lazy boy: no seat will serve you butmine; if you had one spark of a sense of propriety, you would alwaysleave that chair for the Old Lady. "

"So I should; only the dear Old Lady persists in leaving it for me. How is your patient, mamma?"

"Will she come forward and speak for herself?" said Mrs. Bretton, turning to my corner; and at this invitation, forward I came. Grahamcourteously rose up to greet me. He stood tall on the hearth, a figurejustifying his mother's unconcealed pride. 

"So you are come down, " said he; "you must be better then--muchbetter. I scarcely expected we should meet thus, or here. I wasalarmed last night, and if I had not been forced to hurry away to adying patient, I certainly would not have left you; but my motherherself is something of a doctress, and Martha an excellent nurse. Isaw the case was a fainting-fit, not necessarily dangerous. Whatbrought it on, I have yet to learn, and all particulars; meantime, Itrust you really do feel better?"

"Much better, " I said calmly. "Much better, I thank you, Dr. John. "

For, reader, this tall young man--this darling son--this host of mine--this Graham Bretton, _was_ Dr. John: he, and no other; and, whatis more, I ascertained this identity scarcely with surprise. What ismore, when I heard Graham's step on the stairs, I knew what manner offigure would enter, and for whose aspect to prepare my eyes. Thediscovery was not of to-day, its dawn had penetrated my perceptionslong since. Of course I remembered young Bretton well; and though tenyears (from sixteen to twenty-six) may greatly change the boy as theymature him to the man, yet they could bring no such utter differenceas would suffice wholly to blind my eyes, or baffle my memory. Dr. John Graham Bretton retained still an affinity to the youth ofsixteen: he had his eyes; he had some of his features; to wit, all theexcellently-moulded lower half of the face; I found him out soon. Ifirst recognised him on that occasion, noted several chapters back, when my unguardedly-fixed attention had drawn on me the mortificationof an implied rebuke. Subsequent observation confirmed, in everypoint, that early surmise. I traced in the gesture, the port, and thehabits of his manhood, all his boy's promise. I heard in his now deeptones the accent of former days. Certain turns of phrase, peculiar tohim of old, were peculiar to him still; and so was many a trick of eyeand lip, many a smile, many a sudden ray levelled from the irid, underhis well-charactered brow. 

To _say_ anything on the subject, to _hint_ at my discovery, had not suited my habits of thought, or assimilated with my system offeeling. On the contrary, I had preferred to keep the matter tomyself. I liked entering his presence covered with a cloud he had notseen through, while he stood before me under a ray of specialillumination which shone all partial over his head, trembled about hisfeet, and cast light no farther. 

Well I knew that to him it could make little difference, were I tocome forward and announce, "This is Lucy Snowe!" So I kept back in myteacher's place; and as he never asked my name, so I never gave it. Heheard me called "Miss, " and "Miss Lucy;" he never heard the surname, "Snowe. " As to spontaneous recognition--though I, perhaps, was stillless changed than he--the idea never approached his mind, and whyshould I suggest it?

During tea, Dr. John was kind, as it was his nature to be; that mealover, and the tray carried out, he made a cosy arrangement of thecushions in a corner of the sofa, and obliged me to settle amongstthem. He and his mother also drew to the fire, and ere we had sat tenminutes, I caught the eye of the latter fastened steadily upon me. Women are certainly quicker in some things than men. 

"Well, " she exclaimed, presently, "I have seldom seen a strongerlikeness! Graham, have you observed it?"

"Observed what? What ails the Old Lady now? How you stare, mamma! Onewould think you had an attack of second sight. "

"Tell me, Graham, of whom does that young lady remind you?" pointingto me. 

"Mamma, you put her out of countenance. I often tell you abruptness isyour fault; remember, too, that to you she is a stranger, and does notknow your ways. "

"Now, when she looks down; now, when she turns sideways, who is shelike, Graham?"

"Indeed, mamma, since you propound the riddle, I think you ought tosolve it!"

"And you have known her some time, you say--ever since you first beganto attend the school in the Rue Fossette:--yet you never mentioned tome that singular resemblance!"

"I could not mention a thing of which I never thought, and which I donot now acknowledge. What _can_ you mean?"

"Stupid boy! look at her. "

Graham did look: but this was not to be endured; I saw how it mustend, so I thought it best to anticipate. 

"Dr. John, " I said, "has had so much to do and think of, since he andI shook hands at our last parting in St. Ann's Street, that, while Ireadily found out Mr. Graham Bretton, some months ago, it neveroccurred to me as possible that he should recognise Lucy Snowe. "

"Lucy Snowe! I thought so! I knew it!" cried Mrs. Bretton. And she atonce stepped across the hearth and kissed me. Some ladies would, perhaps, have made a great bustle upon such a discovery without beingparticularly glad of it; but it was not my godmother's habit to make abustle, and she preferred all sentimental demonstrations in bas-relief. So she and I got over the surprise with few words and a singlesalute; yet I daresay she was pleased, and I know I was. While werenewed old acquaintance, Graham, sitting opposite, silently disposedof his paroxysm of astonishment. 

"Mamma calls me a stupid boy, and I think I am so, " at length he said;"for, upon my honour, often as I have seen you, I never once suspectedthis fact: and yet I perceive it all now. Lucy Snowe! To be sure! Irecollect her perfectly, and there she sits; not a doubt of it. But, "he added, "you surely have not known me as an old acquaintance allthis time, and never mentioned it. "

"That I have, " was my answer. 

Dr. John commented not. I supposed he regarded my silence aseccentric, but he was indulgent in refraining from censure. I daresay, too, he would have deemed it impertinent to have interrogated me veryclosely, to have asked me the why and wherefore of my reserve; and, though he might feel a little curious, the importance of the case wasby no means such as to tempt curiosity to infringe on discretion. 

For my part, I just ventured to inquire whether he remembered thecircumstance of my once looking at him very fixedly; for the slightannoyance he had betrayed on that occasion still lingered sore on mymind. 

"I think I do!" said he: "I think I was even cross with you. "

"You considered me a little bold; perhaps?" I inquired. 

"Not at all. Only, shy and retiring as your general manner was, Iwondered what personal or facial enormity in me proved so magnetic toyour usually averted eyes. "

"You see how it was now?"

"Perfectly. "

And here Mrs. Bretton broke in with many, many questions about pasttimes; and for her satisfaction I had to recur to gone-by troubles, toexplain causes of seeming estrangement, to touch on single-handedconflict with Life, with Death, with Grief, with Fate. Dr. Johnlistened, saying little. He and she then told me of changes they hadknown: even with them all had not gone smoothly, and fortune hadretrenched her once abundant gifts. But so courageous a mother, withsuch a champion in her son, was well fitted to fight a good fight withthe world, and to prevail ultimately. Dr. John himself was one ofthose on whose birth benign planets have certainly smiled. Adversitymight set against him her most sullen front: he was the man to beather down with smiles. Strong and cheerful, and firm and courteous; notrash, yet valiant; he was the aspirant to woo Destiny herself, and towin from her stone eyeballs a beam almost loving. 

In the profession he had adopted, his success was now quite decided. Within the last three months he had taken this house (a small château, they told me, about half a league without the Porte de Crécy); thiscountry site being chosen for the sake of his mother's health, withwhich town air did not now agree. Hither he had invited Mrs. Bretton, and she, on leaving England, had brought with her such residuefurniture of the former St. Ann's Street mansion as she had thoughtfit to keep unsold. Hence my bewilderment at the phantoms of chairs, and the wraiths of looking-glasses, tea-urns, and teacups. 

As the clock struck eleven, Dr. John stopped his mother. 

"Miss Snowe must retire now, " he said; "she is beginning to look verypale. To-morrow I will venture to put some questions respecting thecause of her loss of health. She is much changed, indeed, since lastJuly, when I saw her enact with no little spirit the part of a verykilling fine gentleman. As to last night's catastrophe, I am surethereby hangs a tale, but we will inquire no further this evening. Good-night, Miss Lucy. "

And so he kindly led me to the door, and holding a wax-candle, lightedme up the one flight of stairs. 

When I had said my prayers, and when I was undressed and laid down, Ifelt that I still had friends. Friends, not professing vehementattachment, not offering the tender solace of well-matched andcongenial relationship; on whom, therefore, but moderate demand ofaffection was to be made, of whom but moderate expectation formed; buttowards whom my heart softened instinctively, and yearned with animportunate gratitude, which I entreated Reason betimes to check. 

"Do not let me think of them too often, too much, too fondly, " Iimplored: "let me be content with a temperate draught of this livingstream: let me not run athirst, and apply passionately to its welcomewaters: let me not imagine in them a sweeter taste than earth'sfountains know. Oh! would to God I may be enabled to feel enoughsustained by an occasional, amicable intercourse, rare, brief, unengrossing and tranquil: quite tranquil!"

Still repeating this word, I turned to my pillow; and _still_repeating it, I steeped that pillow with tears. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

LA TERRASSE. 

These struggles with the natural character, the strong native bent ofthe heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the end they do good. They tend, however slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, thatturn which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps, too oftenopposes: they certainly make a difference in the general tenour of alife, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable, quieter onthe surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze will fall. As to what lies below, leave that with God. Man, your equal, weak asyou, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence: take it toyour Maker--show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave--ask Him howyou are to bear the pains He has appointed--kneel in His presence, andpray with faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteousweakness, for patience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not _your_ hour, the waiting waters will stir; in_some_ shape, though perhaps not the shape you dreamed, whichyour heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald willdescend, the cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the possessedwill be led to bathe. Herald, come quickly! Thousands lie round thepool, weeping and despairing, to see it, through slow years, stagnant. Long are the "times" of Heaven: the orbits of angel messengers seemwide to mortal vision; they may enring ages: the cycle of onedeparture and return may clasp unnumbered generations; and dust, kindling to brief suffering life, and through pain, passing back todust, may meanwhile perish out of memory again, and yet again. To howmany maimed and mourning millions is the first and sole angelvisitant, him easterns call Azrael!

I tried to get up next morning, but while I was dressing, and atintervals drinking cold water from the _carafe_ on my washstand, with design to brace up that trembling weakness which made dressing sodifficult, in came Mrs. Bretton. 

"Here is an absurdity!" was her morning accost. "Not so, " she added, and dealing with me at once in her own brusque, energetic fashion--that fashion which I used formerly to enjoy seeing applied to her son, and by him vigorously resisted--in two minutes she consigned mecaptive to the French bed. 

"There you lie till afternoon, " said she. "My boy left orders beforehe went out that such should be the case, and I can assure you my sonis master and must be obeyed. Presently you shall have breakfast. "

Presently she brought that meal--brought it with her own active hands--not leaving me to servants. She seated herself on the bed while Iate. Now it is not everybody, even amongst our respected friends andesteemed acquaintance, whom we like to have near us, whom we like towatch us, to wait on us, to approach us with the proximity of a nurseto a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sickroom, whose presence is there a solace: but all this was Mrs. Brettonto me; all this she had ever been. Food or drink never pleased me sowell as when it came through her hands. I do not remember the occasionwhen her entrance into a room had not made that room cheerier. Ournatures own predilections and antipathies alike strange. There arepeople from whom we secretly shrink, whom we would personally avoid, though reason confesses that they are good people: there are otherswith faults of temper, &c. , evident enough, beside whom we livecontent, as if the air about them did us good. My godmother's livelyblack eye and clear brunette cheek, her warm, prompt hand, her self-reliant mood, her decided bearing, were all beneficial to me as theatmosphere of some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her "theold lady;" it filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the alacrityand power of five-and-twenty still breathed from her and around her. 

"I would bring my work here, " she said, as she took from me theemptied teacup, "and sit with you the whole day, if that overbearingJohn Graham had not put his veto upon such a proceeding. 'Now, mamma, 'he said, when he went out, 'take notice, you are not to knock up yourgod-daughter with gossip, ' and he particularly desired me to keepclose to my own quarters, and spare you my fine company. He says, Lucy, he thinks you have had a nervous fever, judging from your look, --is that so?"

I replied that I did not quite know what my ailment had been, but thatI had certainly suffered a good deal especially in mind. Further, onthis subject, I did not consider it advisable to dwell, for thedetails of what I had undergone belonged to a portion of my existencein which I never expected my godmother to take a share. Into what anew region would such a confidence have led that hale, serene nature!The difference between her and me might be figured by that between thestately ship cruising safe on smooth seas, with its full complement ofcrew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident; and thelife-boat, which most days of the year lies dry and solitary in anold, dark boat-house, only putting to sea when the billows run high inrough weather, when cloud encounters water, when danger and deathdivide between them the rule of the great deep. No, the "LouisaBretton" never was out of harbour on such a night, and in such ascene: her crew could not conceive it; so the half-drowned life-boatman keeps his own counsel, and spins no yarns. 

She left me, and I lay in bed content: it was good of Graham toremember me before he went out. 

My day was lonely, but the prospect of coming evening abridged andcheered it. Then, too, I felt weak, and rest seemed welcome; and afterthe morning hours were gone by, --those hours which always bring, evento the necessarily unoccupied, a sense of business to be done, oftasks waiting fulfilment, a vague impression of obligation to beemployed--when this stirring time was past, and the silent descent ofafternoon hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the chambers, Ithen passed into a dreamy mood, not unpleasant. 

My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea. There wasno colour about it, except that white and pale green, suggestive offoam and deep water; the blanched cornice was adorned with shell-shaped ornaments, and there were white mouldings like dolphins in theceiling-angles. Even that one touch of colour visible in the red satinpincushion bore affinity to coral; even that dark, shining glass mighthave mirrored a mermaid. When I closed my eyes, I heard a gale, subsiding at last, bearing upon the house-front like a settling swellupon a rock-base. I heard it drawn and withdrawn far, far off, like atide retiring from a shore of the upper world--a world so high abovethat the rush of its largest waves, the dash of its fiercest breakers, could sound down in this submarine home, only like murmurs and alullaby. 

Amidst these dreams came evening, and then Martha brought a light;with her aid I was quickly dressed, and stronger now than in themorning, I made my way down to the blue saloon unassisted. 

Dr. John, it appears, had concluded his round of professional callsearlier than usual; his form was the first object that met my eyes asI entered the parlour; he stood in that window-recess opposite thedoor, reading the close type of a newspaper by such dull light asclosing day yet gave. The fire shone clear, but the lamp stood on thetable unlit, and tea was not yet brought up. 

As to Mrs. Bretton, my active godmother--who, I afterwards found, hadbeen out in the open air all day--lay half-reclined in her deep-cushioned chair, actually lost in a nap. Her son seeing me, cameforward. I noticed that he trod carefully, not to wake the sleeper; healso spoke low: his mellow voice never had any sharpness in it;modulated as at present, it was calculated rather to soothe thanstartle slumber. 

"This is a quiet little château, " he observed, after inviting me tosit near the casement. "I don't know whether you may have noticed itin your walks: though, indeed, from the chaussée it is not visible;just a mile beyond the Porte de Crécy, you turn down a lane which soonbecomes an avenue, and that leads you on, through meadow and shade, tothe very door of this house. It is not a modern place, but builtsomewhat in the old style of the Basse-Ville. It is rather a manoirthan a château; they call it 'La Terrasse, ' because its front risesfrom a broad turfed walk, whence steps lead down a grassy slope to theavenue. See yonder! The moon rises: she looks well through the tree-boles. "

Where, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb does not hallow? Rosy or fiery, she mounted now above a not distant bank; even while we watched herflushed ascent, she cleared to gold, and in very brief space, floatedup stainless into a now calm sky. Did moonlight soften or sadden Dr. Bretton? Did it touch him with romance? I think it did. Albeit of nosighing mood, he sighed in watching it: sighed to himself quietly. Noneed to ponder the cause or the course of that sigh; I knew it waswakened by beauty; I knew it pursued Ginevra. Knowing this, the ideapressed upon me that it was in some sort my duty to speak the name hemeditated. Of course he was ready for the subject: I saw in hiscountenance a teeming plenitude of comment, question and interest; apressure of language and sentiment, only checked, I thought, by senseof embarrassment how to begin. To spare him this embarrassment was mybest, indeed my sole use. I had but to utter the idol's name, andlove's tender litany would flow out. I had just found a fittingphrase, "You know that Miss Fanshawe is gone on a tour with theCholmondeleys, " and was opening my lips to speak to it, when hescattered my plans by introducing another theme. 

"The first thing this morning, " said he, putting his sentiment in hispocket, turning from the moon, and sitting down, "I went to the RueFossette, and told the cuisinière that you were safe and in goodhands. Do you know that I actually found that she had not yetdiscovered your absence from the house: she thought you safe in thegreat dormitory. With what care you must have been waited on!"

"Oh! all that is very conceivable, " said I. "Goton could do nothingfor me but bring me a little tisane and a crust of bread, and I hadrejected both so often during the past week, that the good woman gottired of useless journeys from the dwelling-house kitchen to theschool-dormitory, and only came once a day at noon to make my bed. Ibelieve, however, that she is a good-natured creature, and would havebeen delighted to cook me côtelettes de mouton, if I could have eatenthem. "

"What did Madame Beck mean by leaving you alone?"

"Madame Beck could not foresee that I should fall ill. "

"Your nervous system bore a good share of the suffering?"

"I am not quite sure what my nervous system is, but I was dreadfullylow-spirited. "

"Which disables me from helping you by pill or potion. Medicine cangive nobody good spirits. My art halts at the threshold ofHypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but canneither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you shouldbe as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise. "

Acquiescence and a pause followed these remarks. They sounded allright, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom, and the well-worn stamp of use. 

"Miss Snowe, " recommenced Dr. John--my health, nervous systemincluded, being now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with--"is it permitted me to ask what your religion is? Are you a Catholic?"

I looked up in some surprise--"A Catholic? No! Why suggest such anidea?"

"The manner in which you were consigned to me last night made medoubt. "

"I consigned to you? But, indeed, I forget. It yet remains for me tolearn how I fell into your hands. "

"Why, under circumstances that puzzled me. I had been in attendanceall day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and criticalcharacter; the disease being rare, and its treatment doubtful: I saw asimilar and still finer case in a hospital in Paris; but that will notinterest you. At last a mitigation of the patient's most urgentsymptoms (acute pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated me, and Iset out homeward. My shortest way lay through the Basse-Ville, and asthe night was excessively dark, wild, and wet, I took it. In ridingpast an old church belonging to a community of Béguines, I saw by alamp burning over the porch or deep arch of the entrance, a priestlifting some object in his arms. The lamp was bright enough to revealthe priest's features clearly, and I recognised him; he was a man Ihave often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and chiefly thelatter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better than most of hisclass in this country; superior, indeed, in every way, betterinformed, as well as more devoted to duty. Our eyes met; he called onme to stop: what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. Ialighted. 

"'This person is one of your countrywomen, ' he said: 'save her, if sheis not dead. '

"My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the English teacherat Madame Beck's pensionnat. She was perfectly unconscious, perfectlybloodless, and nearly cold. 

"'What does it all mean?' was my inquiry. 

"He communicated a curious account; that you had been to him thatevening at confessional; that your exhausted and suffering appearance, coupled with some things you had said--"

"Things I had said? I wonder what things!"

"Awful crimes, no doubt; but he did not tell me what: there, you know, the seal of the confessional checked his garrulity, and my curiosity. Your confidences, however, had not made an enemy of the good father;it seems he was so struck, and felt so sorry that you should he out onsuch a night alone, that he had esteemed it a Christian duty to watchyou when you quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sightof you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy manmight, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding some littleof the subtlety of his class: it might have been his resolve to learnthe locality of your home--did you impart that in your confession?"

"I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow of anyindication: and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you willthink me mad for taking such a step, but I could not help it: Isuppose it was all the fault of what you call my 'nervous system. ' Icannot put the case into words, but my days and nights were grownintolerable: a cruel sense of desolation pained my mind: a feelingthat would make its way, rush out, or kill me--like (and this you willunderstand, Dr. John) the current which passes through the heart, andwhich, if aneurism or any other morbid cause obstructs its naturalchannels, seeks abnormal outlet. I wanted companionship, I wantedfriendship, I wanted counsel. I could find none of these in closet orchamber, so I went and sought them in church and confessional. As towhat I said, it was no confidence, no narrative. I have done nothingwrong: my life has not been active enough for any dark deed, either ofromance or reality: all I poured out was a dreary, desperatecomplaint. "

"Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why, your calm natureis growing quite excitable! Confound Madame Beck! Has the little buxomwidow no bowels, to condemn her best teacher to solitary confinement?"

"It was not Madame Beck's fault, " said I; "it is no living being'sfault, and I won't hear any one blamed. "

"Who is in the wrong, then, Lucy?"

"Me--Dr. John--me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders Ilike to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: meand Fate. "

"'Me' must take better care in future, " said Dr. John--smiling, Isuppose, at my bad grammar. 

"Change of air--change of scene; those are my prescriptions, " pursuedthe practical young doctor. "But to return to our muttons, Lucy. Asyet, Père Silas, with all his tact (they say he is a Jesuit), is nowiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the RueFossette, your fevered wanderings--there must have been high fever--"

"No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night--now, don't make outthat I was delirious, for I know differently. "

"Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt. Yourwanderings had taken an opposite direction to the pensionnat. Near theBéguinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust, and in the perplexityof darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to yoursuccour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us weprocured a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would carry you up-stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He wouldcertainly have remained with you till suspended animation had beenrestored: and so should I, but, at that juncture, a hurried messengerarrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left--the last dutieswere called for--the physician's last visit and the priest's lastrite; extreme unction could not be deferred. Père Silas and myselfdeparted together, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gaveyou in charge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems shefollowed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?"

"Not yet, " said I, with a smile. "And never let Père Silas know whereI live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truestthanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him moneyfor his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ringfor tea. "

Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up--astonished and indignant atherself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fullyprepared to deny that she had slept at all--her son came gaily to theattack. 

"Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence inyour slumbers. "

"My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know Inever _do_ sleep by day: it was the slightest doze possible. "

"Exactly! a seraph's gentle lapse--a fairy's dream. Mamma, under suchcircumstances, you always remind me of Titania. "

"That is because you, yourself, are so like Bottom. "

"Miss Snowe--did you ever hear anything like mamma's wit? She is amost sprightly woman of her size and age. "

"Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect your ownsize: which seems to me a good deal on the increase. Lucy, has he notrather the air of an incipient John Bull? He used to be slender as aneel, and now I fancy in him a sort of heavy dragoon bent--a beef-eatertendency. Graham, take notice! If you grow fat I disown you. "

"As if you could not sooner disown your own personality! I amindispensable to the old lady's happiness, Lucy. She would pine awayin green and yellow melancholy if she had not my six feet of iniquityto scold. It keeps her lively--it maintains the wholesome ferment ofher spirits. "

The two were now standing opposite to each other, one on each side thefire-place; their words were not very fond, but their mutual looksatoned for verbal deficiencies. At least, the best treasure of Mrs. Bretton's life was certainly casketed in her son's bosom; her dearestpulse throbbed in his heart. As to him, of course another love sharedhis feelings with filial love, and, no doubt, as the new passion wasthe latest born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin's portion. Ginevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose feet her ownyoung idol had laid his homage? Would she approve that choice? I couldnot tell; but I could well guess that if she knew Miss Fanshawe'sconduct towards Graham: her alternations between coldness and coaxing, and repulse and allurement; if she could at all suspect the pain withwhich she had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had seen, hisfine spirits subdued and harassed, his inferior preferred before him, his subordinate made the instrument of his humiliation--_then_Mrs. Bretton would have pronounced Ginevra imbecile, or perverted, orboth. Well--I thought so too. 

That second evening passed as sweetly as the first--_more_sweetly indeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of thought; oldtroubles were not reverted to, acquaintance was better cemented; Ifelt happier, easier, more at home. That night--instead of cryingmyself asleep--I went down to dreamland by a pathway bordered withpleasant thoughts. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

WE QUARREL. 

During the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham never took aseat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the room approached thequarter where I sat, or looked pre-occupied, or more grave than usual, but I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from hislips. I kept my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tendertheme; my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and mysympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and ready foroutpouring. At last, and after a little inward struggle, which I sawand respected, he one day launched into the topic. It was introduceddelicately; anonymously as it were. 

"Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?"

"Friend, forsooth!" thought I to myself: but it would not do tocontradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment:friend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help askingwhom he meant?

He had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands on a reel ofthread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind. 

"Ginevra--Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tourthrough the south of France?"

"She has. "

"Do you and she correspond?"

"It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of makingapplication for that privilege. "

"You have seen letters of her writing?"

"Yes; several to her uncle. "

"They will not be deficient in wit and _naïveté_; there is somuch sparkle, and so little art in her soul?"

"She writes comprehensively enough when she writes to M. DeBassompierre: he who runs may read. " (In fact, Ginevra's epistles toher wealthy kinsman were commonly business documents, unequivocalapplications for cash. )

"And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I shouldthink?"

It was, and I said so. 

"I verily believe that all she does is well done, " said Dr. John; andas I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added "You, who know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?"

"She does several things very well. " ("Flirtation amongst the rest, "subjoined I, in thought. )

"When do you suppose she will return to town?" he soon inquired. 

"Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much inascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss Fanshawe I have not thefelicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans andsecrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere thanmine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance. "

He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar tohis own!

"Excuse her, " he said; "judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashionmisleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow, and will return to you with augmented attachment and confirmed trust. I know something of the Cholmondeleys: superficial, showy, selfishpeople; depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score ofsuch. "

"You are very kind, " I said briefly. 

A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, butI extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as thehumiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguishedMiss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission. 

"Yet, you see, " continued Graham, "while I comfort _you_, Icannot take the same consolation to myself; I cannot hope she will dome justice. De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her:wretched delusion!"

My patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. Isuppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle. 

"Dr. Bretton, " I broke out, "there is no delusion like your own. Onall points but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking, clear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. Ideclare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; norhave you mine. "

I got up, and left the room very much excited. 

This little scene took place in the morning; I had to meet him againin the evening, and then I saw I had done mischief. He was not made ofcommon clay, not put together out of vulgar materials; while theoutlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour, thedetails embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy: finer, muchfiner, than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could believeinherent in him, even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, till someover-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, theiracute sensibility, this elaborate construction must be ignored; andthe more especially because the sympathetic faculty was not prominentin him: to feel, and to seize quickly another's feelings, are separateproperties; a few constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. Johnhad the one in exquisite perfection; and because I have admitted thathe was not endowed with the other in equal degree, the reader willconsiderately refrain from passing to an extreme, and pronouncing him_un_sympathizing, unfeeling: on the contrary, he was a kind, generous man. Make your need known, his hand was open. Put your griefinto words, he turned no deaf ear. Expect refinements of perception, miracles of intuition, and realize disappointment. This night, whenDr. John entered the room, and met the evening lamp, I saw well and atone glance his whole mechanism. 

To one who had named him "slave, " and, on any point, banned him fromrespect, he must now have peculiar feelings. That the epithet was wellapplied, and the ban just, might be; he put forth no denial that itwas so: his mind even candidly revolved that unmanning possibility. Hesought in this accusation the cause of that ill-success which had gotso galling a hold on his mental peace: Amid the worry of a self-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold, bothto me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice, norancour, no littleness in his countenance, beautiful with a man's bestbeauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the table, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I handedhim his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said: "Thank you, Lucy, " in as kindly a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my earwelcomed. 

For my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I must expiate myculpable vehemence, or I must not sleep that night. This would not doat all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence of capacity to wagewar on this footing. School solitude, conventual silence andstagnation, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled with Dr. John. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or anyother fowl that flies, and mount straight up to the highest place, among the highest stars, where her lover's highest flight of fancychose to fix the constellation of her charms: never more be it mine todispute the arrangement. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again andagain that eye just met mine; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I was baffled. After tea, he sat, sad and quiet, reading a book. Iwished I could have dared to go and sit near him, but it seemed thatif I ventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostilityand indignation. I longed to speak out, and I dared not whisper. Hismother left the room; then, moved by insupportable regret, I justmurmured the words "Dr. Bretton. "

He looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent, hismouth was not cynical; he was ready and willing to hear what I mighthave to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow and generous to sourin one thunder-clap. 

"Dr. Bretton, forgive my hasty words: _do, do_ forgive them. "

He smiled that moment I spoke. "Perhaps I deserved them, Lucy. If youdon't respect me, I am sure it is because I am not respectable. Ifear, I am an awkward fool: I must manage badly in some way, for whereI wish to please, it seems I don't please. "

"Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case, is it thefault of your character, or of another's perceptions? But now, let meunsay what I said in anger. In one thing, and in all things, I deeplyrespect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much ofothers, what is that but an excellence?"

"Can I think too much of Ginevra?"

"_I_ believe you may; _you_ believe you can't. Let us agreeto differ. Let me be pardoned; that is what I ask. "

"Do you think I cherish ill-will for one warm word?"

"I see you do not and cannot; but just say, 'Lucy, I forgive you!' Saythat, to ease me of the heart-ache. "

"Put away your heart-ache, as I will put away mine; for you wounded mea little, Lucy. Now, when the pain is gone, I more than forgive: Ifeel grateful, as to a sincere well-wisher. "

"I _am_ your sincere well-wisher: you are right. "

Thus our quarrel ended. 

Reader, if in the course of this work, you find that my opinion of Dr. John undergoes modification, excuse the seeming inconsistency. I givethe feeling as at the time I felt it; I describe the view of characteras it appeared when discovered. 

He showed the fineness of his nature by being kinder to me after thatmisunderstanding than before. Nay, the very incident which, by mytheory, must in some degree estrange me and him, changed, indeed, somewhat our relations; but not in the sense I painfully anticipated. An invisible, but a cold something, very slight, very transparent, butvery chill: a sort of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our twolives, glazed the medium through which we exchanged intercourse. Thosefew warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on that frailfrost-work of reserve; about this time, it gave note of dissolution. Ithink from that day, so long as we continued friends, he never indiscourse stood on topics of ceremony with me. He seemed to know thatif he would but talk about himself, and about that in which he wasmost interested, my expectation would always be answered, my wishalways satisfied. It follows, as a matter of course, that I continuedto hear much of "Ginevra. "

"Ginevra!" He thought her so fair, so good; he spoke so lovingly ofher charms, her sweetness, her innocence, that, in spite of my plainprose knowledge of the reality, a kind of reflected glow began tosettle on her idea, even for me. Still, reader, I am free to confess, that he often talked nonsense; but I strove to be unfailingly patientwith him. I had had my lesson: I had learned how severe for me was thepain of crossing, or grieving, or disappointing him. In a strange andnew sense, I grew most selfish, and quite powerless to deny myself thedelight of indulging his mood, and being pliant to his will. He stillseemed to me most absurd when he obstinately doubted, and despondedabout his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe's preference. Thefancy became rooted in my own mind more stubbornly than ever, that shewas only coquetting to goad him, and that, at heart, she covetedeveryone of his words and looks. Sometimes he harassed me, in spite ofmy resolution to bear and hear; in the midst of the indescribablegall-honey pleasure of thus bearing and hearing, he struck so on theflint of what firmness I owned, that it emitted fire once and again. Ichanced to assert one day, with a view to stilling his impatience, that in my own mind, I felt positive Miss Fanshawe _must_ intendeventually to accept him. 

"Positive! It was easy to say so, but had I any grounds for suchassurance?"

"The best grounds. "

"Now, Lucy, _do_ tell me what!"

"You know them as well as I; and, knowing them, Dr. John, it reallyamazes me that you should not repose the frankest confidence in herfidelity. To doubt, under the circumstances, is almost to insult. "

"Now you are beginning to speak fast and to breathe short; but speak alittle faster and breathe a little shorter, till you have given anexplanation--a full explanation: I must have it. "

"You shall, Dr. John. In some cases, you are a lavish, generous man:you are a worshipper ever ready with the votive offering should PèreSilas ever convert _you_, you will give him abundance of alms forhis poor, you will supply his altar with tapers, and the shrine ofyour favourite saint you will do your best to enrich: Ginevra, Dr. John--"

"Hush!" said he, "don't go on. "

"Hush, I will _not_: and go on I _will_: Ginevra has had herhands filled from your hands more times than I can count. You havesought for her the costliest flowers; you have busied your brain indevising gifts the most delicate: such, one would have thought, asonly a woman could have imagined; and in addition, Miss Fanshawe ownsa set of ornaments, to purchase which your generosity must have vergedon extravagance. "

The modesty Ginevra herself had never evinced in this matter, nowflushed all over the face of her admirer. 

"Nonsense!" he said, destructively snipping a skein of silk with myscissors. "I offered them to please myself: I felt she did me a favourin accepting them. "

"She did more than a favour, Dr. John: she pledged her very honourthat she would make you some return; and if she cannot pay you inaffection, she ought to hand out a business-like equivalent, in theshape of some rouleaux of gold pieces. "

"But you don't understand her; she is far too disinterested to carefor my gifts, and too simple-minded to know their value. "

I laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every jewel its price; andwell I knew money-embarrassment, money-schemes; money's worth, andendeavours to realise supplies, had, young as she was, furnished themost frequent, and the favourite stimulus of her thoughts for years. 

He pursued. "You should have seen her whenever I have laid on her lapsome trifle; so cool, so unmoved: no eagerness to take, not evenpleasure in contemplating. Just from amiable reluctance to grieve me, she would permit the bouquet to lie beside her, and perhaps consent tobear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet on herivory arm, however pretty the trinket might be (and I always carefullychose what seemed to _me_ pretty, and what of course was notvalueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright eyes: she wouldhardly cast one look on my gift"

"Then, of course, not valuing it, she would unloose, and return it toyou?"

"No; for such a repulse she was too good-natured. She would consent toseem to forget what I had done, and retain the offering with lady-likequiet and easy oblivion. Under such circumstances, how can a man buildon acceptance of his presents as a favourable symptom? For my part, were I to offer her all I have, and she to take it, such is herincapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations, I should not ventureto believe the transaction advanced me one step. "

"Dr. John, " I began, "Love is blind;" but just then a blue subtle raysped sideways from Dr. John's eye: it reminded me of old days, itreminded me of his picture: it half led me to think that part, atleast, of his professed persuasion of Miss Fanshawe's _naïveté_was assumed; it led me dubiously to conjecture that perhaps, in spiteof his passion for her beauty, his appreciation of her foibles mightpossibly be less mistaken, more clear-sighted, than from his generallanguage was presumable. After all it might be only a chance look, orat best the token of a merely momentary impression. Chance orintentional real or imaginary, it closed the conversation. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CLEOPATRA. 

My stay at La Terrasse was prolonged a fortnight beyond the close ofthe vacation. Mrs. Bretton's kind management procured me this respite. Her son having one day delivered the dictum that "Lucy was not yetstrong enough to go back to that den of a pensionnat, " she at oncedrove over to the Rue Fossette, had an interview with the directress, and procured the indulgence, on the plea of prolonged rest and changebeing necessary to perfect recovery. Hereupon, however, followed anattention I could very well have dispensed with, viz--a polite callfrom Madame Beck. 

That lady--one fine day--actually came out in a fiacre as far as thechâteau. I suppose she had resolved within herself to see what mannerof place Dr. John inhabited. Apparently, the pleasant site and neatinterior surpassed her expectations; she eulogized all she saw, pronounced the blue salon "une pièce magnifique, " profuselycongratulated me on the acquisition of friends, "tellement dignes, aimables, et respectables, " turned also a neat compliment in myfavour, and, upon Dr. John coming in, ran up to him with the utmostbuoyancy, opening at the same time such a fire of rapid language, allsparkling with felicitations and protestations about his "château, "--"madame sa mère, la digne châtelaine:" also his looks; which, indeed, were very flourishing, and at the moment additionally embellished bythe good-natured but amused smile with which he always listened toMadame's fluent and florid French. In short, Madame shone in her verybest phase that day, and came in and went out quite a livingcatherine-wheel of compliments, delight, and affability. Halfpurposely, and half to ask some question about school-business, Ifollowed her to the carriage, and looked in after she was seated andthe door closed. In that brief fraction of time what a change had beenwrought! An instant ago, all sparkles and jests, she now sat sternerthan a judge and graver than a sage. Strange little woman!

I went back and teased Dr. John about Madame's devotion to him. How helaughed! What fun shone in his eyes as he recalled some of her finespeeches, and repeated them, imitating her voluble delivery! He had anacute sense of humour, and was the finest company in the world--whenhe could forget Miss Fanshawe. 

 * * * * *

To "sit in sunshine calm and sweet" is said to be excellent for weakpeople; it gives them vital force. When little Georgette Beck wasrecovering from her illness, I used to take her in my arms and walkwith her in the garden by the hour together, beneath a certain wallhung with grapes, which the Southern sun was ripening: that suncherished her little pale frame quite as effectually as it mellowedand swelled the clustering fruit. 

There are human tempers, bland, glowing, and genial, within whoseinfluence it is as good for the poor in spirit to live, as it is forthe feeble in frame to bask in the glow of noon. Of the number ofthese choice natures were certainly both Dr. Bretton's and hismother's. They liked to communicate happiness, as some like tooccasion misery: they did it instinctively; without fuss, andapparently with little consciousness; the means to give pleasure rosespontaneously in their minds. Every day while I stayed with them, somelittle plan was proposed which resulted in beneficial enjoyment. Fullyoccupied as was Dr. John's time, he still made it in his way toaccompany us in each brief excursion. I can hardly tell how he managedhis engagements; they were numerous, yet by dint of system, he classedthem in an order which left him a daily period of liberty. I often sawhim hard-worked, yet seldom over-driven, and never irritated, confused, or oppressed. What he did was accomplished with the ease andgrace of all-sufficing strength; with the bountiful cheerfulness ofhigh and unbroken energies. Under his guidance I saw, in that onehappy fortnight, more of Villette, its environs, and its inhabitants, than I had seen in the whole eight months of my previous residence. Hetook me to places of interest in the town, of whose names I had notbefore so much as heard; with willingness and spirit he communicates. Much noteworthy information. He never seemed to think it a trouble totalk to me, and, I am sure, it was never a task to me to listen. Itwas not his way to treat subjects coldly and vaguely; he rarelygeneralized, never prosed. He seemed to like nice details almost asmuch as I liked them myself: he seemed observant of character: andnot superficially observant, either. These points gave the quality ofinterest to his discourse; and the fact of his speaking direct fromhis own resources, and not borrowing or stealing from books--here adry fact, and there a trite phrase, and elsewhere a hackneyed opinion--ensured a freshness, as welcome as it was rare. Before my eyes, too, his disposition seemed to unfold another phase; to pass to a freshday: to rise in new and nobler dawn. 

His mother possessed a good development of benevolence, but he owned abetter and larger. I found, on accompanying him to the Basse-Ville--the poor and crowded quarter of the city--that his errands there wereas much those of the philanthropist as the physician. I understoodpresently that cheerfully, habitually, and in single-mindedunconsciousness of any special merit distinguishing his deeds--he wasachieving, amongst a very wretched population, a world of active good. The lower orders liked him well; his poor, patients in the hospitalswelcomed him with a sort of enthusiasm. 

But stop--I must not, from the faithful narrator, degenerate into thepartial eulogist. Well, full well, do I know that Dr. John was notperfect, anymore than I am perfect. Human fallibility leavened himthroughout: there was no hour, and scarcely a moment of the time Ispent with him that in act or speech, or look, he did not betraysomething that was not of a god. A god could not have the cruel vanityof Dr. John, nor his sometime levity. , No immortal could haveresembled him in his occasional temporary oblivion of all but thepresent--in his passing passion for that present; shown not coarsely, by devoting it to material indulgence, but selfishly, by extractingfrom it whatever it could yield of nutriment to his masculine self-love: his delight was to feed that ravenous sentiment, without thoughtof the price of provender, or care for the cost of keeping it sleekand high-pampered. 

The reader is requested to note a seeming contradiction in the twoviews which have been given of Graham Bretton--the public and private--the out-door and the in-door view. In the first, the public, he isshown oblivious of self; as modest in the display of his energies, asearnest in their exercise. In the second, the fireside picture, thereis expressed consciousness of what he has and what he is; pleasure inhomage, some recklessness in exciting, some vanity in receiving thesame. Both portraits are correct. 

It was hardly possible to oblige Dr. John quietly and in secret. Whenyou thought that the fabrication of some trifle dedicated to his usehad been achieved unnoticed, and that, like other men, he would use itwhen placed ready for his use, and never ask whence it came, he amazedyou by a smilingly-uttered observation or two, proving that his eyehad been on the work from commencement to close: that he had noted thedesign, traced its progress, and marked its completion. It pleased himto be thus served, and he let his pleasure beam in his eye and playabout his mouth. 

This would have been all very well, if he had not added to such kindlyand unobtrusive evidence a certain wilfulness in discharging what hecalled debts. When his mother worked for him, he paid her byshowering about her his bright animal spirits, with even moreaffluence than his gay, taunting, teasing, loving wont. If Lucy Snowewere discovered to have put her hand to such work, he planned, inrecompence, some pleasant recreation. 

I often felt amazed at his perfect knowledge of Villette; a knowledgenot merely confined to its open streets, but penetrating to all itsgalleries, salles, and cabinets: of every door which shut in an objectworth seeing, of every museum, of every hall, sacred to art orscience, he seemed to possess the "Open! Sesame. " I never had a headfor science, but an ignorant, blind, fond instinct inclined me to art. I liked to visit the picture-galleries, and I dearly liked to be leftthere alone. In company, a wretched idiosyncracy forbade me to seemuch or to feel anything. In unfamiliar company, where it wasnecessary to maintain a flow of talk on the subjects in presence, halfan hour would knock me up, with a combined pressure of physicallassitude and entire mental incapacity. I never yet saw the well-reared child, much less the educated adult, who could not put me toshame, by the sustained intelligence of its demeanour under the ordealof a conversable, sociable visitation of pictures, historical sightsor buildings, or any lions of public interest. Dr. Bretton was acicerone after my own heart; he would take me betimes, ere thegalleries were filled, leave me there for two or three hours, and callfor me when his own engagements were discharged. Meantime, I washappy; happy, not always in admiring, but in examining, questioning, and forming conclusions. In the commencement of these visits, therewas some misunderstanding and consequent struggle between Will andPower. The former faculty exacted approbation of that which it wasconsidered orthodox to admire; the latter groaned forth its utterinability to pay the tax; it was then self-sneered at, spurred up, goaded on to refine its taste, and whet its zest. The more it waschidden, however, the more it wouldn't praise. Discovering graduallythat a wonderful sense of fatigue resulted from these conscientiousefforts, I began to reflect whether I might not dispense with thatgreat labour, and concluded eventually that I might, and so sanksupine into a luxury of calm before ninety-nine out of a hundred ofthe exhibited frames. 

It seemed to me that an original and good picture was just as scarceas an original and good book; nor did I, in the end, tremble to say tomyself, standing before certain _chef-d'oeuvres_ bearing greatnames, "These are not a whit like nature. Nature's daylight never hadthat colour: never was made so turbid, either by storm or cloud, as itis laid out there, under a sky of indigo: and that indigo is notether; and those dark weeds plastered upon it are not trees. " Severalvery well executed and complacent-looking fat women struck me as by nomeans the goddesses they appeared to consider themselves. Many scoresof marvellously-finished little Flemish pictures, and also ofsketches, excellent for fashion-books displaying varied costumes inthe handsomest materials, gave evidence of laudable industrywhimsically applied. And yet there were fragments of truth here andthere which satisfied the conscience, and gleams of light that cheeredthe vision. Nature's power here broke through in a mountain snow-storm; and there her glory in a sunny southern day. An expression inthis portrait proved clear insight into character; a face in thathistorical painting, by its vivid filial likeness, startlinglyreminded you that genius gave it birth. These exceptions I loved: theygrew dear as friends. 

One day, at a quiet early hour, I found myself nearly alone in acertain gallery, wherein one particular picture of portentous size, set up in the best light, having a cordon of protection stretchedbefore it, and a cushioned bench duly set in front for theaccommodation of worshipping connoisseurs, who, having gazedthemselves off their feet, might be fain to complete the businesssitting: this picture, I say, seemed to consider itself the queen ofthe collection. 

It represented a woman, considerably larger, I thought, than the life. I calculated that this lady, put into a scale of magnitude, suitablefor the reception of a commodity of bulk, would infallibly turn fromfourteen to sixteen stone. She was, indeed, extremely well fed: verymuch butcher's meat--to say nothing of bread, vegetables, and liquids--must she have consumed to attain that breadth and height, that wealthof muscle, that affluence of flesh. She lay half-reclined on a couch:why, it would be difficult to say; broad daylight blazed round her;she appeared in hearty health, strong enough to do the work of twoplain cooks; she could not plead a weak spine; she ought to have beenstanding, or at least sitting bolt upright. She, had no business tolounge away the noon on a sofa. She ought likewise to have worn decentgarments; a gown covering her properly, which was not the case: out ofabundance of material--seven-and-twenty yards, I should say, ofdrapery--she managed to make inefficient raiment. Then, for thewretched untidiness surrounding her, there could be no excuse. Potsand pans--perhaps I ought to say vases and goblets--were rolled hereand there on the foreground; a perfect rubbish of flowers was mixedamongst them, and an absurd and disorderly mass of curtain upholsterysmothered the couch and cumbered the floor. On referring to thecatalogue, I found that this notable production bore the name"Cleopatra. "

Well, I was sitting wondering at it (as the bench was there, I thoughtI might as well take advantage of its accommodation), and thinkingthat while some of the details--as roses, gold cups, jewels, &c. , werevery prettily painted, it was on the whole an enormous piece ofclaptrap; the room, almost vacant when I entered, began to fill. Scarcely noticing this circumstance (as, indeed, it did not matter tome) I retained my seat; rather to rest myself than with a view tostudying this huge, dark-complexioned gipsy-queen; of whom, indeed, Isoon tired, and betook myself for refreshment to the contemplation ofsome exquisite little pictures of still life: wild-flowers, wild-fruit, mossy woodnests, casketing eggs that looked like pearls seenthrough clear green sea-water; all hung modestly beneath that coarseand preposterous canvas. 

Suddenly a light tap visited my shoulder. Starting, turning, I met aface bent to encounter mine; a frowning, almost a shocked face it was. 

"Que faites-vous ici?" said a voice. 

"Mais, Monsieur, je m'amuse. "

"Vous vous amusez! et à quoi, s'il vous plait? Mais d'abord, faites-moi le plaisir de vous lever; prenez mon bras, et allons de l'autrecôté. "

I did precisely as I was bid. M. Paul Emanuel (it was he) returnedfrom Rome, and now a travelled man, was not likely to be less tolerantof insubordination now, than before this added distinction laurelledhis temples. 

"Permit me to conduct you to your party, " said he, as we crossed theroom. 

"I have no party. "

"You are not alone?"

"Yes, Monsieur. "

"Did you come here unaccompanied?"

"No, Monsieur. Dr. Bretton brought me here. "

"Dr. Bretton and Madame his mother, of course?"

"No; only Dr. Bretton. "

"And he told you to look at _that_ picture?"

"By no means; I found it out for myself. "

M. Paul's hair was shorn close as raven down, or I think it would havebristled on his head. Beginning now to perceive his drift, I had acertain pleasure in keeping cool, and working him up. 

"Astounding insular audacity!" cried the Professor. "Singulièresfemmes que ces Anglaises!"

"What is the matter, Monsieur?"

"Matter! How dare you, a young person, sit coolly down, with the self-possession of a garçon, and look at _that_ picture?"

"It is a very ugly picture, but I cannot at all see why I should notlook at it"

"Bon! bon! Speak no more of it. But you ought not to be here alone. "

'If, however, I have no society--no _party_, as you say? Andthen, what does it signify whether I am alone, or accompanied? nobodymeddles with me. "

"Taisez-vous, et asseyez-vous là--là!"--setting down a chair withemphasis in a particularly dull corner, before a series of mostspecially dreary "cadres. "

"Mais, Monsieur?"

"Mais, Mademoiselle, asseyez-vous, et ne bougez pas--entendez-vous?--jusqu'à ce qu'on vienne vous chercher, ou que je vous donne lapermission. "

"Quel triste coin!" cried I, "et quelles laids tableaux!"

And "laids, " indeed, they were; being a set of four, denominated inthe catalogue "La vie d'une femme. " They were painted rather in aremarkable style--flat, dead, pale, and formal. The first representeda "Jeune Fille, " coming out of a church-door, a missal in her hand, her dress very prim, her eyes cast down, her mouth pursed up--theimage of a most villanous little precocious she-hypocrite. The second, a "Mariée, " with a long white veil, kneeling at a prie-dieu in herchamber, holding her hands plastered together, finger to finger, andshowing the whites of her eyes in a most exasperating manner. Thethird, a "Jeune Mère, " hanging disconsolate over a clayey and puffybaby with a face like an unwholesome full moon. The fourth, a "Veuve, "being a black woman, holding by the hand a black little girl, and thetwain studiously surveying an elegant French monument, set up in acorner of some Père la Chaise. All these four "Anges" were grim andgrey as burglars, and cold and vapid as ghosts. What women to livewith! insincere, ill-humoured, bloodless, brainless nonentities! Asbad in their way as the indolent gipsy-giantess, the Cleopatra, inhers. 

It was impossible to keep one's attention long confined to thesemaster-pieces, and so, by degrees, I veered round, and surveyed thegallery. 

A perfect crowd of spectators was by this time gathered round theLioness, from whose vicinage I had been banished; nearly half thiscrowd were ladies, but M. Paul afterwards told me, these were "desdames, " and it was quite proper for them to contemplate what no"demoiselle" ought to glance at. I assured him plainly I could notagree in this doctrine, and did not see the sense of it; whereupon, with his usual absolutism, he merely requested my silence, and also, in the same breath, denounced my mingled rashness and ignorance. Amore despotic little man than M. Paul never filled a professor'schair. I noticed, by the way, that he looked at the picture himselfquite at his ease, and for a very long while: he did not, however, neglect to glance from time to time my way, in order, I suppose, tomake sure that I was obeying orders, and not breaking bounds. By-and-by, he again accosted me. 

"Had I not been ill?" he wished to know: "he understood I had. "

"Yes, but I was now quite well. "

"Where had I spent the vacation?"

"Chiefly in the Rue Fossette; partly with Madame Bretton. "

"He had heard that I was left alone in the Rue Fossette; was that so?"

"Not quite alone: Marie Broc" (the crétin) "was with me. "

He shrugged his shoulders; varied and contradictory expressions playedrapidly over his countenance. Marie Broc was well known to M. Paul; henever gave a lesson in the third division (containing the leastadvanced pupils), that she did not occasion in him a sharp conflictbetween antagonistic impressions. Her personal appearance, herrepulsive manners, her often unmanageable disposition, irritated histemper, and inspired him with strong antipathy; a feeling he was tooapt to conceive when his taste was offended or his will thwarted. Onthe other hand, her misfortunes, constituted a strong claim on hisforbearance and compassion--such a claim as it was not in his natureto deny; hence resulted almost daily drawn battles between impatienceand disgust on the one hand, pity and a sense of justice on the other;in which, to his credit be it said, it was very seldom that the formerfeelings prevailed: when they did, however, M. Paul showed a phase ofcharacter which had its terrors. His passions were strong, hisaversions and attachments alike vivid; the force he exerted in holdingboth in check by no means mitigated an observer's sense of theirvehemence. With such tendencies, it may well be supposed he oftenexcited in ordinary minds fear and dislike; yet it was an error tofear him: nothing drove him so nearly frantic as the tremor of anapprehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed him likeconfidence tempered with gentleness. To evince these sentiments, however, required a thorough comprehension of his nature; and hisnature was of an order rarely comprehended. 

"How did you get on with Marie Broc?" he asked, after some minutes'silence. 

"Monsieur, I did my best; but it was terrible to be alone with her!"

"You have, then, a weak heart! You lack courage; and, perhaps, charity. Yours are not the qualities which might constitute a Sisterof Mercy. "

[He was a religious little man, in his way: the self-denying and self-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of hissoul. ]

"I don't know, indeed: I took as good care of her as I could; but whenher aunt came to fetch her away, it was a great relief. "

"Ah! you are an egotist. There are women who have nursed hospitals-fullof similar unfortunates. You could not do that?"

"Could Monsieur do it himself?"

"Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass; ourcoarse, fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform suchduties. "

"I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; butshe made mouths at me instead of speaking. "

"You think you did great things?"

"No; but as great as I _could_ do. "

"Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot you fellsick. "

"Not with that, Monsieur; I had a nervous fever: my mind was ill. "

"Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose. You are not cast in an heroicmould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude; itmerely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures ofCleopatra. "

It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone ofthe little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and hadno present disposition to begin. 

"Cleopatra!" I repeated, quietly. "Monsieur, too, has been looking atCleopatra; what does he think of her?"

"Cela ne vaut rien, " he responded. "Une femme superbe--une tailled'impératrice, des formes de Junon, mais une personne dont je nevoudrais ni pour femme, ni pour fille, ni pour soeur. Aussi vous nejeterez plus un seul coup d'oeil de sa côté. "

"But I have looked at her a great many times while Monsieur has beentalking: I can see her quite well from this corner. "

"Turn to the wall and study your four pictures of a woman's life. "

"Excuse me, M. Paul; they are too hideous: but if you admire them, allow me to vacate my seat and leave you to their contemplation. "

"Mademoiselle, " he said, grimacing a half-smile, or what he intendedfor a smile, though it was but a grim and hurried manifestation. "Younurslings of Protestantism astonish me. You unguarded Englishwomenwalk calmly amidst red-hot ploughshares and escape burning. I believe, if some of you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar's hottest furnace youwould issue forth untraversed by the smell of fire. "

"Will Monsieur have the goodness to move an inch to one side?"

"How! At what are you gazing now? You are not recognising anacquaintance amongst that group of jeunes gens?"

"I think so--Yes, I see there a person I know. "

In fact, I had caught a glimpse of a head too pretty to belong to anyother than the redoubted Colonel de Hamal. What a very finished, highly polished little pate it was! What a figure, so trim and natty!What womanish feet and hands! How daintily he held a glass to one ofhis optics! with what admiration he gazed upon the Cleopatra! andthen, how engagingly he tittered and whispered a friend at his elbow!Oh, the man of sense! Oh, the refined gentleman of superior taste andtact! I observed him for about ten minutes, and perceived that he wasexceedingly taken with this dusk and portly Venus of the Nile. So muchwas I interested in his bearing, so absorbed in divining his characterby his looks and movements, I temporarily forgot M. Paul; in theinterim a group came between that gentleman and me; or possibly hisscruples might have received another and worse shock from my presentabstraction, causing him to withdraw voluntarily: at any rate, when Iagain looked round, he was gone. 

My eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another anddissimilar figure, well seen amidst the crowd, for the height as wellas the port lent each its distinction. This way came Dr. John, invisage, in shape, in hue, as unlike the dark, acerb, and causticlittle professor, as the fruit of the Hesperides might be unlike thesloe in the wild thicket; as the high-couraged but tractable Arabianis unlike the rude and stubborn "sheltie. " He was looking for me, buthad not yet explored the corner where the schoolmaster had just putme. I remained quiet; yet another minute I would watch. 

He approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought he had apleasure in looking over his head; Dr. Bretton, too, gazed on theCleopatra. I doubt if it were to his taste: he did not simper like thelittle Count; his mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; withoutdemonstration he stepped aside, leaving room for others to approach. Isaw now that he was waiting, and, rising, I joined him. 

We took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it was very pleasantto take such a turn. I always liked dearly to hear what he had to sayabout either pictures or books; because without pretending to be aconnoisseur, he always spoke his thought, and that was sure to befresh: very often it was also just and pithy. It was pleasant also totell him some things he did not know--he listened so kindly, soteachably; unformalized by scruples lest so to bend his brighthandsome head, to gather a woman's rather obscure and stammeringexplanation, should imperil the dignity of his manhood. And when hecommunicated information in return, it was with a lucid intelligencethat left all his words clear graven on the memory; no explanation ofhis giving, no fact of his narrating, did I ever forget. 

As we left the gallery, I asked him what he thought of the Cleopatra(after making him laugh by telling him how Professor Emanuel had sentme to the right about, and taking him to see the sweet series ofpictures recommended to my attention. )

"Pooh!" said he. "My mother is a better-looking woman. I heard someFrench fops, yonder, designating her as 'le type du voluptueux;' ifso, I can only say, 'le voluptueux' is little to my liking. Comparethat mulatto with Ginevra!"

CHAPTER XX. 

THE CONCERT. 

One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my room, desired meto open my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without aword. 

"That will do, " said she, when she had turned them over. "You musthave a new one. "

She went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker. She had memeasured. "I mean, " said she, "to follow my own taste, and to have myown way in this little matter. "

Two days after came home--a pink dress!

"That is not for me, " I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almostas soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank. 

"We shall see whether it is for you or not, " rejoined my godmother, adding with her resistless decision: "Mark my words. You will wear itthis very evening. "

I thought I should not; I thought no human force should avail to putme into it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had notproved it. 

My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham toa concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grandaffair to be held in the large salle, or hall, of the principalmusical society. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoirewere to perform: it was to be followed by a lottery "au bénéfice despauvres;" and to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecourwere to be present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined attentionto costume as a compliment due to royalty: he also recommendedpunctual readiness by seven o'clock. 

About six, I was ushered upstairs. Without any force at all, I foundmyself led and influenced by another's will, unconsulted, unpersuaded, quietly overruled. In short, the pink dress went on, softened by somedrapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande tenue, andrequested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling;with more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o'clock struck; Dr. Bretton was come; my godmother and I went down. _She_ was clad inbrown velvet; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those foldsof grave, dark majesty! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway. 

"I _do_ hope he will not think I have been decking myself out todraw attention, " was my uneasy aspiration. 

"Here, Lucy, are some flowers, " said he, giving me a bouquet. He tookno further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile andsatisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear ofridicule. For the rest; the dress was made with extreme simplicity, guiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric andbright tint which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothingabsurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled. 

I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, canhardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or aconcert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity: I am not surethat I expected great pleasure from the concert, having but a veryvague notion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snugcomfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, thepleasure of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, thesight of the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolledalong the avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issuedforth to the open chaussée, the passage through the city gates, thelights there burning, the guards there posted, the pretence ofinspection, to which we there submitted, and which amused us so much--all these small matters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiarlyexhilarating charm. How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendshipdiffused about me, I know not: Dr. John and his mother were both intheir finest mood, contending animatedly with each other the wholeway, and as frankly kind to me as if I had been of their kin. 

Our way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streetsbrightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliantseemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of lifealong the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the RueFossette came across me--of the walled-in garden and school-house, andof the dark, vast "classes, " where, as at this very hour, it was mywont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high, blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader inthe refectory, monotonously exercised upon the "lecture pieuse. " Thusmust I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the futurestole with timely sobriety across the radiant present. 

By this time we had got into a current of carriages all tending in onedirection, and soon the front of a great illuminated building blazedbefore us. Of what I should see within this building, I had, as beforeintimated, but an imperfect idea; for no place of public entertainmenthad it ever been my lot to enter yet. 

We alighted under a portico where there was a great bustle and a greatcrowd, but I do not distinctly remember further details, until I foundmyself mounting a majestic staircase wide and easy of ascent, deeplyand softly carpeted with crimson, leading up to great doors closedsolemnly, and whose panels were also crimson-clothed. 

I hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back--Dr. John managed these points; roll back they did, however, and within wasdisclosed a hall--grand, wide, and high, whose sweeping circularwalls, and domed hollow ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus withnice art was it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting, andgarlandry, either bright, like gold burnished, or snow-white, likealabaster, or white and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves andspotless lilies: wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions placed, the sole colour employed was deep crimson. Pendentfrom the dome, flamed a mass that dazzled me--a mass, I thought, ofrock-crystal, sparkling with facets, streaming with drops, ablaze withstars, and gorgeously tinged with dews of gems dissolved, or fragmentsof rainbows shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for meit seemed the work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a huge, dark, cloudy hand--that of the Slave of the Lamp--were not hovering inthe lustrous and perfumed atmosphere of the cupola, guarding itswondrous treasure. 

We moved on--I was not at all conscious whither--but at some turn wesuddenly encountered another party approaching from the oppositedirection. I just now see that group, as it flashed--upon me for onemoment. A handsome middle-aged lady in dark velvet; a gentleman whomight be her son--the best face, the finest figure, I thought, I hadever seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle. 

I noted them all--the third person as well as the other two--and forthe fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receivingan impartial impression of their appearance. But the impression washardly felt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I faced agreat mirror, filling a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it:the party was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only timein my life, I enjoyed the "giftie" of seeing myself as others see me. No need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, a pang ofregret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful;it might have been worse. 

At last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view ofthat vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it wasfilled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that thewomen were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; andforeigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem toposses the art of appearing graceful in public: however blunt andboisterous those every-day and home movements connected with peignoirand papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head andarms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for galause--always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on withthe "parure. "

Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar styleof beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set, sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble isalmost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certainstill and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch paintersgive to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular butround, straight but stolid; and for their depth of expressionlesscalm, of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer atype. Women of this order need no ornament, and they seldom wear any;the smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast tothe smoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; therounded arm and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain. 

With one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture to beperfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deep, settled love shebore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proudimpotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veinsconducted no flow; placid lymph filled and almost obstructed herarteries. 

Such a Juno as I have described sat full in our view--a sort of markfor all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to themagnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, andbeauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding, which rose ather side. 

Observing that Dr. John's attention was much drawn towards her, Ientreated him in a low voice "for the love of heaven to shield wellhis heart. You need not fall in love with _that_ lady, " I said, "because, I tell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and shewould not love you again. "

"Very well, " said he, "and how do you know that the spectacle of hergrand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus tohomage? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant tomy emotions: but" (shrugging his shoulders) "you know nothing aboutthese things; I'll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I'm in adangerous way. "

"As if that interested me!" said Mrs. Bretton. 

"Alas! the cruelty of my lot!" responded her son. "Never man had amore unsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think thatsuch a calamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law. "

"If I don't, it is not for want of having that same calamity held overmy head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. 'Mamma, I am going to be married soon!' was the cry before you werewell out of jackets. "

"But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden, when you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob orEsau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of thesewhich are of the daughters of the land. "

"At your peril, John Graham! that is all. "

"This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealousold lady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in thepale blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with 'reflets satinés'as those of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were tobring that goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton, junior?"

"You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little château willnot contain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height, bulk, and circumference of that mighty doll in wood and wax, and kidand satin. "

"Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!"

"Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful chair should itbe for her: but hush, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use youreyes. "

During the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed fullat the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until thesemicircle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads, slopingfrom floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporaryplatform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was nowoverflowing with life; round two grand pianos, placed about thecentre, a white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while Grahamand his mother were engaged in discussing the belle in blue satin, andhad watched with interest the process of arraying and marshallingthem. Two gentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this virgin troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long hair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck'spensionnat, to give lessons to the few pupils whose parents were richenough to allow their daughters the privilege of his instructions;his name was M. Josef Emanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul:which potent personage was now visible in the person of the secondgentleman. 

M. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed sothoroughly in his element--standing conspicuous in presence of a wideand grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about onehundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest--soenergetic, so intent, and, above all, so of the foreigners thenresident in Villette. These took possession of the crimson benches;the ladies were seated; most of the men remained standing: their sablerank, lining the background, looked like a dark foil to the splendourdisplayed in front. Nor was this splendour without varying light andshade and gradation: the middle distance was filled with matrons invelvets and satins, in plumes and gems; the benches in the foreground, to the Queen's right hand, seemed devoted exclusively to young girls, the flower--perhaps, I should rather say, the bud--of Villettearistocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses, no velvet pile orsilken sheen purity, simplicity, and aërial grace reigned in thatvirgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms (I was goingto write _sylph_ forms, but that would have been quite untrue:several of these "jeunes filles, " who had not numbered more thansixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust and solid asthose of a stout Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)--fair forms robed inwhite, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven andangels. I knew a couple, at least, of these "rose et blanche"specimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck's late pupils--Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angélique: pupils who, during their lastyear at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whosebrains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they hadbeen under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them totranslate rationally a page of _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Alsoduring three months I had one of them for my vis-à-vis at table, andthe quantity of household bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she wouldhabitually consume at "second déjeuner" was a real world's wonder--tobe exceeded only by the fact of her actually pocketing slices shecould not eat. Here be truths--wholesome truths, too. 

I knew another of these seraphs--the prettiest, or, at any rate, theleast demure and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated bythe daughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking girl: both had entered in the suite of the British embassy. She (_i. E. _ my acquaintance) had a slight, pliant figure, not atall like the forms of the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was notclose-braided, like a shell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked_like_ hair, and waved from her head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and seemed full of a light-headed sort ofsatisfaction with herself and her position. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw Ginevra Fanshawe: he had becomeso quiet, he answered so briefly his mother's remarks, he so oftensuppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He had confessed a taste forthe pursuit of love under difficulties; here was full gratificationfor that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him from a sphere above hisown: he could not come near her; he was not certain that he could winfrom her a look. I watched to see if she would so far favour him. Ourseat was not far from the crimson benches; we must inevitably be seenthence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss Fanshawe's, and very soonthose optics of hers were upon us: at least, upon Dr. And Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight, not wishing tobe immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily at Dr. John, andthen she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute or twoafterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon theperformance commencing, her rambling attention was attracted to theplatform. 

On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have myimpressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while torecord them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. Theyoung ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, maderather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. JosefEmanuel stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact orinfluence of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, wouldcertainly have _compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselveswith heroism and self-possession. M. Paul would have placed thehysteric débutantes between two fires--terror of the audience, andterror of himself--and would have inspired them with the courage ofdesperation, by making the latter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this. 

Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulkylady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected me like thetricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it--how she made hervoice run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simpleScotch melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved memore deeply. 

Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a gooddeal in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequentlyapproaching his white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented abitter outcry against a certain "fausse Isabelle. " I thought he seemedespecially to solicit the Queen's sympathy; but, unless I amegregiously mistaken, her Majesty lent her attention rather with thecalm of courtesy than the earnestness of interest. This gentleman'sstate of mind was very harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up hismusical exposition of the same. 

Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening'sentertainment. There were present deputies from all the bestprovincial choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, nativeLabassecouriens. These worthies gave voice without mincing the mattertheir hearty exertions had at least this good result--the ear drankthence a satisfying sense of power. 

Through the whole performance--timid instrumental duets, conceitedvocal solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses--my attention gave butone eye and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently retainedin the service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease toquestion how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he wasamused or the contrary. At last he spoke. 

"And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet, " he said, inhis own cheerful tone. 

"I am quiet, " I said, "because I am so very, _very_ muchinterested: not merely with the music, but with everything about me. "

He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so muchequanimity and composure that I began to think he had really not seenwhat I had seen, and I whispered--"Miss Fanshawe is here: have younoticed her?"

"Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too?"

"Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?"

"Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra wasin _her_ train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ----'s train, who was in the Queen's train. If this were not one of the compactlittle minor European courts, whose very formalities are little moreimposing than familiarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homelinessin Sunday array, it would sound all very fine. "

"Ginevra saw you, I think?"

"So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since youwithdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a littlespectacle which you were spared. "

I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which waspresently given. 

"Miss Fanshawe, " he said, "has a companion with her--a lady of rank. Ihappen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me inprofessionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent, and I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimationby making a butt of her neighbours. "

"What neighbours?"

"Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural:nothing, I suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeoisdoctor; but my mother! I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip, and sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gaveme a most curious sensation?"

"Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra werein a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night, she would make noscruple of laughing at that mild, pensive Queen, or that melancholyKing. She is not actuated by malevolence, but sheer, heedless folly. To a feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred. "

"But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawein the light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not mydivinity--the angel of my career?"

"Hem! There was your mistake. "

"To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or assumed romance, there actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought herdivine. Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was notquite open with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with whichyou took it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of yourlights, I allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was that test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her beauty retained its fascination: three days--three hoursago, I was very much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphantin beauty, my emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, Ishould yet be the humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed at_me_, and, while wounding, she would not soon have alienated me:through myself, she could not in ten years have done what, in amoment, she has done through my mother. "

He held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and solittle sunshine in Dr. John's blue eye as just now. 

"Lucy, " he recommenced, "look well at my mother, and say, without fearor favour, in what light she now appears to you. "

"As she always does--an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally composed and cheerful. "

"So she seems to me--bless her! The merry may laugh _with_ mamma, but the weak only will laugh _at_ her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my consent, at least; nor without my--my scorn--my antipathy--my--"

He stopped: and it was time--for he was getting excited--more itseemed than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he hadwitnessed double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. Theglow of his complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curvewhich disdain gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new andstriking phase. Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave andserene, is not a pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort ofvindictive thrill which passed through his strong young frame. 

"Do I frighten you, Lucy?" he asked. 

"I cannot tell why you are so very angry. "

"For this reason, " he muttered in my ear. "Ginevra is neither a pureangel, nor a pure-minded woman. "

"Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her. "

"Too much for me. _I_ can see where _you_ are blind. Nowdismiss the subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I willassert that she is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself. "

"John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?"

They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all theprevious dialogue had taken place. 

"_You_ hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my studs, whichare genuine, against your paste brooch--"

"My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know that it is a stone ofvalue. "

"Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated in thebusiness. "

"I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen tobe acquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observedtwo of them pay you no small attention during the last half-hour. "

"I wish you would not observe them. "

"Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me?She is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive that her titterwill discomfit the old lady?"

"The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me thanten wives yet. "

"Don't be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have tocarry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverseyour last speech, and exclaim, 'Mother, ten wives could hardly beworse to me than you are!'"

 * * * * *

The concert over, the Lottery "au bénéfice des pauvres" came next: theinterval between was one of general relaxation, and the pleasantestimaginable stir and commotion. The white flock was cleared from theplatform; a busy throng of gentlemen crowded it instead, makingarrangements for the drawing; and amongst these--the busiest of all--re-appeared that certain well-known form, not tall but active, alivewith the energy and movement of three tall men. How M. Paul did work!How he issued directions, and, at the same time, set his own shoulderto the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants were at his beck to remove thepianos, &c. ; no matter, he must add to their strength his own. Theredundancy of his alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous: in mymind I both disapproved and derided most of this fuss. Yet, in themidst of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching, avoidperceiving a certain not disagreeable naïveté in all he did and said;nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of hisphysiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng oftamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of hisforehead, pale, broad, and full--the mobility of his most flexiblemouth. He lacked the calm of force, but its movement and its fire hesignally possessed. 

Meantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose and remainedstanding, for a change; some walked about, all talked and laughed. Thecrimson compartment presented a peculiarly animated scene. The longcloud of gentlemen, breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbowline of ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King andconversed with him. The Queen, leaving her chair, glided along therank of young ladies, who all stood up as she passed; and to each inturn I saw her vouchsafe some token of kindness--a gracious word, lookor smile. To the two pretty English girls, Lady Sara and GinevraFanshawe, she addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, andespecially the latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification. They were afterwards accosted by several ladies, and a little circleof gentlemen gathered round them; amongst these--the nearest toGinevra--stood the Count de Hamal. 

"This room is stiflingly hot, " said Dr. Bretton, rising with suddenimpatience. "Lucy--mother--will you come a moment to the fresh air?"

"Go with him, Lucy, " said Mrs. Bretton. "I would rather keep my seat. "

Willingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham's desire must takeprecedence of my own; I accompanied him. 

We found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem tofeel it; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spreadcloudless. I was wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on thepavement; in passing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye. 

"You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?"

"I was only fearing that you were grieved. "

"Not at all: so be of good cheer--as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, mypersuasion is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I may seem to droop for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment hasyet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful athome?"

"Generally. "

"I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady fora dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thankyou, Miss Fanshawe!" And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, andmade a mock reverence. 

"Yes, " he said, "I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts inten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bledfrom a mere puncture: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice. "

"You are angry just now, heated and indignant; you will think and feeldifferently to-morrow. "

"_I_ heated and indignant! You don't know me. On the contrary, the heat is gone: I am as cool as the night--which, by the way, may betoo cool for you. We will go back. "

"Dr. John, this is a sudden change. "

"Not it: or if it be, there are good reasons for it--two good reasons:I have told you one. But now let us re-enter. "

We did not easily regain our seats; the lottery was begun, and all wasexcited confusion; crowds blocked the sort of corridor along which wehad to pass: it was necessary to pause for a time. Happening to glanceround--indeed I half fancied I heard my name pronounced--I saw quitenear, the ubiquitous, the inevitable M. Paul. He was looking at megravely and intently: at me, or rather at my pink dress--sardoniccomment on which gleamed in his eye. Now it was his habit to indulgein strictures on the dress, both of the teachers and pupils, at MadameBeck's--a habit which the former, at least, held to be an offensiveimpertinence: as yet I had not suffered from it--my sombre dailyattire not being calculated to attract notice. I was in no mood topermit any new encroachment to-night: rather than accept his banter, Iwould ignore his presence, and accordingly steadily turned my face tothe sleeve of Dr. John's coat; finding in that same black sleeve aprospect more redolent of pleasure and comfort, more genial, morefriendly, I thought, than was offered by the dark little Professor'sunlovely visage. Dr. John seemed unconsciously to sanction thepreference by looking down and saying in his kind voice, "Ay, keepclose to my side, Lucy: these crowding burghers are no respecters ofpersons. "

I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence, mesmeric or otherwise--an influence unwelcome, displeasing, buteffective--I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone. No, therehe stood on the same spot, looking still, but with a changed eye; hehad penetrated my thought, and read my wish to shun him. The mockingbut not ill-humoured gaze was turned to a swarthy frown, and when Ibowed, with a view to conciliation, I got only the stiffest andsternest of nods in return. 

"Whom have you made angry, Lucy?" whispered Dr. Bretton, smiling. "Whois that savage-looking friend of yours?"

"One of the professors at Madame Beck's: a very cross little man. "

"He looks mighty cross just now: what have you done to him? What is itall about? Ah, Lucy, Lucy! tell me the meaning of this. "

"No mystery, I assure you. M. Emanuel is very exigeant, and because Ilooked at your coat-sleeve, instead of curtseying and dipping to him, he thinks I have failed in respect. "

"The little--" began Dr. John: I know not what more he would haveadded, for at that moment I was nearly thrown down amongst the feet ofthe crowd. M. Paul had rudely pushed past, and was elbowing his waywith such utter disregard to the convenience and security of allaround, that a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence. 

"I think he is what he himself would call 'méchant, '" said Dr. Bretton. I thought so, too. 

Slowly and with difficulty we made our way along the passage, and atlast regained our seats. The drawing of the lottery lasted nearly anhour; it was an animating and amusing scene; and as we each heldtickets, we shared in the alternations of hope and fear raised by eachturn of the wheel. Two little girls, of five and six years old, drewthe numbers: and the prizes were duly proclaimed from the platform. These prizes were numerous, though of small value. It so fell out thatDr. John and I each gained one: mine was a cigar-case, his a lady'shead-dress--a most airy sort of blue and silver turban, with astreamer of plumage on one side, like a snowy cloud. He wasexcessively anxious to make an exchange; but I could not be brought tohear reason, and to this day I keep my cigar-case: it serves, when Ilook at it, to remind me of old times, and one happy evening. 

Dr. John, for his part, held his turban at arm's length between hisfinger and thumb, and looked at it with a mixture of reverence andembarrassment highly provocative of laughter. The contemplation over, he was about coolly to deposit the delicate fabric on the groundbetween his feet; he seemed to have no shadow of an idea of thetreatment or stowage it ought to receive: if his mother had not cometo the rescue, I think he would finally have crushed it under his armlike an opera-hat; she restored it to the band-box whence it hadissued. 

Graham was quite cheerful all the evening, and his cheerfulness seemednatural and unforced. His demeanour, his look, is not easilydescribed; there was something in it peculiar, and, in its way, original. I read in it no common mastery of the passions, and a fundof deep and healthy strength which, without any exhausting effort, bore down Disappointment and extracted her fang. His manner, now, reminded me of qualities I had noticed in him when professionallyengaged amongst the poor, the guilty, and the suffering, in the Basse-Ville: he looked at once determined, enduring, and sweet-tempered. Whocould help liking him? _He_ betrayed no weakness which harassedall your feelings with considerations as to how its faltering must bepropped; from _him_ broke no irritability which startled calm andquenched mirth; _his_ lips let fall no caustic that burned to thebone; _his_ eye shot no morose shafts that went cold, and rusty, and venomed through your heart: beside him was rest and refuge--aroundhim, fostering sunshine. 

And yet he had neither forgiven nor forgotten Miss Fanshawe. Onceangered, I doubt if Dr. Bretton were to be soon propitiated--oncealienated, whether he were ever to be reclaimed. He looked at her morethan once; not stealthily or humbly, but with a movement of hardy, open observation. De Hamal was now a fixture beside her; Mrs. Cholmondeley sat near, and they and she were wholly absorbed in thediscourse, mirth, and excitement, with which the crimson seats were asmuch astir as any plebeian part of the hall. In the course of someapparently animated discussion, Ginevra once or twice lifted her handand arm; a handsome bracelet gleamed upon the latter. I saw that itsgleam flickered in Dr. John's eye--quickening therein a derisive, ireful sparkle; he laughed:----

"I think, " he said, "I will lay my turban on my wonted altar ofofferings; there, at any rate, it would be certain to find favour: nogrisette has a more facile faculty of acceptance. Strange! for afterall, I know she is a girl of family. "

"But you don't know her education, Dr. John, " said I. "Tossed aboutall her life from one foreign school to another, she may justlyproffer the plea of ignorance in extenuation of most of her faults. And then, from what she says, I believe her father and mother werebrought up much as she has been brought up. "

"I always understood she had no fortune; and once I had pleasure inthe thought, " said he. 

"She tells me, " I answered, "that they are poor at home; she alwaysspeaks quite candidly on such points: you never find her lying, asthese foreigners will often lie. Her parents have a large family: theyoccupy such a station and possess such connections as, in theiropinion, demand display; stringent necessity of circumstances andinherent thoughtlessness of disposition combined, have engenderedreckless unscrupulousness as to how they obtain the means ofsustaining a good appearance. This is the state of things, and theonly state of things, she has seen from childhood upwards. "

"I believe it--and I thought to mould her to something better: but, Lucy, to speak the plain truth, I have felt a new thing to-night, inlooking at her and de Hamal. I felt it before noticing theimpertinence directed at my mother. I saw a look interchanged betweenthem immediately after their entrance, which threw a most unwelcomelight on my mind. "

"How do you mean? You have been long aware of the flirtation they keepup?"

"Ay, flirtation! That might be an innocent girlish wile to lure on thetrue lover; but what I refer to was not flirtation: it was a lookmarking mutual and secret understanding--it was neither girlish norinnocent. No woman, were she as beautiful as Aphrodite, who could giveor receive such a glance, shall ever be sought in marriage by me: Iwould rather wed a paysanne in a short petticoat and high cap--and besure that she was honest. "

I could not help smiling. I felt sure he now exaggerated the case:Ginevra, I was certain, was honest enough, with all her giddiness. Itold him so. He shook his head, and said he would not be the man totrust her with his honour. 

"The only thing, " said I, "with which you may safely trust her. Shewould unscrupulously damage a husband's purse and property, recklesslytry his patience and temper: I don't think she would breathe, or letanother breathe, on his honour. "

"You are becoming her advocate, " said he. "Do you wish me to resume myold chains?"

"No: I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will longremain. Yet be, at the same time, just. "

"I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy. When once I am thoroughlyestranged, I cannot help being severe. But look! the King and Queenare rising. I like that Queen: she has a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is excessively tired; we shall never get the old lady home if westay longer. "

"I tired, John?" cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated andas wide-awake as her son. "I would undertake to sit you out yet: leaveus both here till morning, and we should see which would look the mostjaded by sunrise. "

"I should not like to try the experiment; for, in truth, mamma, youare the most unfading of evergreens and the freshest of matrons. Itmust then be on the plea of your son's delicate nerves and fragileconstitution that I found a petition for our speedy adjournment. "

"Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no doubt; and I supposeyou must be humoured. There is Lucy, too, looking quite done up. Forshame, Lucy! At your age, a week of evenings-out would not have mademe a shade paler. Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the oldlady as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge ofthe bandbox and turban. "

Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was shakenoff with kindly contempt: my godmother opined that I had enough to doto take care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now, in the midst ofthe gay "confusion worse confounded" succeeding to the King andQueen's departure, Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us alane through the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing his mother asthe most flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to seecharged with carriage of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark heraffection for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction thatshe intended one day to wear it. 

The night was now very cold and very dark, but with little delay wefound the carriage. Soon we were packed in it, as warm and as snug asat a fire-side; and the drive home was, I think, still pleasanter thanthe drive to the concert. Pleasant it was, even though the coachman--having spent in the shop of a "marchand de vin" a portion of the timewe passed at the concert--drove us along the dark and solitarychaussée far past the turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who wereoccupied in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberration till, atlast, Mrs. Bretton intimated that, though she had always thought thechâteau a retired spot, she did not know it was situated at theworld's end, as she declared seemed now to be the case, for shebelieved we had been an hour and a half en route, and had not yettaken the turn down the avenue. 

Then Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread fields, withunfamiliar rows of pollards and limes ranged along their elseinvisible sunk-fences, began to conjecture how matters were, andcalling a halt and descending, he mounted the box and took the reinshimself. Thanks to him, we arrived safe at home about an hour and ahalf beyond our time. 

Martha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning, and a neatsupper spread in the dining-room: we were glad of both. The winterdawn was actually breaking before we gained our chambers. I took offmy pink dress and lace mantle with happier feelings than I hadexperienced in putting them on. Not all, perhaps, who had shonebrightly arrayed at that concert could say the same; for not all hadbeen satisfied with friendship--with its calm comfort and modest hope. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

REACTION. 

Yet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. Ialmost numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would Ihave retarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them:they were already gone while I yet feared their departure. 

"Lucy will not leave us to-day, " said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly atbreakfast; "she knows we can procure a second respite. "

"I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word, " said I. "Ilong to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossetteagain. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packedand corded. "

It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had saidhe would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged allday, and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat ofwords. Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. Icould have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed toleave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe todescend: that is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, theycould not tell. On these points, mine was a state of mind out of theirexperience. 

It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck'sdoor. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it hadrained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such anight was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped atthis very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the veryshapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door atwhich I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I hadbriefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of thatrencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclinationto do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and bestkept there. 

Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was justthat period of the evening when the half-boarders took theirdeparture--consequently, Rosine was on the alert. 

"Don't come in, " said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that "the water stoodin my eyes, " for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly shownsuch signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal--to relieve--when, physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, inhis power. 

"Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as truefriends. We will not forget you. "

"Nor will I forget you, Dr. John. "

My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go, but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to contenthis generous impulses. 

"Lucy, "--stepping after me--"shall you feel very solitary here?"

"At first I shall. "

"Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I'll tellyou what I'll do. I'll write--just any cheerful nonsense that comesinto my head--shall I?"

"Good, gallant heart!" thought I to myself; but I shook my head, smiling, and said, "Never think of it: impose on yourself no suchtask. _You_ write to _me_!--you'll not have time. "

"Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!"

He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen--the pangwas experienced. 

Allowing myself no time to think or feel--swallowing tears as if theyhad been wine--I passed to Madame's sitting-room to pay the necessaryvisit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly well-acted cordiality--was even demonstrative, though brief, in herwelcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger Iproceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were nowassembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, Ithink, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory. 

"And will Graham really write?" I questioned, as I sank tired on theedge of the bed. 

Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long, dim chamber, whispered sedately--"He may write once. So kind is hisnature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it_cannot_ be continued--it _may_ not be repeated. Great werethat folly which should build on such a promise--insane that credulitywhich should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollowone draught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons. "

I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whisperedme, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching myear with the chill blue lips of eld. 

"If, " muttered she, "if he _should_ write, what then? Do youmeditate pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be youranswer. Hope no delight of heart--no indulgence of intellect: grant noexpansion to feeling--give holiday to no single faculty: dally with nofriendly exchange: foster no genial intercommunion.... "

"But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide, " I pleaded. 

"No, " said she, "I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. Youconverse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion ofinferiority--no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penurystamp your language.... "

"But, " I again broke in, "where the bodily presence is weak and thespeech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making writtenlanguage the medium of better utterance than faltering lips canachieve?"

Reason only answered, "At your peril you cherish that idea, or sufferits influence to animate any writing of yours!"

"But if I feel, may I _never_ express?"

"_Never!_" declared Reason. 

I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never--never--oh, hard word!This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope:she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a pieceof bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all lifeto despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at timesto defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour toImagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divineHope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite theterrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as adevil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I haveobeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not oflove. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage her stint, herchill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; butfor that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Oftenhas Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly hasshe vowed her stores held nothing more for me--harshly denied my rightto ask better things.... Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky ahead amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightestlent a ray sympathetic and attent. A spirit, softer and better thanHuman Reason, has descended with quiet flight to the waste--bringingall round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer; bringingperfume of flowers which cannot fade--fragrance of trees whose fruitis life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun tolighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweetand strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day; tenderly hasshe assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away life itself--kindly given rest to deadly weariness--generously lent hope andimpulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourableinfluence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thywhite and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples havebeen reared to the Sun--altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greaterglory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, toowide for walls, too high for dome--a temple whose floors are space--rites whose mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, theharmony of worlds!

Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army ofmartyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deityunquestioned, thine essence foils decay!

This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, andshe came with comfort: "Sleep, " she said. "Sleep, sweetly--I gild thydreams!"

She kept her word, and watched me through a night's rest; but at dawnReason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain wasdashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry atintervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in themiddle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whommental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of wakingsnatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant's gripe. How quickly Idressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, likeother dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin. 

Ere long the bell rang its _réveillée_ to the whole school. Beingdressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was litand the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, withthe nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but thebeginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintryblight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little whenI first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense ofcomfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside. 

Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deepargument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and herdecrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made foritself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties allweak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeyingthrough the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith--a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, andawe while they illumine--hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose riversare, perhaps, never to be, reached save in dying dreams, whose sweetpastures are to be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summitof a Nebo. 

By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wounditself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, itsthrobbings, and made me fit for the day's work. I lifted my head. 

As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wallbeneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat bothapartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was awindow, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, abrow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of thosetwo eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I hadnot till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I feltthem now. 

This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy wasat hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this malespy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwontedhour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No otherprofessor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bellrang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there wassome book of reference in the first-class library which he hadoccasion to consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed therefectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, andon each side of him: he had seen me through the little window--he nowopened the refectory door, and there he stood. 

"Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste. "

"Monsieur, j'en ai bien le droit. "

"Vous êtes malade de coeur et d'humeur, " he pursued. "You are at oncemournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know arehot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speakyou eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded whilewatching you?"

"Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time forconversation is very scant and brief at this hour--excuse----"

"I excuse everything, " he interrupted; "my mood is so meek, neitherrebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of ayoung she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixtureof fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in. "

Unwarrantable accost!--rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to ateacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seenhim vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his maliceshould find no gratification; I sat silent. 

"You look, " said he, "like one who would snatch at a draught of sweetpoison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust. 

"Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. Andto whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, denyits own delicious quality--sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quicklya pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life. "

"Yet, " said he, "you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if Ihad the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, Iwould, perhaps, break the very cup which held it. "

I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterlydispleased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, inmy present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command. 

"Come, " said he, more softly, "tell me the truth--you grieve at beingparted from friends--is it not so?"

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than theinquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat downon the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, forhim, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation--attemptsnecessarily unavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last Ientreated to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, thoughquietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till theclosing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. Thesetears proved a relief. 

I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appearedat that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite asjocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seatopposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinklinggleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to beshaken. Miss Fanshawe's travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed withher mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as roundas apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don't knowthat she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind ofcareless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaidedwith black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of herbloom, the golden beauty of her tresses. 

"I am glad you are come back, Timon, " said she. Timon was one of herdozen names for me. "You don't know how often I have wanted you inthis dismal hole. "

"Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have somethingfor me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps. " I never gave Ginevra aminute's or a farthing's credit for disinterestedness. 

"Crabbed and crusty as ever!" said she. "I expected as much: it wouldnot be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, Ihope you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are youdisposed to barter?"

"Take your own way. "

This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She didnot like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not beingstrong or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellentappetite, like any other healthy school-girl, for the morningpistolets or rolls, which were new-baked and very good, and of which acertain allowance was served to each. This allowance being more than Ineeded, I gave half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, thoughmany others used to covet the superfluity; and she in return wouldsometimes give me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad ofthe draught; hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don'tknow why I chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another;nor why, if two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes happened--for instance, when we took a long walk into thecountry, and halted for refreshment at a farm--I always contrived thatshe should be my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion'sshare, whether of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: soit was, however, and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangleddaily, we were never alienated. 

After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sitand read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the nine-o'clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush ofexternes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance onthat bustle and business to which, till five P. M. , there was no relax. 

I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door. 

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, " said a pensionnaire, entering gently; andhaving taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrewon tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, "Que mademoiselle estappliquée!"

Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, butI was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing. Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beckherself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used towarn me not to study too much, lest "the blood should all go to myhead. " Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that"Meess Lucie" was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel, who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, hadobtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and usedto take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign gleeover their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself aboutthis penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had greatpleasure in reading a few books, but not many: preferring always thoseon whose style or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainlystamped; flagging inevitably over characterless books, however cleverand meritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind wasconcerned, God had limited its powers and, its action--thankful, Itrust, for the gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture. 

The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, withouttap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have knownwho this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time toldwith wholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of myco-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment. When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt Germanwould clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotousLabassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards theplayground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the "Pas de Géant, " orto join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called "Un, deux, trois, " were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these littleattentions had ceased some time ago--ceased, too, without my findingit necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. Ihad now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from onequarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawemade no scruple of--at times--catching me as I was crossing the carré, whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying themental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. GinevraFanshawe it was who now broke in upon "my learned leisure. " Shecarried a huge music-book under her arm. 

"Go to your practising, " said I to her at once: "away with you to thelittle salon!"

"Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where youhave been spending your vacation, and how you have commencedsacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. Isaw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, likeanybody else. Who is your tailleuse?"

"Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!--a fiddlestick!Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don't want your company. "

"But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a littlereluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvrewith our gifted compatriote--the learned 'ourse Britannique. ' And so, Ourson, you know Isidore?"

"I know John Bretton. "

"Oh, hush!" (putting her fingers in her ears) "you crack my tympanumswith your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tellme about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to mybehaviour the other night? Wasn't I cruel?"

"Do you think I noticed you?"

"It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then towatch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady--my future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a littlerude in quizzing her. "

"Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don't make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive_your_ sneer. "

"She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell mewhat he said: I saw he was terribly cut up. "

"He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal. "

"Did he?" she cried with delight. "He noticed that? How charming! Ithought he would be mad with jealousy?"

"Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him togive you up?"

"Oh! you know he _can't_ do that: but wasn't he mad?"

"Quite mad, " I assented; "as mad as a March hare. "

"Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?"

"How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me?Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving betweenus, fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way. "

"You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe--"

"I assure you it is fact--and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would_not_ stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ rideoutside. "

"And afterwards?"

"Afterwards--when he _did_ reach home--the scene transcendsdescription. "

"Oh, but describe it--you know it is such fun!"

"Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but" (with stern gravity) you knowthe proverb--'What is sport to one may be death to another. '"

"Go on, there's a darling Timon. "

"Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart. "

"I have--such an immensity, you don't know!"

"Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Brettonrejecting his supper in the first instance--the chicken, thesweetbread prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then----but it is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowingdetails. Suffice it to say, that never, in the most stormy fits andmoments of his infancy, had his mother such work to tuck the sheetsabout him as she had that night. "

"He wouldn't lie still?"

"He wouldn't lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in, but the thing was to keep them tucked in. "

"And what did he say?"

"Say! Can't you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra, anathematizing that demon, de Hamal--raving about golden locks, blueeyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?"

"No, did he? He saw the bracelet?"

"Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for thefirst time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure hasencircled your arm. Ginevra" (rising, and changing my tone), "come, wewill have an end of this. Go away to your practising. "

And I opened the door. 

"But you have not told me all. "

"You had better not wait until I _do_ tell you all. Such extracommunicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!"

"Cross thing!" said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classewas my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice ofquittance from me. 

Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with herthan I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrastbetween the reality and my description--to remember Dr. John enjoyingthe drive home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to restwith Christian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappythat I felt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering. 

 * * * * *

A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness ofschool, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy ofcustom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré, on my way to the firstclasse, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of "style andliterature, " I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante. She always "stood at ease;" one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter, whereofMademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately studied theseal. 

A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brainin its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter lastnight. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether Ishould have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at thatwhite envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff fromDisappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the trampof her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of theProfessor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him. Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with theclass under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I shouldbe sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence itamidst the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel enteredwith his vehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundantbow, prophetic of choler. 

As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead offlashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his careerhalted midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look--such a look asmight have licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant--a look of scowling distrust. 

"Voilà! pour vous, " said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, andplacing on my desk a letter--the very letter I had seen in Rosine'shand--the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop's-eyeof vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on theretina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter ofmy hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, theransom from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantablyinterfering habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered ithimself. 

I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes:I held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, atleast, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial, satisfying. And here was the direction, "Miss Lucy Snowe, " in a clean, clear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftlydropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress ofinitials, "J. G. B. " I experienced a happy feeling--a glad emotionwhich went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins. Foronce a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solidjoy: not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowychances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannotlive; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable andpreternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surelyloathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildlypraying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and essence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither sweet hailnor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscious honey, Ihad lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter, nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarchdemanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of hislast breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who hadvouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, "Thank you, thankyou, Monsieur!"

Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, andstrode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though he had good points. 

Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at onceand with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every day?

I knew better. The cover with its address--the seal, with its threeclear letters--was bounty and abundance for the present. I stole fromthe room, I procured the key of the great dormitory, which was keptlocked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and tremblinglest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer, unlocked a box, and took out a case, and--having feasted my eyes withone more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shameand delight, to my lips--I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fairand inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up boxand drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange, sweet insanity! And this letter, the source of my joy, I hadnot yet read: did not yet know the number of its lines. 

When I re-entered the schoolroom, behold M. Paul raging like apestilence! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough tosuit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and hewas raving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as Iappeared, he fell on me. 

"Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess to teach them theconduct befitting ladies?--and did I permit and, he doubted not, encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, tomince and mash it between their teeth, as if they had some base causeto be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty? He knewbetter. It was a vile pseudo sentiment--the offspring or theforerunner of evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing, this mincing and grimacing, this, grinding of a noble tongue, thisgeneral affectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of thefirst class, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petitesmaîtresses, and confine himself to teaching the ABC to the babies ofthe third division. "

What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he wouldallow me to be silent. The storm recommenced. 

"Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed to beconsidered in _that_ place--that conceited boudoir of a firstclasse, with its pretentious book-cases, its green-baized desks, itsrubbish of flower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, andits foreign surveillante, forsooth!--it seemed to be the fashion tothink _there_ that the Professor of Literature was not worthy ofa reply! These were new ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straightfrom 'la Grande Bretagne:' they savoured of island insolence andarrogance. "

Lull the second--the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep atear for the rebukes of any other master, now all melting like snow-statues before the intemperate heat of M. Emanuel: I not yet muchshaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work. 

Something--either in my continued silence or in the movement of myhand, stitching--transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary ofpatience; he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near mydesk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from itshinges, the fuel was made to fly. 

"Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter?" said he to me, in alow, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arrangingthe fire. 

It was time to soothe him a little if possible. 

"Mais, Monsieur, " said I, "I would not insult you for the world. Iremember too well that you once said we should be friends. "

I did not intend my voice to falter, but it did: more, I think, through the agitation of late delight than in any spasm of presentfear. Still there certainly was something in M. Paul's anger--a kindof passion of emotion--that specially tended to draw tears. I was notunhappy, nor much afraid, yet I wept. 

"Allons, allons!" said he presently, looking round and seeing thedeluge universal. "Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have onlyone pocket-handkerchief, " he added, "but if I had twenty, I wouldoffer you each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss Lucy. "

And he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now aperson who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and hisimpulses, would naturally have bungled at this offer--declinedaccepting the same--et cetera. But I too plainly felt this would neverdo: the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipienttreaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received itwith decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, andretaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap, took especialcare during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle northimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul castat these implements; he hated them mortally, considering sewing asource of distraction from the attention due to himself. A veryeloquent lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to theclose. Ere he had done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shiningout--tears were exchanged for smiles. 

In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk. 

"And your letter?" said he, this time not quite fiercely. 

"I have not yet read it, Monsieur. "

"Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as, when I was aboy, I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?"

The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising warmth in my face from revealing as much. 

"You promise yourself a pleasant moment, " said he, "in reading thatletter; you will open it when alone--n'est-ce pas? Ah! a smileanswers. Well, well! one should not be too harsh; 'la jeunesse n'aqu'un temps. '"

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" I cried, or rather whispered after him, as heturned to go, "do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely afriend's letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that. "

"Je conçois, je conçois: on sait ce que c'est qu'un ami. Bonjour, Mademoiselle!"

"But, Monsieur, here is your handkerchief. "

"Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shallread the billet's tenor in your eyes. "

When he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of theschoolroom into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court totake their customary recreation before the five-o'clock dinner, Istood a moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief roundmy arm. For some reason--gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of thegolden glimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of itsbuoyancy, made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, aboveall, solaced at heart by the joyous consciousness of that treasure inthe case, box, drawer up-stairs, --I fell to playing with thehandkerchief as if it were a ball, casting it into the air andcatching it--as it fell. The game was stopped by another hand thanmine-a hand emerging from a paletôt-sleeve and stretched over myshoulder; it caught the extemporised plaything and bore it away withthese sullen words:

"Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets. "

Really that little man was dreadful: a mere sprite of caprice and, ubiquity: one never knew either his whim or his whereabout. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LETTER. 

When all was still in the house; when dinner was over and the noisyrecreation-hour past; when darkness had set in, and the quiet lamp ofstudy was lit in the refectory; when the externes were gone home, theclashing door and clamorous bell hushed for the evening; when Madamewas safely settled in the salle-à-manger in company with her motherand some friends; I then glided to the kitchen, begged a bougie forone half-hour for a particular occasion, found acceptance of mypetition at the hands of my friend Goton, who answered, "Maiscertainement, chou-chou, vous en aurez deux, si vous voulez;" and, light in hand, I mounted noiseless to the dormitory. 

Great was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil gone to bedindisposed, --greater when I recognised, amid the muslin nightcapborders, the "figure chiffonnée" of Mistress Ginevra Fanshawe; supineat this moment, it is true--but certain to wake and overwhelm me withchatter when the interruption would be least acceptable: indeed, as Iwatched her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids warned me that thepresent appearance of repose might be but a ruse, assumed to cover slyvigilance over "Timon's" movements; she was not to be trusted. And Ihad so wished to be alone, just to read my precious letter in peace. 

Well, I must go to the classes. Having sought and found my prize inits casket, I descended. Ill-luck pursued me. The classes wereundergoing sweeping and purification by candle-light, according tohebdomadal custom: benches were piled on desks, the air was dim withdust, damp coffee-grounds (used by Labassecourien housemaids insteadof tea-leaves) darkened the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled, but not beaten, I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever onfinding solitude _somewhere_. 

Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircasesin succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret. Here nonewould follow me--none interrupt--not Madame herself. I shut thegarret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and mouldy chest ofdrawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter;trembling with sweet impatience, I broke its seal. 

"Will it be long--will it be short?" thought I, passing my hand acrossmy eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave, south-windshower. 

It was long. 

"Will it be cool?--will it be kind?"

It was kind. 

To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind:to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than itwas. 

So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fulness ofdelight in this taste of fruition--such, perhaps, as many a humanbeing passes through life without ever knowing. The poor Englishteacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in thewintry air, a letter simply good-natured--nothing more; though thatgood-nature then seemed to me godlike--was happier than most queens inpalaces. 

Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet, while it lasted it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble--but a sweetbubble--of real honey-dew. Dr. John had written to me at length; hehad written to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood, dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before hiseyes and mine, --on places we had visited together--on conversations wehad held--on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last fewhalcyon weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a convictionthe blithe, genial language generously imparted, that it had beenpoured out not merely to content _me_--but to gratify _himself_. A gratification he might never more desire, never more seek--anhypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but _that_concerned the future. This present moment had no pain, no blot, no want;full, pure, perfect, it deeply blessed me. A passing seraph seemed to haverested beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed on its throb asoftening, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John, you pained meafterwards: forgiven be every ill--freely forgiven--for the sake of thatone dear remembered good!

Are there wicked things, not human, which envy human bliss? Are thereevil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man? What wasnear me?

Something in that vast solitary garret sounded strangely. Most surelyand certainly I heard, as it seemed, a stealthy foot on that floor: asort of gliding out from the direction of the black recess haunted bythe malefactor cloaks. I turned: my light was dim; the room was long--but as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a figureall black and white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the headbandaged, veiled, white. 

Say what you will, reader--tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that Iwas unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that Idreamed; this I vow--I saw there--in that room--on that night--animage like--a NUN. 

I cried out; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might haveswooned. It receded: I made for the door. How I descended all thestairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory, and shaped mycourse to Madame's sitting-room: I burst in. I said--

"There is something in the grenier; I have been there: I sawsomething. Go and look at it, all of you!"

I said, "All of you;" for the room seemed to me full of people, thoughin truth there were but four present: Madame Beck; her mother, MadameKint, who was out of health, and now staying with her on a visit; herbrother, M. Victor Kint, and another gentleman, who, when I enteredthe room, was conversing with the old lady, and had his back towardsthe door. 

My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I feltcold and shaking. They all rose in consternation; they surrounded me. I urged them to go to the grenier; the sight of the gentlemen did megood and gave me courage: it seemed as if there were some help andhope, with men at hand. I turned to the door, beckoning them tofollow. They wanted to stop me, but I said they must come this way:they must see what I had seen---something strange, standing in themiddle of the garret. And, now, I remembered my letter, left on thedrawers with the light. This precious letter! Flesh or spirit must bedefied for its sake. I flew up-stairs, hastening the faster as I knewI was followed: they were obliged to come. 

Lo! when I reached the garret-door, all within was dark as a pit: thelight was out. Happily some one--Madame, I think, with her usual calmsense--had brought a lamp from the room; speedily, therefore, as theycame up, a ray pierced the opaque blackness. There stood the bougiequenched on the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked for_that_ now, and not for the nun. 

"My letter! my letter!" I panted and plained, almost beside myself. Igroped on the floor, wringing my hands wildly. Cruel, cruel doom! Tohave my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me, ere I hadwell tasted its virtue!

I don't know what the others were doing; I could not watch them: theyasked me questions I did not answer; they ransacked all corners; theyprattled about this and that disarrangement of cloaks, a breach orcrack in the sky-light--I know not what. "Something or somebody hasbeen here, " was sagely averred. 

"Oh! they have taken my letter!" cried the grovelling, groping, monomaniac. 

"What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, what letter?" asked a known voice inmy ear. Could I believe that ear? No: and I looked up. Could I trustmy eyes? Had I recognised the tone? Did I now look on the face of thewriter of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dimgarret, John Graham--Dr. Bretton himself?

Yes: it was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe forsome access of illness in old Madame Kint; he was the second gentlemanpresent in the salle-à-manger when I entered. 

"Was it _my_ letter, Lucy?"

"Your own: yours--the letter you wrote to me. I had come here to readit quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible tohave it to myself. I had saved it all day--never opened it till thisevening: it was scarcely glanced over: I _cannot bear_ to loseit. Oh, my letter!"

"Hush! don't cry and distress yourself so cruelly. What is it worth?Hush! Come out of this cold room; they are going to send for thepolice now to examine further: we need not stay here--come, we will godown. "

A warm hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a room where therewas a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the stove. He talked to me andsoothed me with unutterable goodness, promising me twenty letters forthe one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep-inflicted lacerations never heal--cutting injuries and insults ofserrated and poison-dripping edge--so, too, there are consolations oftone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain theirecho: caressing kindnesses--loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmedshine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself. I havebeen told since that Dr. Bretton was not nearly so perfect as Ithought him: that his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed in my creed. I don't know: he wasas good to me as the well is to the parched wayfarer--as the sun tothe shivering jailbird. I remember him heroic. Heroic at this momentwill I hold him to be. 

He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much. Ithought, but did not say, that I prized it like the blood in my veins. I only answered that I had so few letters to care for. 

"I am sure you did not read it, " said he; "or you would think nothingof it!"

"I read it, but only once. I want to read it again. I am sorry it islost. " And I could not help weeping afresh. 

"Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such arelationship), here--_here_ is your letter. Why is it not betterworth such tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith?"

Curious, characteristic manoeuvre! His quick eye had seen the letteron the floor where I sought it; his hand, as quick, had snatched itup. He had hidden it in his waistcoat pocket. If my trouble hadwrought with a whit less stress and reality, I doubt whether he wouldever have acknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degreecooler than those I shed would only have amused Dr. John. 

Pleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for the teasingtorment; my joy was great; it could not be concealed: yet I think itbroke out more in countenance than language. I said little. 

"Are you satisfied now?" asked Dr. John. 

I replied that I was--satisfied and happy. 

"Well then, " he proceeded, "how do you feel physically? Are yougrowing calmer? Not much: for you tremble like a leaf still. "

It seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently calm: at least Ifelt no longer terrified. I expressed myself composed. 

"You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw? Your account wasquite vague, do you know? You looked white as the wall; but you onlyspoke of 'something, ' not defining _what_. Was it a man? Was itan animal? What was it?"

"I never will tell exactly what I saw, " said I, "unless some one elsesees it too, and then I will give corroborative testimony; butotherwise, I shall be discredited and accused of dreaming. "

"Tell me, " said Dr. Bretton; "I will hear it in my professionalcharacter: I look on you now from a professional point of view, and Iread, perhaps, all you would conceal--in your eye, which is curiouslyvivid and restless: in your cheek, which the blood has forsaken; inyour hand, which you cannot steady. Come, Lucy, speak and tell me. "

"You would laugh--?"

"If you don't tell me you shall have no more letters. "

"You are laughing now. "

"I will again take away that single epistle: being mine, I think Ihave a right to reclaim it. "

I felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet; but I foldedup the letter and covered it from sight. 

"You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose. You don'tknow my skill in sleight of hand; I might practise as a conjuror if Iliked. Mamma says sometimes, too, that I have a harmonizing propertyof tongue and eye; but you never saw that in me--did you, Lucy?"

"Indeed--indeed--when you were a mere boy I used to see both: far morethen than now--for now you are strong, and strength dispenses withsubtlety. But still, --Dr. John, you have what they call in thiscountry 'un air fin, ' that nobody can, mistake. Madame Beck saw it, and---"

"And liked it, " said he, laughing, "because she has it herself. But, Lucy, give me that letter--you don't really care for it"

To this provocative speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful moodmust not be humoured too far. Just now there was a new sort of smileplaying about his lips--very sweet, but it grieved me somehow--a newsort of light sparkling in his eyes: not hostile, but not reassuring. I rose to go--I bid him good-night a little sadly. 

His sensitiveness--that peculiar, apprehensive, detective faculty ofhis--felt in a moment the unspoken complaint--the scarce-thoughtreproach. He asked quietly if I was offended. I shook my head asimplying a negative. 

"Permit me, then, to speak a little seriously to you before you go. You are in a highly nervous state. I feel sure from what is apparentin your look and manner, however well controlled, that whilst alonethis evening in that dismal, perishing sepulchral garret--that dungeonunder the leads, smelling of damp and mould, rank with phthisis andcatarrh: a place you never ought to enter--that you saw, or_thought_ you saw, some appearance peculiarly calculated toimpress the imagination. I know that you _are_ not, nor everwere, subject to material terrors, fears of robbers, &c. --I am not sosure that a visitation, bearing a spectral character, would not shakeyour very mind. Be calm now. This is all a matter of the nerves, Isee: but just specify the vision. "

"You will tell nobody?"

"Nobody--most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly as you didPère Silas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer confessor of thetwo, though he has not grey hair. "

"You will not laugh?"

"Perhaps I may, to do you good: but not in scorn. Lucy, I feel as afriend towards you, though your timid nature is slow to trust. "

He now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and sparkle weregone; those formidable arched curves of lip, nostril, eyebrow, weredepressed; repose marked his attitude--attention sobered his aspect. Won to confidence, I told him exactly what I had seen: ere now I hadnarrated to him the legend of the house--whiling away with thatnarrative an hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when be and Irode through Bois l'Etang. 

He sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them all comingdown-stairs. 

"Are they going to interrupt?" said he, glancing at the door with anannoyed expression. 

"They will not come here, " I answered; for we were in the little salonwhere Madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chancethat heat was still lingering in the stove. They passed the door andwent on to the salle-à-manger. 

"Now, " he pursued, "they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so on:let them do so--mind you say nothing, and keep your resolution ofdescribing your nun to nobody. She may appear to you again: don'tstart. "

"You think then, " I said, with secret horror, "she came out of mybrain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out again at an hourand a day when I look not for her?"

"I think it a case of spectral illusion: I fear, following on andresulting from long-continued mental conflict. "

"Oh, Doctor John--I shudder at the thought of being liable to such anillusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cure?--no preventive?"

"Happiness is the cure--a cheerful mind the preventive: cultivateboth. "

No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of beingtold to _cultivate_ happiness. What does such advice mean?Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled withmanure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage ofParadise. 

"Cultivate happiness!" I said briefly to the doctor: "do _you_cultivate happiness? How do you manage?"

"I am a cheerful fellow by nature: and then ill-luck has never doggedme. Adversity gave me and my mother one passing scowl and brush, butwe defied her, or rather laughed at her, and she went by. ". 

"There is no cultivation in all this. "

"I do not give way to melancholy. "

"Yes: I have seen you subdued by that feeling. "

"About Ginevra Fanshawe--eh?"

"Did she not sometimes make you miserable?"

"Pooh! stuff! nonsense! You see I am better now. "

If a laughing eye with a lively light, and a face bright with beamingand healthy energy, could attest that he was better, better hecertainly was. 

"You do not look much amiss, or greatly out of condition, " I allowed. 

"And why, Lucy, can't you look and feel as I do--buoyant, courageous, and fit to defy all the nuns and flirts in Christendom? I would givegold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try themanoeuvre. "

"If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now?"

"I vow, Lucy, she should not move me: or, she should move me but byone thing--true, yes, and passionate love. I would accord forgivenessat no less a price. "

"Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a whilesince. "

"Transformed, Lucy: transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave!but I am a free man now!"

He stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, inhis beaming eye and mien, there revealed itself a liberty which wasmore than ease--a mood which was disdain of his past bondage. 

"Miss Fanshawe, " he pursued, "has led me through a phase of feelingwhich is over: I have entered another condition, and am now muchdisposed to exact love for love--passion for passion--and good measureof it, too. "

"Ah, Doctor! Doctor! you said it was your nature to pursue Love underdifficulties--to be charmed by a proud insensibility!". 

He laughed, and answered, "My nature varies: the mood of one hour issometimes the mockery of the next. Well, Lucy" (drawing on hisgloves), "will the Nun come again to-night, think you?"

"I don't think she will. "

"Give her my compliments, if she does--Dr. John's compliments--andentreat her to have the goodness to wait a visit from him. Lucy, wasshe a pretty nun? Had she a pretty face? You have not told me thatyet; and _that_ is the really important point. "

"She had a white cloth over her face, " said I, "but her eyesglittered. "

"Confusion to her goblin trappings!" cried he, irreverently: "but atleast she had handsome eyes--bright and soft. "

"Cold and fixed, " was the reply. 

"No, no, we'll none of her: she shall not haunt you, Lucy. Give herthat shake of the hand, if she comes again. Will she stand_that_, do you think?"

I thought it too kind and cordial for a ghost to stand: and so was thesmile which matched it, and accompanied his "Good-night. "

 * * * * *

And had there been anything in the garret? What did they discover? Ibelieve, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted tovery little. They talked, at first, of the cloaks being disturbed; butMadame Beck told me afterwards she thought they hung much as usual:and as for the broken pane in the skylight, she affirmed that aperturewas rarely without one or more panes broken or cracked: and besides, aheavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago. Madame questioned me veryclosely as to what I had seen, but I only described an obscure figureclothed in black: I took care not to breathe the word "nun, " certainthat this word would at once suggest to her mind an idea of romanceand unreality. She charged me to say nothing on the subject to anyservant, pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion incoming to her private salle-à-manger, instead of carrying the tale ofhorror to the school refectory. Thus the subject dropped. I was leftsecretly and sadly to wonder, in my own mind, whether that strangething was of this world, or of a realm beyond the grave; or whetherindeed it was only the child of malady, and I of that malady the prey. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

VASHTI. 

To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon mylife, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive adell, deep-hollowed in forest secresy; it lies in dimness and mist:its turf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe makesa wide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looksdown; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summerpours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky, which till now the starved hollow never saw. 

A new creed became mine--a belief in happiness. 

It was three weeks since the adventure of the garret, and I possessedin that case, box, drawer up-stairs, casketed with that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same firm pen, sealed withthe same clear seal, full of the same vital comfort. Vital comfort itseemed to me then: I read them in after years; they were kind lettersenough--pleasing letters, because composed by one well pleased; in thetwo last there were three or four closing lines half-gay, half-tender, "by _feeling_ touched, but not subdued. " Time, dear reader, mellowed them to a beverage of this mild quality; but when I firsttasted their elixir, fresh from the fount so honoured, it seemed juiceof a divine vintage: a draught which Hebe might fill, and the verygods approve. 

Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care toask how I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stintingcheck of Reason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?

To speak truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters: I boweddown in the houses of Rimmon, and lifted the heart at another shrine. I wrote to these letters two answers--one for my own relief, the otherfor Graham's perusal. 

To begin with: Feeling and I turned Reason out of doors, drew againsther bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread our paper, dipped in theink an eager pen, and, with deep enjoyment, poured out our sincereheart. When we had done--when two sheets were covered with thelanguage of a strongly-adherent affection, a rooted and activegratitude--(once, for all, in this parenthesis, I disclaim, with theutmost scorn, every sneaking suspicion of what are called "warmerfeelings:" women do not entertain these "warmer feelings" where, fromthe commencement, through the whole progress of an acquaintance, theyhave never once been cheated of the conviction that, to do so would beto commit a mortal absurdity: nobody ever launches into Love unless hehas seen or dreamed the rising of Hope's star over Love's troubledwaters)--when, then, I had given expression to a closely-clinging anddeeply-honouring attachment--an attachment that wanted to attract toitself and take to its own lot all that was painful in the destiny ofits object; that would, if it could, have absorbed and conducted awayall storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion ofsolicitude--then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart wouldshake, bolt and bar would yield, Reason would leap in vigorous andrevengeful, snatch the full sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and send a terse, curt missive of a page. She did right. 

I did not live on letters only: I was visited, I was looked after;once a week I was taken out to La Terrasse; always I was made much of. Dr. Bretton failed not to tell me _why_ he was so kind: "To keepaway the nun, " he said; "he was determined to dispute with her herprey. He had taken, " he declared, "a thorough dislike to her, chieflyon account of that white face-cloth, and those cold grey eyes: themoment he heard of those odious particulars, " he affirmed, "consummatedisgust had incited him to oppose her; he was determined to trywhether he or she was the cleverest, and he only wished she would oncemore look in upon me when he was present:" but _that_ she neverdid. In short, he regarded me scientifically in the light of apatient, and at once exercised his professional skill, and gratifiedhis natural benevolence, by a course of cordial and attentivetreatment. 

One evening, the first in December, I was walking by myself in thecarré; it was six o'clock; the classe-doors were closed; but within, the pupils, rampant in the licence of evening recreation, werecounterfeiting a miniature chaos. The carré was quite dark, except ared light shining under and about the stove; the wide glass-doors andthe long windows were frosted over; a crystal sparkle of starlight, here and there spangling this blanched winter veil, and breaking withscattered brilliance the paleness of its embroidery, proved it a clearnight, though moonless. That I should dare to remain thus alone indarkness, showed that my nerves were regaining a healthy tone: Ithought of the nun, but hardly feared her; though the staircase wasbehind me, leading up, through blind, black night, from landing tolanding, to the haunted grenier. Yet I own my heart quaked, my pulseleaped, when I suddenly heard breathing and rustling, and turning, sawin the deep shadow of the steps a deeper shadow still--a shape thatmoved and descended. It paused a while at the classe-door, and then itglided before me. Simultaneously came a clangor of the distant door-bell. Life-like sounds bring life-like feelings: this shape was tooround and low for my gaunt nun: it was only Madame Beck on duty. 

"Mademoiselle Lucy!" cried Rosine, bursting in, lamp in hand, from thecorridor, "on est là pour vous au salon. "

Madame saw me, I saw Madame, Rosine saw us both: there was no mutualrecognition. I made straight for the salon. There I found what I own Ianticipated I should find--Dr. Bretton; but he was in evening-dress. 

"The carriage is at the door, " said he; "my mother has sent it to takeyou to the theatre; she was going herself, but an arrival hasprevented her: she immediately said, 'Take Lucy in my place. ' Will yougo?"

"Just now? I am not dressed, " cried I, glancing despairingly at mydark merino. 

"You have half an hour to dress. I should have given you notice, but Ionly determined on going since five o'clock, when I heard there was tobe a genuine regale in the presence of a great actress. "

And he mentioned a name that thrilled me--a name that, in those days, could thrill Europe. It is hushed now: its once restless echoes areall still; she who bore it went years ago to her rest: night andoblivion long since closed above her; but _then_ her day--a dayof Sirius--stood at its full height, light and fervour. 

"I'll go; I will be ready in ten minutes, " I vowed. And away I flew, never once checked, reader, by the thought which perhaps at thismoment checks you: namely, that to go anywhere with Graham and withoutMrs. Bretton could be objectionable. I could not have conceived, muchless have expressed to Graham, such thought--such scruple--withoutrisk of exciting a tyrannous self-contempt: of kindling an inward fireof shame so quenchless, and so devouring, that I think it would soonhave licked up the very life in my veins. Besides, my godmother, knowing her son, and knowing me, would as soon have thought ofchaperoning a sister with a brother, as of keeping anxious guard overour incomings and outgoings. 

The present was no occasion for showy array; my dun mist crape wouldsuffice, and I sought the same in the great oak-wardrobe in thedormitory, where hung no less than forty dresses. But there had beenchanges and reforms, and some innovating hand had pruned this samecrowded wardrobe, and carried divers garments to the grenier--my crapeamongst the rest. I must fetch it. I got the key, and went aloftfearless, almost thoughtless. I unlocked the door, I plunged in. Thereader may believe it or not, but when I thus suddenly entered, thatgarret was not wholly dark as it should have been: from one pointthere shone a solemn light, like a star, but broader. So plainly itshone, that it revealed the deep alcove with a portion of thetarnished scarlet curtain drawn over it. Instantly, silently, beforemy eyes, it vanished; so did the curtain and alcove: all that end ofthe garret became black as night. I ventured no research; I had nottime nor will; snatching my dress, which hung on the wall, happilynear the door, I rushed out, relocked the door with convulsed haste, and darted downwards to the dormitory. 

But I trembled too much to dress myself: impossible to arrange hair orfasten hooks-and-eyes with such fingers, so I called Rosine and bribedher to help me. Rosine liked a bribe, so she did her best, smoothedand plaited my hair as well as a coiffeur would have done, placed thelace collar mathematically straight, tied the neck-ribbon accurately--in short, did her work like the neat-handed Phillis she could be whenshe those. Having given me my handkerchief and gloves, she took thecandle and lighted me down-stairs. After all, I had forgotten myshawl; she ran back to fetch it; and I stood with Dr. John in thevestibule, waiting. 

"What is this, Lucy?" said he, looking down at me narrowly. "Here isthe old excitement. Ha! the nun again?"

But I utterly denied the charge: I was vexed to be suspected of asecond illusion. He was sceptical. 

"She has been, as sure as I live, " said he; "her figure crossing youreyes leaves on them a peculiar gleam and expression not to bemistaken. "

"She has _not_ been, " I persisted: for, indeed, I could deny herapparition with truth. 

"The old symptoms are there, " he affirmed: "a particular pale, andwhat the Scotch call a 'raised' look. "

He was so obstinate, I thought it better to tell him what I really_had_ seen. Of course with him it was held to be another effectof the same cause: it was all optical illusion--nervous malady, and soon. Not one bit did I believe him; but I dared not contradict: doctorsare so self-opinionated, so immovable in their dry, materialist views. 

Rosine brought the shawl, and I was bundled into the carriage. 

 * * * * *

The theatre was full--crammed to its roof: royal and noble were there:palace and hotel had emptied their inmates into those tiers sothronged and so hushed. Deeply did I feel myself privileged in havinga place before that stage; I longed to see a being of whose powers Ihad heard reports which made me conceive peculiar anticipations. Iwondered if she would justify her renown: with strange curiosity, withfeelings severe and austere, yet of riveted interest, I waited. Shewas a study of such nature as had not encountered my eyes yet: a greatand new planet she was: but in what shape? I waited her rising. 

She rose at nine that December night: above the horizon I saw hercome. She could shine yet with pale grandeur and steady might; butthat star verged already on its judgment-day. Seen near, it was achaos--hollow, half-consumed: an orb perished or perishing--half lava, half glow. 

I had heard this woman termed "plain, " and I expected bony harshnessand grimness--something large, angular, sallow. What I saw was theshadow of a royal Vashti: a queen, fair as the day once, turned palenow like twilight, and wasted like wax in flame. 

For awhile--a long while--I thought it was only a woman, though anunique woman, Who moved in might and grace before this multitude. By-and-by I recognised my mistake. Behold! I found upon her somethingneither of woman nor of man: in each of her eyes sat a devil. Theseevil forces bore her through the tragedy, kept up her feeble strength--for she was but a frail creature; and as the action rose and the stirdeepened, how wildly they shook her with their passions of the pit!They wrote HELL on her straight, haughty brow. They tuned her voice tothe note of torment. They writhed her regal face to a demoniac mask. Hate and Murder and Madness incarnate she stood. 

It was a marvellous sight: a mighty revelation. 

It was a spectacle low, horrible, immoral. 

Swordsmen thrust through, and dying in their blood on the arena sand;bulls goring horses disembowelled, made a meeker vision for thepublic--a milder condiment for a people's palate--than Vashti torn byseven devils: devils which cried sore and rent the tenement theyhaunted, but still refused to be exorcised. 

Suffering had struck that stage empress; and she stood before heraudience neither yielding to, nor enduring, nor, in finite measure, resenting it: she stood locked in struggle, rigid in resistance. Shestood, not dressed, but draped in pale antique folds, long and regularlike sculpture. A background and entourage and flooring of deepestcrimson threw her out, white like alabaster--like silver: rather, beit said, like Death. 

Where was the artist of the Cleopatra? Let him come and sit down andstudy this different vision. Let him seek here the mighty brawn, themuscle, the abounding blood, the full-fed flesh he worshipped: let allmaterialists draw nigh and look on. 

I have said that she does not _resent_ her grief. No; theweakness of that word would make it a lie. To her, what hurts becomesimmediately embodied: she looks on it as a thing that can be attacked, worried down, torn in shreds. Scarcely a substance herself, shegrapples to conflict with abstractions. Before calamity she is atigress; she rends her woes, shivers them in convulsed abhorrence. Pain, for her, has no result in good: tears water no harvest ofwisdom: on sickness, on death itself, she looks with the eye of arebel. Wicked, perhaps, she is, but also she is strong; and herstrength has conquered Beauty, has overcome Grace, and bound both ather side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile as fair. Even in theuttermost frenzy of energy is each maenad movement royally, imperially, incedingly upborne. Her hair, flying loose in revel orwar, is still an angel's hair, and glorious under a halo. Fallen, insurgent, banished, she remembers the heaven where she rebelled. Heaven's light, following her exile, pierces its confines, anddiscloses their forlorn remoteness. 

Place now the Cleopatra, or any other slug, before her as an obstacle, and see her cut through the pulpy mass as the scimitar of Saladinclove the down cushion. Let Paul Peter Rubens wake from the dead, lethim rise out of his cerements, and bring into this presence all thearmy of his fat women; the magian power or prophet-virtue gifting thatslight rod of Moses, could, at one waft, release and re-mingle a seaspell-parted, whelming the heavy host with the down-rush of overthrownsea-ramparts. 

Vashti was not good, I was told; and I have said she did not lookgood: though a spirit, she was a spirit out of Tophet. Well, if somuch of unholy force can arise from below, may not an equal efflux ofsacred essence descend one day from above?

What thought Dr. Graham of this being?

For long intervals I forgot to look how he demeaned himself, or toquestion what he thought. The strong magnetism of genius drew my heartout of its wonted orbit; the sunflower turned from the south to afierce light, not solar--a rushing, red, cometary light--hot on visionand to sensation. I had seen acting before, but never anything likethis: never anything which astonished Hope and hushed Desire; whichoutstripped Impulse and paled Conception; which, instead of merelyirritating imagination with the thought of what _might_ be done, at the same time fevering the nerves because it was _not_ done, disclosed power like a deep, swollen winter river, thundering incataract, and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on the steep and steellysweep of its descent. 

Miss Fanshawe, with her usual ripeness of judgment, pronounced Dr. Bretton a serious, impassioned man, too grave and too impressible. Notin such light did I ever see him: no such faults could I lay to hischarge. His natural attitude was not the meditative, nor his naturalmood the sentimental; _impressionable_ he was as dimpling water, but, almost as water, _unimpressible:_ the breeze, the sun, movedhim--metal could not grave, nor fire brand. 

Dr. John _could_ think and think well, but he was rather a man ofaction than of thought; he _could_ feel, and feel vividly in hisway, but his heart had no chord for enthusiasm: to bright, soft, sweetinfluences his eyes and lips gave bright, soft, sweet welcome, beautiful to see as dyes of rose and silver, pearl and purple, imbuingsummer clouds; for what belonged to storm, what was wild and intense, dangerous, sudden, and flaming, he had no sympathy, and held with itno communion. When I took time and regained inclination to glance athim, it amused and enlightened me to discover that he was watchingthat sinister and sovereign Vashti, not with wonder, nor worship, noryet dismay, but simply with intense curiosity. Her agony did not painhim, her wild moan--worse than a shriek--did not much move him; herfury revolted him somewhat, but not to the point of horror. Cool youngBriton! The pale cliffs of his own England do not look down on thetides of the Channel more calmly than he watched the Pythianinspiration of that night. 

Looking at his face, I longed to know his exact opinions, and at lastI put a question tending to elicit them. At the sound of my voice heawoke as if out of a dream; for he had been thinking, and veryintently thinking, his own thoughts, after his own manner. "How did helike Vashti?" I wished to know. 

"Hm-m-m, " was the first scarce articulate but expressive answer; andthen such a strange smile went wandering round his lips, a smile socritical, so almost callous! I suppose that for natures of that orderhis sympathies _were_ callous. In a few terse phrases he told mehis opinion of, and feeling towards, the actress: he judged her as awoman, not an artist: it was a branding judgment. 

That night was already marked in my book of life, not with white, butwith a deep-red cross. But I had not done with it yet; and othermemoranda were destined to be set down in characters of tintindelible. 

Towards midnight, when the deepening tragedy blackened to the death-scene, and all held their breath, and even Graham bit his under-lip, and knit his brow, and sat still and struck--when the whole theatrewas hushed, when the vision of all eyes centred in one point, when allears listened towards one quarter--nothing being seen but the whiteform sunk on a seat, quivering in conflict with her last, her worst-hated, her visibly-conquering foe--nothing heard but her throes, hergaspings, breathing yet of mutiny, panting still defiance; when, as itseemed, an inordinate will, convulsing a perishing mortal frame, bentit to battle with doom and death, fought every inch of ground, soldevery drop of blood, resisted to the latest the rape of every faculty, _would_ see, _would_ hear, _would_ breathe, _would_ live, up to, within, well-nigh _beyond_ the moment when death says to allsense and all being--"Thus far and no farther!"--

Just then a stir, pregnant with omen, rustled behind the scenes--feetran, voices spoke. What was it? demanded the whole house. A flame, asmell of smoke replied. 

"Fire!" rang through the gallery. "Fire!" was repeated, re-echoed, yelled forth: and then, and faster than pen can set it down, camepanic, rushing, crushing--a blind, selfish, cruel chaos. 

And Dr. John? Reader, I see him yet, with his look of comely courageand cordial calm. 

"Lucy will sit still, I know, " said he, glancing down at me with thesame serene goodness, the same repose of firmness that I have seen inhim when sitting at his side amid the secure peace of his mother'shearth. Yes, thus adjured, I think I would have sat still under arocking crag: but, indeed, to sit still in actual circumstances was myinstinct; and at the price of my very life, I would not have moved togive him trouble, thwart his will, or make demands on his attention. We were in the stalls, and for a few minutes there was a mostterrible, ruthless pressure about us. 

"How terrified are the women!" said he; "but if the men were notalmost equally so, order might be maintained. This is a sorry scene: Isee fifty selfish brutes at this moment, each of whom, if I were near, I could conscientiously knock down. I see some women braver than somemen. There is one yonder--Good God!"

While Graham was speaking, a young girl who had been very quietly andsteadily clinging to a gentleman before us, was suddenly struck fromher protector's arms by a big, butcherly intruder, and hurled underthe feet of the crowd. Scarce two seconds lasted her disappearance. Graham rushed forwards; he and the gentleman, a powerful man thoughgrey-haired, united their strength to thrust back the throng; her headand long hair fell back over his shoulder: she seemed unconscious. 

"Trust her with me; I am a medical man, " said Dr. John. 

"If you have no lady with you, be it so, " was the answer. "Hold her, and I will force a passage: we must get her to the air. "

"I have a lady, " said Graham; "but she will be neither hindrance norincumbrance. "

He summoned me with his eye: we were separated. Resolute, however, torejoin him, I penetrated the living barrier, creeping under where Icould not get between or over. 

"Fasten on me, and don't leave go, " he said; and I obeyed him. 

Our pioneer proved strong and adroit; he opened the dense mass like awedge; with patience and toil he at last bored through the flesh-and-blood rock--so solid, hot, and suffocating--and brought us to thefresh, freezing night. 

"You are an Englishman!" said he, turning shortly on Dr. Bretton, whenwe got into the street. 

"An Englishman. And I speak to a countryman?" was the reply. 

"Right. Be good enough to stand here two minutes, whilst I find mycarriage. "

"Papa, I am not hurt, " said a girlish voice; "am I with papa?"

"You are with a friend, and your father is close at hand. "

"Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder. Oh, my shoulder!They trod just here. "

"Dislocation, perhaps!" muttered the Doctor: "let us hope there is noworse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant. "

And I assisted while he made some arrangement of drapery and positionfor the ease of his suffering burden. She suppressed a moan, and layin his arms quietly and patiently. 

"She is very light, " said Graham, "like a child!" and he asked in myear, "Is she a child, Lucy? Did you notice her age?"

"I am not a child--I am a person of seventeen, " responded the patient, demurely and with dignity. Then, directly after: "Tell papa to come; Iget anxious. "

The carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but in the exchangefrom one bearer to another she was hurt, and moaned again. 

"My darling!" said the father, tenderly; then turning to Graham, "Yousaid, sir, you are a medical man?"

"I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse. "

"Good. Will you step into my carriage?"

"My own carriage is here: I will seek it, and accompany you. "

"Be pleased, then, to follow us. " And he named his address: "The HôtelCrécy, in the Rue Crécy. "

We followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Graham were silent. This seemed like an adventure. 

Some little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we reachedthe hotel perhaps about ten minutes after these strangers. It was anhotel in the foreign sense: a collection of dwelling-houses, not aninn--a vast, lofty pile, with a huge arch to its street-door, leadingthrough a vaulted covered way, into a square all built round. 

We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stoppedat Numéro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising theabode of I know not what "prince Russe, " as Graham informed me. Onringing the bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suiteof very handsome apartments. Announced by a servant in livery, weentered a drawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, andwhose walls gleamed with foreign mirrors. Near the hearth appeared alittle group: a slight form sunk in a deep arm-chair, one or two womenbusy about it, the iron-grey gentleman anxiously looking on. 

"Where is Harriet? I wish Harriet would come to me, " said the girlishvoice, faintly. 

"Where is Mrs. Hurst?" demanded the gentleman impatiently and somewhatsternly of the man-servant who had admitted us. 

"I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young lady gaveher leave till to-morrow. "

"Yes--I did--I did. She is gone to see her sister; I said she mightgo: I remember now, " interposed the young lady; "but I am so sorry, for Manon and Louison cannot understand a word I say, and they hurt mewithout meaning to do so. "

Dr. John and the gentleman now interchanged greetings; and while theypassed a few minutes in consultation, I approached the easy-chair, andseeing what the faint and sinking girl wished to have done, I did itfor her. 

I was still occupied in the arrangement, when Graham drew near; he wasno less skilled in surgery than medicine, and, on examination, foundthat no further advice than his own was necessary to the treatment ofthe present case. He ordered her to be carried to her chamber, andwhispered to me:--"Go with the women, Lucy; they seem but dull; youcan at least direct their movements, and thus spare her some pain. Shemust be touched very tenderly. "

The chamber was a room shadowy with pale-blue hangings, vaporous withcurtainings and veilings of muslin; the bed seemed to me like snow-drift and mist--spotless, soft, and gauzy. Making the women standapart, I undressed their mistress, without their well-meaning butclumsy aid. I was not in a sufficiently collected mood to note withseparate distinctness every detail of the attire I removed, but Ireceived a general impression of refinement, delicacy, and perfectpersonal cultivation; which, in a period of after-thought, offered inmy reflections a singular contrast to notes retained of Miss GinevraFanshawe's appointments. 

The girl was herself a small, delicate creature, but made like amodel. As I folded back her plentiful yet fine hair, so shining andsoft, and so exquisitely tended, I had under my observation a young, pale, weary, but high-bred face. The brow was smooth and clear; theeyebrows were distinct, but soft, and melting to a mere trace at thetemples; the eyes were a rich gift of nature--fine and full, large, deep, seeming to hold dominion over the slighter subordinate features--capable, probably, of much significance at another hour and underother circumstances than the present, but now languid and suffering. Her skin was perfectly fair, the neck and hands veined finely like thepetals of a flower; a thin glazing of the ice of pride polished thisdelicate exterior, and her lip wore a curl--I doubt not inherent andunconscious, but which, if I had seen it first with the accompanimentsof health and state, would have struck me as unwarranted, and provingin the little lady a quite mistaken view of life and her ownconsequence. 

Her demeanour under the Doctor's hands at first excited a smile; itwas not puerile--rather, on the whole, patient and firm--but yet, onceor twice she addressed him with suddenness and sharpness, saying thathe hurt her, and must contrive to give her less pain; I saw her largeeyes, too, settle on his face like the solemn eyes of some pretty, wondering child. I know not whether Graham felt this examination: ifbe did, he was cautious not to check or discomfort it by anyretaliatory look. I think he performed his work with extreme care andgentleness, sparing her what pain he could; and she acknowledged asmuch, when he had done, by the words:--"Thank you, Doctor, and good-night, " very gratefully pronounced as she uttered them, however, itwas with a repetition of the serious, direct gaze, I thought, peculiarin its gravity and intentness. 

The injuries, it seems, were not dangerous: an assurance which herfather received with a smile that almost made one his friend--it wasso glad and gratified. He now expressed his obligations to Graham withas much earnestness as was befitting an Englishman addressing one whohas served him, but is yet a stranger; he also begged him to call thenext day. 

"Papa, " said a voice from the veiled couch, "thank the lady, too; isshe there?"

I opened the curtain with a smile, and looked in at her. She lay nowat comparative ease; she looked pretty, though pale; her face wasdelicately designed, and if at first sight it appeared proud, Ibelieve custom might prove it to be soft. 

"I thank the lady very sincerely, " said her father: "I fancy she hasbeen very good to my child. I think we scarcely dare tell Mrs. Hurstwho has been her substitute and done her work; she will feel at onceashamed and jealous. "

And thus, in the most friendly spirit, parting greetings wereinterchanged; and refreshment having been hospitably offered, but byus, as it was late, refused, we withdrew from the Hôtel Crécy. 

On our way back we repassed the theatre. All was silence and darkness:the roaring, rushing crowd all vanished and gone--the damps, as wellas the incipient fire, extinct and forgotten. Next morning's papersexplained that it was but some loose drapery on which a spark hadfallen, and which had blazed up and been quenched in a moment. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

M. DE BASSOMPIERRE. 

Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid theseclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, areliable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memoryof their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse--some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose naturalsequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension ofcommunication--there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a longblank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire andunexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; thevisit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or othertoken that indicated remembrance, comes no more. 

Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit butknew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections withoutare whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval whichpasses for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and thewingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to restat milestones--that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, andpants with hurry for his friends. 

The hermit--if he be a sensible hermit--will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. Hewill know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, thedormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the driftwhich blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for theseason. 

Let him say, "It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is. "And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softnesswill return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding ofhedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, willcall him to kindly resurrection. _Perhaps_ this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more;when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only hisdormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is tobe supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day gothe way of all flesh, "As well soon as syne. "

Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me sevenweeks as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written onone of them; not a visit, not a token. 

About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something hadhappened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always abeclouded point for the solitary: his nerves ache with the strain oflong expectancy; the doubts hitherto repelled gather now to a massand--strong in accumulation--roll back upon him with a force whichsavours of vindictiveness. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, andsleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harasshis couch: the sinister band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity, and sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the leagueagainst him. Poor wretch! He does his best to bear up, but he is apoor, pallid, wasting wretch, despite that best. 

Towards the last of these long seven weeks I admitted, what throughthe other six I had jealously excluded--the conviction that theseblanks were inevitable: the result of circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part of my life's lot and--above all--a matter about whose origin noquestion must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur everuttered. Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God Ihad a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecileextravagance of self-accusation; and as to blaming others for silence, in my reason I well knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledgedthem so: but it was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed forbetter days. 

I tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence: Icommenced an elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German prettyhard, I undertook a course of regular reading of the driest andthickest books in the library; in all my efforts I was as orthodox asI knew how to be. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only knowthe result was as if I had gnawed a file to satisfy hunger, or drankbrine to quench thirst. 

My hour of torment was the post-hour. Unfortunately, I knew it toowell, and tried as vainly as assiduously to cheat myself of thatknowledge; dreading the rack of expectation, and the sick collapse ofdisappointment which daily preceded and followed upon that well-recognised ring. 

I suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily fed as to be alwaysupon the verge of famine, await their food as I awaited a letter. Oh!--to speak truth, and drop that tone of a false calm which long tosustain, outwears nature's endurance--I underwent in those seven weeksbitter fears and pains, strange inward trials, miserable defections ofhope, intolerable encroachments of despair. This last came so near mesometimes that her breath went right through me. I used to feel itlike a baleful air or sigh, penetrate deep, and make motion pause atmy heart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression. The letter--the well-beloved letter--would not come; and it was all of sweetnessin life I had to look for. 

In the very extremity of want, I had recourse again, and yet again, tothe little packet in the case--the five letters. How splendid thatmonth seemed whose skies had beheld the rising of these five stars! Itwas always at night I visited them, and not daring to ask everyevening for a candle in the kitchen, I bought a wax taper and matchesto light it, and at the study-hour stole up to the dormitory andfeasted on my crust from the Barmecide's loaf. It did not nourish me:I pined on it, and got as thin as a shadow: otherwise I was not ill. 

Reading there somewhat late one evening, and feeling that the power toread was leaving me--for the letters from incessant perusal werelosing all sap and significance: my gold was withering to leavesbefore my eyes, and I was sorrowing over the disillusion--suddenly aquick tripping foot ran up the stairs. I knew Ginevra Fanshawe's step:she had dined in town that afternoon; she was now returned, and wouldcome here to replace her shawl, &c. In the wardrobe. 

Yes: in she came, dressed in bright silk, with her shawl falling fromher shoulders, and her curls, half-uncurled in the damp of night, drooping careless and heavy upon her neck. I had hardly time torecasket my treasures and lock them up when she was at my side herhumour seemed none of the best. 

"It has been a stupid evening: they are stupid people, " she began. 

"Who? Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found her housecharming?"

"I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley's. "

"Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance?"

"My uncle de Bassompierre is come. "

"Your uncle de Bassompierre! Are you not glad?--I thought he was afavourite. "

"You thought wrong: the man is odious; I hate him. "

"Because he is a foreigner? or for what other reason of equal weight?"

"He is not a foreigner. The man is English enough, goodness knows; andhad an English name till three or four years ago; but his mother was aforeigner, a de Bassompierre, and some of her family are dead and haveleft him estates, a title, and this name: he is quite a great mannow. "

"Do you hate him for that reason?"

"Don't I know what mamma says about him? He is not my own uncle, butmarried mamma's sister. Mamma detests him; she says he killed auntGinevra with unkindness: he looks like a bear. Such a dismal evening!"she went on. "I'll go no more to his big hotel. Fancy me walking intoa room alone, and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, andafter a few minutes' conversation actually turning his back upon me, and then abruptly going out of the room. Such odd ways! I daresay hisconscience smote him, for they all say at home I am the picture ofaunt Ginevra. Mamma often declares the likeness is quite ridiculous. "

"Were you the only visitor?"

"The only visitor? Yes; then there was missy, my cousin: littlespoiled, pampered thing. "

"M. De Bassompierre has a daughter?"

"Yes, yes: don't tease one with questions. Oh, dear! I am so tired. "

She yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed she added, "Itseems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hubbub at thetheatre some weeks ago. "

"Ah! indeed. And they live at a large hotel in the Rue Crécy?"

"Justement. How do _you_ know?"

"I have been there. "

"Oh, you have? Really! You go everywhere in these days. I supposeMother Bretton took you. She and Esculapius have the _entrée_ ofthe de Bassompierre apartments: it seems 'my son John' attended missyon the occasion of her accident--Accident? Bah! All affectation! Idon't think she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for herairs. And now there is quite an intimacy struck up: I heard somethingabout 'auld lang syne, ' and what not. Oh, how stupid they all were!"

"_All!_ You said you were the only visitor. "

"Did I? You see one forgets to particularize an old woman and herboy. "

"Dr. And Mrs. Bretton were at M. De Bassompierre's this evening?"

"Ay, ay! as large as life; and missy played the hostess. What aconceited doll it is!"

Soured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was beginning to disclose thecauses of her prostrate condition. There had been a retrenchment ofincense, a diversion or a total withholding of homage and attentioncoquetry had failed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification. Shelay fuming in the vapours. 

"Is Miss de Bassompierre quite well now?" I asked. 

"As well as you or I, no doubt; but she is an affected little thing, and gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice. And to seethe old dowager making her recline on a couch, and 'my son John'prohibiting excitement, etcetera--faugh! the scene was quitesickening. "

"It would not have been so if the object of attention had beenchanged: if you had taken Miss de Bassompierre's place. "

"Indeed! I hate 'my son John!'"

"'My son John!'--whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton'smother never calls him so. "

"Then she ought. A clownish, bearish John he is. "

"You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patienceis now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise fromthat bed, and vacate this room. "

"Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonderwhat always makes you so mighty testy à l'endroit du gros Jean? 'JohnAnderson, my Joe, John!' Oh, the distinguished name!"

Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer follyto have given vent--for there was no contending with thatunsubstantial feather, that mealy-winged moth--I extinguished mytaper, locked my bureau, and left her, since she would not leave me. Small-beer as she was, she had turned insufferably acid. 

The morrow was Thursday and a half-holiday. Breakfast was over; I hadwithdrawn to the first classe. The dreaded hour, the post-hour, wasnearing, and I sat waiting it, much as a ghost-seer might wait hisspectre. Less than ever was a letter probable; still, strive as Iwould, I could not forget that it was possible. As the momentslessened, a restlessness and fear almost beyond the average assailedme. It was a day of winter east wind, and I had now for some timeentered into that dreary fellowship with the winds and their changes, so little known, so incomprehensible to the healthy. The north andeast owned a terrific influence, making all pain more poignant, allsorrow sadder. The south could calm, the west sometimes cheer: unless, indeed, they brought on their wings the burden of thunder-clouds, under the weight and warmth of which all energy died. 

Bitter and dark as was this January day, I remember leaving theclasse, and running down without bonnet to the bottom of the longgarden, and then lingering amongst the stripped shrubs, in the forlornhope that the postman's ring might occur while I was out of hearing, and I might thus be spared the thrill which some particular nerve ornerves, almost gnawed through with the unremitting tooth of a fixedidea, were becoming wholly unfit to support. I lingered as long as Idared without fear of attracting attention by my absence. I muffled myhead in my apron, and stopped my ears in terror of the torturingclang, sure to be followed by such blank silence, such barren vacuumfor me. At last I ventured to re-enter the first classe, where, as itwas not yet nine o'clock, no pupils had been admitted. The first thingseen was a white object on my black desk, a white, flat object. Thepost had, indeed, arrived; by me unheard. Rosine had visited my cell, and, like some angel, had left behind her a bright token of herpresence. That shining thing on the desk was indeed a letter, a realletter; I saw so much at the distance of three yards, and as I had butone correspondent on earth, from that one it must come. He rememberedme yet. How deep a pulse of gratitude sent new life through my heart. 

Drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling butalmost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, onthe contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown--a palefemale scrawl, instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thoughtfate was _too_ hard for me, and I said, audibly, "This is cruel. "

But I got over that pain also. Life is still life, whatever its pangs:our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect ofwhat pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles bequite silenced. 

I opened the billet: by this time I had recognised its handwriting asperfectly familiar. It was dated "La Terrasse, " and it ran thus:--

"DEAR LUCY, --It occurs to me to inquire what you have been doing withyourself for the last month or two? Not that I suspect you would havethe least difficulty in giving an account of your proceedings. Idaresay you have been just as busy and as happy as ourselves at LaTerrasse. As to Graham, his professional connection extends daily: heis so much sought after, so much engaged, that I tell him he will growquite conceited. Like a right good mother, as I am, I do my best tokeep him down: no flattery does he get from me, as you know. And yet, Lucy, he is a fine fellow: his mother's heart dances at the sight ofhim. After being hurried here and there the whole day, and passing theordeal of fifty sorts of tempers, and combating a hundred caprices, and sometimes witnessing cruel sufferings--perhaps, occasionally, as Itell him, inflicting them--at night he still comes home to me in suchkindly, pleasant mood, that really, I seem to live in a sort of moralantipodes, and on these January evenings my day rises when otherpeople's night sets in. 

"Still he needs keeping in order, and correcting, and repressing, andI do him that good service; but the boy is so elastic there is no suchthing as vexing him thoroughly. When I think I have at last driven himto the sullens, he turns on me with jokes for retaliation: but youknow him and all his iniquities, and I am but an elderly simpleton tomake him the subject of this epistle. 

"As for me, I have had my old Bretton agent here on a visit, and havebeen plunged overhead and ears in business matters. I do so wish toregain for Graham at least some part of what his father left him. Helaughs to scorn my anxiety on this point, bidding me look and see howhe can provide for himself and me too, and asking what the old ladycan possibly want that she has not; hinting about sky-blue turbans;accusing me of an ambition to wear diamonds, keep livery servants, have an hotel, and lead the fashion amongst the English clan inVillette. 

"Talking of sky-blue turbans, I wish you had been with us the otherevening. He had come in really tired, and after I had given him histea, he threw himself into my chair with his customary presumption. Tomy great delight, he dropped asleep. (You know how he teases me aboutbeing drowsy; I, who never, by any chance, close an eye by daylight. )While he slept, I thought he looked very bonny, Lucy: fool as I am tobe so proud of him; but who can help it? Show me his peer. Look whereI will, I see nothing like him in Villette. Well, I took it into myhead to play him a trick: so I brought out the sky-blue turban, andhandling it with gingerly precaution, I managed to invest his browswith this grand adornment. I assure you it did not at all misbecomehim; he looked quite Eastern, except that he is so fair. Nobody, however, can accuse him of having red hair _now_--it is genuinechestnut--a dark, glossy chestnut; and when I put my large cashmereabout him, there was as fine a young bey, dey, or pacha improvised asyou would wish to see. 

"It was good entertainment; but only half-enjoyed, since I was alone:you should have been there. 

"In due time my lord awoke: the looking-glass above the fireplace soonintimated to him his plight: as you may imagine, I now live underthreat and dread of vengeance. 

"But to come to the gist of my letter. I know Thursday is a half-holiday in the Rue Fossette: be ready, then, by five in the afternoon, at which hour I will send the carriage to take you out to La Terrasse. Be sure to come: you may meet some old acquaintance. Good-by, my wise, dear, grave little god-daughter. --Very truly yours, "LOUISA BRETTON. ". 

Now, a letter like that sets one to rights! I might still be sad afterreading that letter, but I was more composed; not exactly cheered, perhaps, but relieved. My friends, at least, were well and happy: noaccident had occurred to Graham; no illness had seized his mother-calamities that had so long been my dream and thought. Their feelingsfor me too were--as they had been. Yet, how strange it was to look onMrs: Bretton's seven weeks and contrast them with my seven weeks!Also, how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional positionto hold their tongues and not rashly declare how such position gallsthem! The world can understand well enough the process of perishingfor want of food: perhaps few persons can enter into or follow outthat of going mad from solitary confinement. They see the long-buriedprisoner disinterred, a maniac or an idiot!--how his senses left him--how his nerves, first inflamed, underwent nameless agony, and thensunk to palsy--is a subject too intricate for examination, tooabstract for popular comprehension. Speak of it! you might almost aswell stand up in an European market-place, and propound dark sayingsin that language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperialhypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans. And long, long maythe minds to whom such themes are no mystery--by whom their bearingsare sympathetically seized--be few in number, and rare of rencounter. Long may it be generally thought that physical privations alone meritcompassion, and that the rest is a figment. When the world was youngerand haler than now, moral trials were a deeper mystery still: perhapsin all the land of Israel there was but one Saul--certainly but oneDavid to soothe or comprehend him. 

The keen, still cold of the morning was succeeded, later in the day, by a sharp breathing from Russian wastes: the cold zone sighed overthe temperate zone, and froze it fast. A heavy firmament, dull, andthick with snow, sailed up from the north, and settled over expectantEurope. Towards afternoon began the descent. I feared no carriagewould come, the white tempest raged so dense and wild. But trust mygodmother! Once having asked, she would have her guest. About sixo'clock I was lifted from the carriage over the already blocked-upfront steps of the château, and put in at the door of La Terrasse. 

Running through the vestibule, and up-stairs to the drawing-room, there I found Mrs. Bretton--a summer-day in her own person. Had I beentwice as cold as I was, her kind kiss and cordial clasp would havewarmed me. Inured now for so long a time to rooms with bare boards, black benches, desks, and stoves, the blue saloon seemed to megorgeous. In its Christmas-like fire alone there was a clear andcrimson splendour which quite dazzled me. 

When my godmother had held my hand for a little while, and chattedwith me, and scolded me for having become thinner than when she lastsaw me, she professed to discover that the snow-wind had disordered myhair, and sent me up-stairs to make it neat and remove my shawl. 

Repairing to my own little sea-green room, there also I found a brightfire, and candles too were lit: a tall waxlight stood on each side thegreat looking glass; but between the candles, and before the glass, appeared something dressing itself--an airy, fairy thing--small, slight, white--a winter spirit. 

I declare, for one moment I thought of Graham and his spectralillusions. With distrustful eye I noted the details of this newvision. It wore white, sprinkled slightly with drops of scarlet; itsgirdle was red; it had something in its hair leafy, yet shining--alittle wreath with an evergreen gloss. Spectral or not, here truly wasnothing frightful, and I advanced. 

Turning quick upon me, a large eye, under long lashes, flashed overme, the intruder: the lashes were as dark as long, and they softenedwith their pencilling the orb they guarded. 

"Ah! you are come!" she breathed out, in a soft, quiet voice, and shesmiled slowly, and gazed intently. 

I knew her now. Having only once seen that sort of face, with thatcast of fine and delicate featuring, I could not but know her. 

"Miss de Bassompierre, " I pronounced. 

"No, " was the reply, "not Miss de Bassompierre for _you!_" I didnot inquire who then she might be, but waited voluntary information. 

"You are changed, but still you are yourself, " she said, approachingnearer. "I remember you well--your countenance, the colour of yourhair, the outline of your face.... "

I had moved to the fire, and she stood opposite, and gazed into me;and as she gazed, her face became gradually more and more expressiveof thought and feeling, till at last a dimness quenched her clearvision. 

"It makes me almost cry to look so far back, " said she: "but as tobeing sorry, or sentimental, don't think it: on the contrary, I amquite pleased and glad. "

Interested, yet altogether at fault, I knew not what to say. At last Istammered, "I think I never met you till that night, some weeks ago, when you were hurt... ?"

She smiled. "You have forgotten then that I have sat on your knee, been lifted in your arms, even shared your pillow? You no longerremember the night when I came crying, like a naughty little child asI was, to your bedside, and you took me in. You have no memory for thecomfort and protection by which you soothed an acute distress? Go backto Bretton. Remember Mr. Home. "

At last I saw it all. "And you are little Polly?"

"I am Paulina Mary Home de Bassompierre. "

How time can change! Little Polly wore in her pale, small features, her fairy symmetry, her varying expression, a certain promise ofinterest and grace; but Paulina Mary was become beautiful--not withthe beauty that strikes the eye like a rose--orbed, ruddy, andreplete; not with the plump, and pink, and flaxen attributes of herblond cousin Ginevra; but her seventeen years had brought her arefined and tender charm which did not lie in complexion, though herswas fair and clear; nor in outline, though her features were sweet, and her limbs perfectly turned; but, I think, rather in a subdued glowfrom the soul outward. This was not an opaque vase, of materialhowever costly, but a lamp chastely lucent, guarding from extinction, yet not hiding from worship, a flame vital and vestal. In speaking ofher attractions, I would not exaggerate language; but, indeed, theyseemed to me very real and engaging. What though all was on a smallscale, it was the perfume which gave this white violet distinction, and made it superior to the broadest camelia--the fullest dahlia thatever bloomed. 

"Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?"

"Better, " said she, "better, perhaps, than you. I remember it withminute distinctness: not only the time, but the days of the time, andthe hours of the days. "

"You must have forgotten some things?"

"Very little, I imagine. "

"You were then a little creature of quick feelings: you must, long erethis, have outgrown the impressions with which joy and grief, affection and bereavement, stamped your mind ten years ago. "

"You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what degree I likedthem when a child?"

"The sharpness must be gone--the point, the poignancy--the deepimprint must be softened away and effaced?"

"I have a good memory for those days. "

She looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who canremember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whoseyouth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely andincoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered onanother: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement, and so grow in harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still Icould not quite admit the conviction that _all_ the pictureswhich now crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fondattachments, her sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, thepatient, true devotion of her child's heart, her fears, her delicatereserves, her little trials, the last piercing pain of separation.... I retraced these things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. "The child of seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen, " saidshe. 

"You used to be excessively fond of Mrs. Bretton, " I remarked, intending to test her. She set me right at once. 

"Not _excessively_ fond, " said she; "I liked her: I respected heras I should do now: she seems to me very little altered. "

"She is not much changed, " I assented. 

We were silent a few minutes. Glancing round the room she said, "Thereare several things here that used to be at Bretton! I remember thatpincushion and that looking-glass. "

Evidently she was not deceived in her estimate of her own memory; not, at least, so far. 

"You think, then, you would have known Mrs. Bretton?" I went on. 

"I perfectly remembered her; the turn of her features, her olivecomplexion, and black hair, her height, her walk, her voice. "

"Dr. Bretton, of course, " I pursued, "would be out of the question:and, indeed, as I saw your first interview with him, I am aware thathe appeared to you as a stranger. "

"That first night I was puzzled, " she answered. 

"How did the recognition between him and your father come about?"

"They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home deBassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on thesecond day; but before then I was beginning to know something. "

"How--know something?"

"Why, " she said, "how strange it is that most people seem so slow tofeel the truth--not to see, but _feel_! When Dr. Bretton hadvisited me a few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I hadobserved the look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, theform of his chin, the carriage of his head, and all that we _do_observe in persons who approach us--how could I avoid being led byassociation to think of Graham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and had a smoother face, and longer and lighterhair, and spoke--not so deeply--more like a girl; but yet _he_ isGraham, just as _I_ am little Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe. "

I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there arecertain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that itseems a miracle when that chance befalls. 

"You and Graham were once playmates. "

"And do you remember that?" she questioned in her turn. 

"No doubt he will remember it also, " said I. 

"I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to findthat he did. I suppose his disposition is still gay and careless?"

"Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?"

"I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he wasstudious; sometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books ordisposed for play, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; notmuch heeding those with whom he read or amused himself. "

"Yet to you he was partial. "

"Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates--his school-fellows; Iwas of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kindon Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary's, and his finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and stillhe was on Sunday evenings! So mild for such a proud, lively boy; sopatient with all my blunders in reading; and so wonderfully to bedepended on, for he never spent those evenings from home: I had aconstant fear that he would accept some invitation and forsake us; buthe never did, nor seemed ever to wish to do it. Thus, of course, itcan be no more. I suppose Sunday will now be Dr. Bretton's dining-outday.... ?"

"Children, come down!" here called Mrs. Bretton from below. Paulinawould still have lingered, but I inclined to descend: we went down. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LITTLE COUNTESS. 

Cheerful as my godmother naturally was, and entertaining as, for oursakes, she made a point of being, there was no true enjoyment thatevening at La Terrasse, till, through the wild howl of the winter-night, were heard the signal sounds of arrival. How often, while womenand girls sit warm at snug fire-sides, their hearts and imaginationsare doomed to divorce from the comfort surrounding their persons, forced out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare stress ofweather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely gates andstiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to see and hear thefather, the son, the husband coming home. 

Father and son came at last to the château: for the Count deBassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which ofour trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of theweather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet thetwo riders as they came in; but they warned us to keep our distance:both were white--two mountains of snow; and indeed Mrs. Bretton, seeing their condition, ordered them instantly to the kitchen;prohibiting them, at their peril, from setting foot on her carpetedstaircase till they had severally put off that mask of Old Christmasthey now affected. Into the kitchen, however, we could not helpfollowing them: it was a large old Dutch kitchen, picturesque andpleasant. The little white Countess danced in a circle about herequally white sire, clapping her hands and crying, "Papa, papa, youlook like an enormous Polar bear. "

The bear shook himself, and the little sprite fled far from the frozenshower. Back she came, however, laughing, and eager to aid in removingthe arctic disguise. The Count, at last issuing from his dreadnought, threatened to overwhelm her with it as with an avalanche. 

"Come, then, " said she, bending to invite the fall, and when it wasplayfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like somelittle chamois. 

Her movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten;her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she tookher sire's cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reachhis lips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of lovingdelight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men_do_ look on what is the apple of their eye. 

"Mrs. Bretton, " said he: "what am I to do with this daughter ordaughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature. Don't you find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was tenyears ago?"

"She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine, " said Mrs. Bretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dressshe deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning againstthe Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm's length. 

"Come, mamma, " said he, "by way of compromise, and to secure for usinward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup, and toast Old England here, on the hearth. "

So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still dancedto and fro--happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen--Mrs. Bretton herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl, and, pouring the draught into a Bretton flagon, it was served round, reaming hot, by means of a small silver vessel, which I recognised asGraham's christening-cup. 

"Here's to Auld Lang Syne!" said the Count; holding the glancing cupon high. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton. --

 "We twa ha' paidlet i' the burn Fra morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid ha' roared Sin' auld lane syne. 

 "And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll taste a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. "

"Scotch! Scotch!" cried Paulina; "papa is talking Scotch; and Scotchhe is, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian andGallic. "

"And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?" askedher father. "Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up inthe middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her beingquite cannie: she is a strange little mortal. "

"Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe. "

Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home asof proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, sayingkindly, "he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been lesstrustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter's lips, and he hadlistened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an oldacquaintance. "

Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas defée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer soprofanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulkedof her mortal privileges. 

"Let me taste, " said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on theshelf of the dresser out of her reach. 

Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr. Johnhad not been unobservant of the fairy's dance; he had watched it, andhe had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of themovements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease inhis mother's house charmed him, for it set _him_ at ease: againshe seemed a child for him--again, almost his playmate. I wondered howhe would speak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his firstwords proved that the old days of "little Polly" had been recalled tohis mind by this evening's child-like light-heartedness. 

"Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?"

"I think I said so. I think I intimated as much. "

"Couldn't consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it, but couldn't do it. "

"Why? I am quite well now: it can't break my collar-bone again, ordislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?"

"No; nor dew. "

"I don't want dew; I don't like dew: but what is it?"

"Ale--strong ale--old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born. "

"It must be curious: is it good?"

"Excessively good. "

And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of thismighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentmentwith the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf. 

"I should like a little, " said Paulina, looking up; "I never had any'old October:' is it sweet?"

"Perilously sweet, " said Graham. 

She continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child thatlongs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took itdown, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her tastefrom his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation ofpleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it_was_ a gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating theposition of the cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by which its brim was courted. 

"A little more--a little more, " said she, petulantly touching his handwith the forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously andyieldingly. "It smells of spice and sugar, but I can't taste it; yourwrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy. "

He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: "Don't tell mymother or Lucy; they wouldn't approve. "

"Nor do I, " said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon asshe had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon herlike some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: "I findit anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, nomore. "

And, with a slight bend--careless, but as graceful as her dance--sheglided from him and rejoined her father. 

I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl ofseventeen. 

Graham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled; his eyewas on her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did notseem to notice him. 

As we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father's arm:her natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears werededicated to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of ourlittle party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closelyto all that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that traitor adventure. 

"And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then?And tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion. " Thus she drewhim out. 

She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantinesparkle was exhaled for the night: she was soft, thoughtful, anddocile. It was pretty to see her bid good-night; her manner to Grahamwas touched with dignity: in her very slight smile and quiet bow spokethe Countess, and Graham could not but look grave, and bendresponsive. I saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideasthe dancing fairy and delicate dame. 

Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast-table, shivering and fresh from the morning's chill ablutions, Mrs. Brettonpronounced a decree that nobody, who was not forced by dire necessity, should quit her house that day. 

Indeed, egress seemed next to impossible; the drift darkened the lowerpanes of the casement, and, on looking out, one saw the sky and airvexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fallnow, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled round by brief shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundredfantastic forms. 

The Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton. 

"Papa shall not go out, " said she, placing a seat for herself besideher father's arm-chair. "I will look after him. You won't go intotown, will you, papa?"

"Ay, and No, " was the answer. "If you and Mrs. Bretton are _very_good to me, Polly--kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in avery nice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced towait an hour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged windsettles. But, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing:you let me starve. "

"Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee, " entreatedPaulina, "whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in otherrespects: since he grew into a Count, he has needed _so_ muchattention. "

She separated and prepared a roll. 

"There, papa, are your 'pistolets' charged, " said she. "And there issome marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have atBretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved inScotland--"

"And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy--do youremember that?" interposed Mrs. Bretton. "Have you forgotten how youwould come to my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, 'Please, ma'am, something good for Graham--a little marmalade, or honey, orjam?"'

"No, mamma, " broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; "it surelywas not so: I could not have cared for these things. "

"Did he or did he not, Paulina?"

"He liked them, " asserted Paulina. 

"Never blush for it, John, " said Mr. Home, encouragingly. "I like themmyself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering fora friend's material comforts: it was I who put her into the way ofsuch good manners--nor do I let her forget them. Polly, offer me asmall slice of that tongue. "

"There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon with thisassiduity; on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourselfto La Terrasse for the day. "

"Mrs. Bretton, " said the Count, "I want to get rid of my daughter--tosend her to school. Do you know of any good school?"

"There is Lucy's place--Madame Beck's. "

"Miss Snowe is in a school?"

"I am a teacher, " I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity ofsaying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in afalse position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but theCount and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by someshades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of mygrade in society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm of thoughts I hadnot anticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sighinvoluntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-platefor about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught thewords--perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature, politeness would interdict comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud;and homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, Ihave all along intimated that he was not without his share of thenational quality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leavethe question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned meindividually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself atrue-hearted gentleman. 

By nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions and hisreflections spread a mellowing of melancholy; more than a mellowing:in trouble and bereavement it became a cloud. He did not know muchabout Lucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately comprehend:indeed his misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but hesaw my walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill: he gaveme credit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight;he would have helped me if he could: having no opportunity of helping, he still wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind;when he did speak, his voice was benevolent. 

"Yours, " said he, "is an arduous calling. I wish you health andstrength to win in it--success. "

His fair little daughter did not take the information quite socomposedly: she fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder--almostwith dismay. 

"Are you a teacher?" cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatableidea, "Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking:for me, you were always Lucy Snowe. "

"And what am I now?" I could not forbear inquiring. 

"Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?"

"I really do. "

"And do you like it?"

"Not always. "

"And why do you go on with it?"

Her father looked at, and, I feared, was going to check her; but heonly said, "Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism--proveyourself the little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush andlook confused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue; and you andI would sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she onlysmiles, so push her hard, multiply the cross-questions. Well, MissSnowe, why do you go on with it?"

"Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get. "

"Not then from motives of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clingingto that hypothesis as the most lenient way of accounting for youreccentricity. "

"No--no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keepover my head; and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think thatwhile I can work for myself, I am spared the pain of being a burden toanybody. "

"Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy. "

"Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, asyou might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds withoutleave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, andreceive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know byexperience the uncertain nature of this world's goods, I should likeher to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burdenneither kith nor kin. "

"Yes, papa, " said she, pensively and tractably. "But poor Lucy! Ithought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends. "

"You thought like a little simpleton. _I_ never thought so. WhenI had time to consider Lucy's manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw she was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and notbe served: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experiencefor which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, shemay yet bless Providence. But this school, " he pursued, changing histone from grave to gay: "would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do youthink, Miss Lucy?"

I said, there needed but to try Madame; it would soon be seen: she wasfond of English pupils. "If you, sir, " I added, "will but take Miss deBassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I cananswer for it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow inanswering your ring; and Madame, I am sure, will put on her best pairof gloves to come into the salon to receive you. "

"In that case, " responded Mr. Home, "I see no sort of necessity thereis for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send what she calls her young lady's'things' after her; Polly can settle down to her horn-book beforenight; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain to cast anoccasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how shegets on. I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess deBassompierre?"

The Countess hemmed and hesitated. "I thought, " said she, "I thought Ihad finished my education--"

"That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our thoughts I hold afar different opinion, as most of these will who have been auditors ofyour profound knowledge of life this morning. Ah, my little girl, thouhast much to learn; and papa ought to have taught thee more than hehas done! Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; andthe weather seems settling, and I have finished my breakfast--"

"But, papa!"

"Well?"

"I see an obstacle. "

"I don't at all. "

"It is enormous, papa; it can never be got over; it is as large as youin your greatcoat, and the snowdrift on the top. "

"And, like that snowdrift, capable of melting?"

"No! it is of too--too solid flesh: it is just your own self. MissLucy, warn Madame Beck not to listen to any overtures about taking me, because, in the end, it would turn out that she would have to takepapa too: as he is so teasing, I will just tell tales about him. Mrs. Bretton and all of you listen: About five years ago, when I was twelveyears old, he took it into his head that he was spoiling me; that Iwas growing unfitted for the world, and I don't know what, and nothingwould serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried, and soon; but M. De Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite firm and flinty, and to school I went. What was the result? In the most admirablemanner, papa came to school likewise: every other day he called to seeme. Madame Aigredoux grumbled, but it was of no use; and so, at last, papa and I were both, in a manner, expelled. Lucy can just tell MadameBeck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what she hasto expect. "

Mrs. Bretton asked Mr. Home what he had to say in answer to thisstatement. As he made no defence, judgment was given against him, andPaulina triumphed. 

But she had other moods besides the arch and naïve. After breakfast;when the two elders withdrew--I suppose to talk over certain of Mrs. Bretton's business matters--and the Countess, Dr. Bretton, and I, werefor a short time alone together--all the child left her; with us, morenearly her companions in age, she rose at once to the little lady: hervery face seemed to alter; that play of feature, and candour of look, which, when she spoke to her father, made it quite dimpled and round, yielded to an aspect more thoughtful, and lines distincter and less_mobile_. 

No doubt Graham noted the change as well as I. He stood for someminutes near the window, looking out at the snow; presently he, approached the hearth, and entered into conversation, but not quitewith his usual ease: fit topics did not seem to rise to his lips; hechose them fastidiously, hesitatingly, and consequentlyinfelicitously: he spoke vaguely of Villette--its inhabitants, itsnotable sights and buildings. He was answered by Miss de Bassompierrein quite womanly sort; with intelligence, with a manner not indeedwholly disindividualized: a tone, a glance, a gesture, here and there, rather animated and quick than measured and stately, still recalledlittle Polly; but yet there was so fine and even a polish, so calm andcourteous a grace, gilding and sustaining these peculiarities, that aless sensitive man than Graham would not have ventured to seize uponthem as vantage points, leading to franker intimacy. 

Yet while Dr. Bretton continued subdued, and, for him, sedate, he wasstill observant. Not one of those petty impulses and natural breaksescaped him. He did not miss one characteristic movement, onehesitation in language, or one lisp in utterance. At times, inspeaking fast, she still lisped; but coloured whenever such lapseoccurred, and in a painstaking, conscientious manner, quite as amusingas the slight error, repeated the word more distinctly. 

Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as theyconversed, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conferencehave but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial:already to Paulina's lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimplingsmile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, Iknow not how _he_ changed, but change he did. He did not growgayer--no raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect--but hisposition seemed to become one of more pleasure to himself, and hespoke his augmented comfort in readier language, in tones more suave. Ten years ago this pair had always found abundance to say to eachother; the intervening decade had not narrowed the experience orimpoverished the intelligence of either: besides, there are certainnatures of which the mutual influence is such, that the more they say, the more they have to say. For these out of association growsadhesion, and out of adhesion, amalgamation. 

Graham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims areneither to be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before hecould leave the house there was a return. I am sure he came back--notfor the paper, or card in his desk, which formed his ostensibleerrand--but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina'saspect was really such as memory was bearing away: that he had notbeen viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making afond mistake. No! he found the impression true--rather, indeed, hegained than lost by this return: he took away with him a parting look--shy, but very soft--as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawncould lift out of its cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed. 

Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time: we bothtook out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white-woodworkbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with preciousmosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and tremblingfingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, werenow swift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of thebrow, the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns andmovements--now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from thesilken skirt some imaginary atom of dust--some clinging fibre ofthread. 

That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury of thewinter-day had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion ofJanuary, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm hadraved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had GinevraFanshawe been my companion in that drawing-room, she would not havesuffered me to muse and listen undisturbed. The presence just gonefrom us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung thechanges on one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered me withquestions and surmises--worried and oppressed me with comments andconfidences I did not want, and longed to avoid. 

Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetratingglance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to theimpulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected myinclination for silence. 

"This will not hold long, " I thought to myself; for I was notaccustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, orstrength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossipabout their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltryfeelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone. 

The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed till she wastired of sewing, and then she took a book. 

As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton's owncompartment of the bookcase; and it proved to be an old Bretton book--some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen herstanding at Graham's side, resting that volume on his knee, andreading to his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as atreat, that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched herkeenly: here was a true test of that memory she had boasted would herrecollections now be faithful?

Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over herface passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent ofwhich was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to thetitle-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. Shelooked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: shegently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying the action with an unconscious but tender smile, whichconverted the touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but thepeculiarity of this little scene was, that she _said_ nothing:she could feel without pouring out her feelings in a flux of words. 

She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; takingdown volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on herhand, and thought, and still was mute. 

The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and herfather's voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her atlast. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second. 

"Papa! papa! you are not going out?"

"My pet, I must go into town. "

"But it is too--_too_ cold, papa. "

And then I heard M. De Bassompierre showing to her how he was wellprovided against the weather; and how he was going to have thecarriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered; and, in short, provingthat she need not fear for his comfort. 

"But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it isquite dark;--you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fitto ride. "

"Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid on him hercommands to take care of his precious health and come home early undermy escort. "

"Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his mother, and beobedient And, papa, mind to come soon, for I _shall_ watch andlisten. "

The door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the snow; andback returned the Countess, pensive and anxious. 

She _did_ listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it was instillest sort: walking the drawing-room with quite noiseless step. Shechecked at intervals her velvet march; inclined her ear, and consultedthe night sounds: I should rather say, the night silence; for now, atlast, the wind was fallen. The sky, relieved of its avalanche, laynaked and pale: through the barren boughs of the avenue we could seeit well, and note also the polar splendour of the new-year moon--anorb white as a world of ice. Nor was it late when we saw also thereturn of the carriage. 

Paulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was with a sortof gravity that she took immediate possession of her father, as heentered the room; but she at once made him her entire property, ledhim to the seat of her choice, and, while softly showering round himhoneyed words of commendation for being so good and coming home sosoon, you would have thought it was entirely by the power of herlittle hands he was put into his chair, and settled and arranged; forthe strong man seemed to take pleasure in wholly yielding himself tothis dominion-potent only by love. 

Graham did not appear till some minutes after the Count. Paulina halfturned when his step was heard: they spoke, but only a word or two;their fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact. Paulinaremained beside her father; Graham threw himself into a seat on theother side of the room. 

It was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great deal to say toeach other-almost an inexhaustible fund of discourse in oldrecollections; otherwise, I think, our party would have been but astill one that evening. 

After tea, Paulina's quick needle and pretty golden thimble werebusily plied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested, and her eyesseemed reluctant to raise often their lids, so smooth and so full-fringed. Graham, too, must have been tired with his day's work: helistened dutifully to his elders and betters, said very littlehimself, and followed with his eye the gilded glance of Paulina'sthimble; as if it had been some bright moth on the wing, or the goldenhead of some darting little yellow serpent. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A BURIAL. 

From this date my life did not want variety; I went out a good deal, with the entire consent of Madame Beck, who perfectly approved thegrade of my acquaintance. That worthy directress had never from thefirst treated me otherwise than with respect; and when she found thatI was liable to frequent invitations from a château and a great hotel, respect improved into distinction. 

Not that she was fulsome about it: Madame, in all things worldly, wasin nothing weak; there was measure and sense in her hottest pursuit ofself-interest, calm and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain;without, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server anda toadie, she marked with tact that she was pleased people connectedwith her establishment should frequent such associates as mustcultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate anddepress. She never praised either me or my friends; only once when shewas sitting in the sun in the garden, a cup of coffee at her elbow andthe Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up andasked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in thisgracious sort:--

"Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de coeur et degré. Votre travail dans ma maison a toujours été admirable, rempli dezèle et de discrétion: vous avez bien le droit de vous amuser. Sortezdonc tant que vous voudrez. Quant à votre choix de connaissances, j'ensuis contente; c'est sage, digne, laudable. "

She closed her lips and resumed the Gazette. 

The reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance thatabout this time the triply-enclosed packet of five letters temporarilydisappeared from my bureau. Blank dismay was naturally my firstsensation on making the discovery; but in a moment I took heart ofgrace. 

"Patience!" whispered I to myself. "Let me say nothing, but waitpeaceably; they will come back again. "

And they did come back: they had only been on a short visit toMadame's chamber; having passed their examination, they came back dulyand truly: I found them all right the next day. 

I wonder what she thought of my correspondence? What estimate did sheform of Dr. John Bretton's epistolary powers? In what light did theoften very pithy thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes originalopinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spiritedstyle, appear to her? How did she like that genial, half humorousvein, which to me gave such delight? What did she think of the fewkind words scattered here and there-not thickly, as the diamonds werescattered in the valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems lie inunfabled beds? Oh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?

I think in Madame Beck's eyes the five letters found a certain favour. One day after she had _borrowed_ them of me (in speaking of sosuave a little woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught herexamining me with a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, butnot at all malevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when the pupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour'srecreation; she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I mether eye, her thoughts forced themselves partially through her lips. 

"Il y a, " said she, "quelquechose de bien remarquable dans lecaractère Anglais. "

"How, Madame?"

She gave a little laugh, repeating the word "how" in English. 

"Je ne saurais vous dire 'how;' mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des idéesà eux, en amitié, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n'est pas besoinde les surveiller, " she added, getting up and trotting away like thecompact little pony she was. 

"Then I hope, " murmured I to myself, "you will graciously let alone myletters for the future. "

Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly theirvision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the brightwinter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as shehad read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly riveron whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving dropshad trickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leavingmy little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth ofwaters far away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word couldbe said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped myGanges, and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged, should vanish like a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite astoic; drops streamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultryshower, heavy and brief. 

But soon I said to myself, "The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and mademe suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following anagony so lingering, death ought to be welcome. "

Welcome I endeavoured to make it. Indeed, long pain had made patiencea habit. In the end I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, and composed its limbs with great calm. 

The letters, however, must be put away, out of sight: people who haveundergone bereavement always jealously gather together and lock awaymementos: it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each momentby sharp revival of regret. 

One vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my treasure, withintent to consider its final disposal, I perceived--and this time witha strong impulse of displeasure--that it had been again tampered with:the packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had beenuntied and retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer hadbeen visited. 

This was a little too much. Madame Beck herself was the soul ofdiscretion, besides having as strong a brain and sound a judgment asever furnished a human head; that she should know the contents of mycasket, was not pleasant, but might be borne. Little Jesuitinquisitress as she was, she could see things in a true light, andunderstand them in an unperverted sense; but the idea that she hadventured to communicate information, thus gained, to others; that shehad, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over documents, in my eyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly. Yet, that such was thecase I now saw reason to fear; I even guessed her confidant. Herkinsman, M. Paul Emanuel, had spent yesterday evening with her: shewas much in the habit of consulting him, and of discussing with himmatters she broached to no one else. This very morning, in class, thatgentleman had favoured me with a glance which he seemed to haveborrowed from Vashti, the actress; I had not at the momentcomprehended that blue, yet lurid, flash out of his angry eye; but Iread its meaning now. _He_, I believed, was not apt to regardwhat concerned me from a fair point of view, nor to judge me withtolerance and candour: I had always found him severe and suspicious:the thought that these letters, mere friendly letters as they were, had fallen once, and might fall again, into his hands, jarred my verysoul. 

What should I do to prevent this? In what corner of this strange housewas it possible to find security or secresy? Where could a key be asafeguard, or a padlock a barrier?

In the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides, most of theboxes and drawers there were mouldering, and did not lock. Rats, too, gnawed their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests amongstthe litter of their contents: my dear letters (most dear still, thoughIchabod was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin;certainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp. No; thegrenier would not do--but where then?

While pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory window-seat. Itwas a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun, already setting, gleamedpale on the tops of the garden-shrubs in the "allée défendue. " Onegreat old pear-tree--the nun's pear-tree--stood up a tall dryadskeleton, grey, gaunt, and stripped. A thought struck me--one of thosequeer fantastic thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary people. Iput on my bonnet, cloak, and furs, and went out into the city. 

Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoaxand overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholymoods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed ahalf deserted "place" or square, I found myself before a sort ofbroker's shop; an ancient place, full of ancient things. What I wantedwas a metal box which might be soldered, or a thick glass jar orbottle which might be stoppered or sealed hermetically. Amongstmiscellaneous heaps, I found and purchased the latter article. 

I then made a little roll of my letters, wrapped them in oiled silk, bound them with twine, and, having put them in the bottle, got the oldJew broker to stopper, seal, and make it air-tight. While obeying mydirections, he glanced at me now and then suspiciously from under hisfrost-white eyelashes. I believe he thought there was some evil deedon hand. In all this I had a dreary something--not pleasure--but asad, lonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I acted, the moodcontrolling me, were similar to the impulse and the mood which hadinduced me to visit the confessional. With quick walking I regainedthe pensionnat just at dark, and in time for dinner. 

At seven o'clock the moon rose. At half-past seven, when the pupilsand teachers were at study, and Madame Beck was with her mother andchildren in the salle-à-manger, when the half-boarders were all gonehome, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still--I shawledmyself, and, taking the sealed jar, stole out through the first-classedoor, into the berceau and thence into the "allée défendue. "

Methusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this walk, nearmy seat: he rose up, dim and gray, above the lower shrubs round him. Now Methusaleh, though so very old, was of sound timber still; onlythere was a hole, or rather a deep hollow, near his root. I knew therewas such a hollow, hidden partly by ivy and creepers growing thickround; and there I meditated hiding my treasure. But I was not onlygoing to hide a treasure--I meant also to bury a grief. That griefover which I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it in its winding-sheet, must be interred. 

Well, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was large enoughto receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a tool-shed at thebottom of the garden, lay the relics of building-materials, left bymasons lately employed to repair a part of the premises. I fetchedthence a slate and some mortar, put the slate on the hollow, securedit with cement, covered the hole with black mould, and, finally, replaced the ivy. This done, I rested, leaning against the tree;lingering, like any other mourner, beside a newly-sodded grave. 

The air of the night was very still, but dim with a peculiar mist, which changed the moonlight into a luminous haze. In this air, or thismist, there was some quality--electrical, perhaps--which acted instrange sort upon me. I felt then as I had felt a year ago in England--ona night when the aurora borealis was streaming and sweeping roundheaven, when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watch thatmustering of an army with banners--that quivering of serried lances--that swift ascent of messengers from below the north star to the dark, high keystone of heaven's arch. I felt, not happy, far otherwise, butstrong with reinforced strength. 

If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. Ipondered now how to break up my winter-quarters--to leave anencampment where food and forage failed. Perhaps, to effect thischange, another pitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, Ihad a mind to the encounter: too poor to lose, God might destine me togain. But what road was open?--what plan available?

On this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto, seemed to shine out somewhat brighter: a ray gleamed even white beforeme, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, to make out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a littlesuddenly in the obscure alley: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye:it took shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about threeyards from a tall, sable-robed, snowy-veiled woman. 

Five minutes passed. I neither fled nor shrieked. She was there still. I spoke. 

"Who are you? and why do you come to me?"

She stood mute. She had no face--no features: all below her brow wasmasked with a white cloth; but she had eyes, and they viewed me. 

I felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation willoften suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage. I advancedone step. I stretched out my hand, for I meant to touch her. Sheseemed to recede. I drew nearer: her recession, still silent, becameswift. A mass of shrubs, full-leaved evergreens, laurel and dense yew, intervened between me and what I followed. Having passed thatobstacle, I looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said, --"If you haveany errand to men, come back and deliver it. " Nothing spoke orre-appeared. 

This time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse: there was noone to whom I dared whisper the words, "I have again seen the nun. "

 * * * * *

Paulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue Crécy. In the oldBretton days, though she had never professed herself fond of me, mysociety had soon become to her a sort of unconscious necessary. I usedto notice that if I withdrew to my room, she would speedily cometrotting after me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with herlittle peremptory accent, --"Come down. Why do you sit here byyourself? You must come into the parlour. "

In the same spirit she urged me now--"Leave the Rue Fossette, " shesaid, "and come and live with us. Papa would give you far more thanMadame Beck gives you. "

Mr. Home himself offered me a handsome sum--thrice my present salary--if I would accept the office of companion to his daughter. I declined. I think I should have declined had I been poorer than I was, and withscantier fund of resource, more stinted narrowness of future prospect. I had not that vocation. I could teach; I could give lessons; but tobe either a private governess or a companion was unnatural to me. Rather than fill the former post in any great house, I woulddeliberately have taken a housemaid's place, bought a strong pair ofgloves, swept bedrooms and staircases, and cleaned stoves and locks, in peace and independence. Rather than be a companion, I would havemade shirts and starved. 

I was no bright lady's shadow--not Miss de Bassompierre's. Overcastenough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but thedimness and depression must both be voluntary--such as kept me docileat my desk, in the midst of my now well-accustomed pupils in MadameBeck's fist classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, orin the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden: myqualifications were not convertible, nor adaptable; they could not bemade the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage ofany greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating, understood each other well. I was not _her_ companion, nor herchildren's governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing--not toherself--not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnightbeen called from home by a near relation's illness, and on her return, all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest somethingin her absence should have gone wrong finding that matters hadproceeded much as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaringneglect--she made each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgment ofsteadiness. To my bedside she came at twelve o'clock at night, andtold me she had no present for me: "I must make fidelity advantageousto the St. Pierre, " said she; "if I attempt to make it advantageous toyou, there will arise misunderstanding between us--perhaps separation. One thing, however, I _can_ do to please you--leave you alonewith your liberty: c'est-ce que je ferai. " She kept her word. Everyslight shackle she had ever laid on me, she, from that time, withquiet hand removed. Thus I had pleasure in voluntarily respecting herrules: gratification in devoting double time, in taking double painswith the pupils she committed to my charge. 

As to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure, though Iwould not live with her. My visits soon taught me that it was unlikelyeven my occasional and voluntary society would long be indispensableto her. M. De Bassompierre, for his part, seemed impervious to thisconjecture, blind to this possibility; unconscious as any child to thesigns, the likelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew toan end, he might not approve. 

Whether or not he would cordially approve, I used to speculate. Difficult to say. He was much taken up with scientific interests;keen, intent, and somewhat oppugnant in what concerned his favouritepursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful in the ordinary affairs oflife. From all I could gather, he seemed to regard his "daughterling"as still but a child, and probably had not yet admitted the notionthat others might look on her in a different light: he would speak ofwhat should be done when "Polly" was a woman, when she should be grownup; and "Polly, " standing beside his chair, would sometimes smile andtake his honoured head between her little hands, and kiss his iron-grey locks; and, at other times, she would pout and toss her curls:but she never said, "Papa, I _am_ grown up. "

She had different moods for different people. With her father shereally was still a child, or child-like, affectionate, merry, andplayful. With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought andfeeling could make her. With Mrs. Bretton she was docile and reliant, but not expansive. With Graham she was shy, at present very shy; atmoments she tried to be cold; on occasion she endeavoured to shun him. His step made her start; his entrance hushed her; when he spoke, heranswers failed of fluency; when he took leave, she remained self-vexedand disconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanour in her. 

"My little Polly, " he said once, "you live too retired a life; if yougrow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fittedfor society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how isthis? Don't you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be ratherpartial to him?"

"_Rather_, papa, " echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentleand simple tone. 

"And you don't like him now? What has he done?"

"Nothing. Y--e--s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange toeach other. "

"Then rub it off, Polly; rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talkaway when he is here, and have no fear of him?"

"_He_ does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?"

"Oh, to be sure, what man would not be afraid of such a little silentlady?"

"Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is myway, and that I have no unfriendly intention. "

"Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it isonly your whim!"

"Well, I'll improve, papa. "

And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried tokeep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse affably with Dr. John on general topics. The attention called into her guest's face apleasurable glow; he met her with caution, and replied to her in hissoftest tones, as if there was a kind of gossamer happiness hanging inthe air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath. Certainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it couldnot be denied that there was a most exquisite and fairy charm. 

When the Doctor was gone, she approached her father's chair. 

"Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better?"

"My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her ifthis improvement continues. By-and-by we shall see her receiving myguests with quite a calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have tolook about us, and polish up all our best airs and graces lest weshould be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a littleflutter, a little tendency to stammer now and then, and even, to lispas you lisped when you were six years old. "

"No, papa, " interrupted she indignantly, "that can't be true. "

"I appeal to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering Dr. Bretton'squestion as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince ofBois l'Etang, say, 'yeth, ' she had been there 'theveral' times?"

"Papa, you are satirical, you are méchant! I can pronounce all theletters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this youare very particular in making me be civil to Dr. Bretton, do you likehim yourself?"

"To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then he is a verygood son to his mother; besides being a kind-hearted fellow and cleverin his profession: yes, the callant is well enough. "

"_Callant_! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh or theAberdeen accent you have?"

"Both, my pet, both: and doubtless the Glaswegian into the bargain. Itis that which enables me to speak French so well: a gude Scots tonguealways succeeds well at the French. "

"_The_ French! Scotch again: incorrigible papa. You, too, needschooling. "

"Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake both you andme; to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical. "

The light in which M. De Bassompierre evidently regarded "Miss Snowe, "used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictoryattributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according tothe eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed me learned andblue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a modelteacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhatconventional, perhaps, too strict, limited, and scrupulous, but stillthe pink and pattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person, Professor Paul Emanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity ofintimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery and rash nature--adventurous, indocile, and audacious. I smiled at them all. If any oneknew me it was little Paulina Mary. 

As I would not be Paulina's nominal and paid companion, genial andharmonious as I began to find her intercourse, she persuaded me tojoin her in some study, as a regular and settled means of sustainingcommunication: she proposed the German language, which, like myself, she found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in theRue Crécy of the same mistress; this arrangement threw us together forsome hours of every week. M. De Bassompierre seemed quite pleased: itperfectly met his approbation, that Madame Minerva Gravity shouldassociate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dearchild. 

That other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the RueFossette, discovering by some surreptitious spying means, that I wasno longer so stationary as hitherto, but went out regularly at certainhours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me undersurveillance. People said M. Emanuel had been brought up amongstJesuits. I should more readily have accredited this report had hismanoeuvres been better masked. As it was, I doubted it. Never was amore undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He wouldanalyze his own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, andforthwith indulge in explanatory boasts of their skill. I know notwhether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to me onemorning and whispering solemnly that he "had his eye on me: _he_at least would discharge the duty of a friend, and not leave meentirely to my own devices. My, proceedings seemed at present veryunsettled: he did not know what to make of them: he thought his cousinBeck very much to blame in suffering this sort of flutteringinconsistency in a teacher attached to her house. What had a persondevoted to a serious calling, that of education, to do with Counts andCountesses, hotels and châteaux? To him, I seemed altogether 'enl'air. ' On his faith, he believed I went out six days in the seven. "

I said, "Monsieur exaggerated. I certainly had enjoyed the advantageof a little change lately, but not before it had become necessary; andthe privilege was by no means exercised in excess. "

"Necessary! How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed?Change necessary! He would recommend me to look at the Catholic'religieuses, ' and study _their_ lives. _They_ asked no change. "

I am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke, but it was one which provoked him: he accused me of being reckless, worldly, and epicurean; ambitious of greatness, and feverishly athirstfor the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no "dévouement, " no"récueillement" in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice, or self-abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, Imutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises. 

"He could see in me nothing Christian: like many other Protestants, Irevelled in the pride and self-will of paganism. "

I slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing ofsilence. 

A vague sound grumbled between his teeth; it could not surely be a"juron:" he was too religious for that; but I am certain I heard theword _sacré_. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated, with the unequivocal addition of _mille_ something, when I passedhim about two hours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go andtake my German lesson in the Rue Crécy. Never was a better little man, in some points, than M. Paul: never, in others, a more waspish littledespot. 

 * * * * *

Our German mistress, Fräulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty woman, of about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to have lived in the days ofQueen Elizabeth, as she habitually consumed, for her first and secondbreakfasts, beer and beef: also, her direct and downright Deutschnature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint from what shecalled our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordialwith her: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consentedto kiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any explosivesmack. These omissions oppressed and depressed her considerably;still, on the whole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instructforeign girls, who hardly ever will think and study for themselves--who have no idea of grappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it bydint of reflection or application--our progress, which in truth wasvery leisurely, seemed to astound her. In her eyes, we were a pair ofglacial prodigies, cold, proud, and preternatural. 

The young Countess _was_ a little proud, a little fastidious: andperhaps, with her native delicacy and beauty, she had a right to thesefeelings; but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. Inever evaded the morning salute, which Paulina would slip when shecould; nor was a certain little manner of still disdain a weapon knownin my armoury of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine, and bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once itssteelly glisten. 

Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference; and whileshe half-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort of dainty nymph--an Undine--she took refuge with me, as a being all mortal, and ofeasier mood. 

A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller's Ballads;Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully; the Fräulein wouldlisten to her with a broad smile of pleasure, and say her voicesounded like music. She translated them, too, with a facile flow oflanguage, and in a strain of kindred and poetic fervour: her cheekwould flush, her lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle ormelt as she went on. She learnt the best by heart, and would oftenrecite them when we were alone together. One she liked well was "DesMädchens Klage:" that is, she liked well to repeat the words, shefound plaintive melody in the sound; the sense she would criticise. She murmured, as we sat over the fire one evening:--

 Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück, Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück, Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!

"Lived and loved!" said she, "is that the summit of earthly happiness, the end of life--to love? I don't think it is. It may be the extremeof mortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless tortureof feeling. If Schiller had said to _be_ loved, he might havecome nearer the truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?"

"I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love toyou? What do you know about it?"

She crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame. 

"Now, Lucy, " she said, "I won't take that from you. It may be well forpapa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus viewme; but _you_ know and shall learn to acknowledge that I amverging on my nineteenth year. "

"No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate nofeelings by discussion and conversation; we will not talk about love. "

"Indeed, indeed!" said she--all in hurry and heat--"you may think tocheck and hold me in, as much as you please; but I _have_ talkedabout it, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, anddisagreeably and detrimentally: and in a way you wouldn't approve. "

And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could notdiscern what she meant, and I would not ask her: I was nonplussed. Seeing, however, the utmost innocence in her countenance--combinedwith some transient perverseness and petulance--I said at last, --

"Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Whothat has near access to you would dare to do it?"

"Lucy, " replied she more softly, "it is a person who makes memiserable sometimes; and I wish she would keep away--I don't wanther. "

"But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much. "

"It is--it is my cousin Ginevra. Every time she has leave to visitMrs. Cholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone shebegins to talk about her admirers. Love, indeed! You should hear allshe has to say about love. "

"Oh, I have heard it, " said I, quite coolly; "and on the whole, perhaps it is as well you should have heard it too: it is not to beregretted, it is all right. Yet, surely, Ginevra's mind cannotinfluence yours. You can look over both her head and her heart. "

"She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing myhappiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through thefeelings and people dearest to me. "

"What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may becounteraction of the damage done. "

"The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. Shedoes not spare Mrs. Bretton--she does not spare.... Graham. "

"No, I daresay: and how does she mix up these with her sentiment andher.... _love_? She does mix them, I suppose?"

"Lucy, she is insolent; and, I believe, false. You know Dr. Bretton. We both know him. He may be careless and proud; but when was he evermean or slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at herfeet, pursuing her like her shadow. She--repulsing him with insult, and he imploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of ittrue?"

"It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does she give himout as still her suitor?"

"She says she might marry him any day: he only waits her consent. "

"It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your mannertowards Graham which your father noticed. "

"They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. AsGinevra speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixedtruth: I believe she exaggerates--perhaps invents--but I want to knowhow far. "

"Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof. Give her an opportunityof displaying the power she boasts. "

"I could do that to-morrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner, all savants. Graham, who, papa is beginning to discover, is a savant, too--skilled, they say, in more than one branch of science--is amongthe number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported, amidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A---- and Z----, the Parisian Academicians: all my new credit for manner would be putin peril. You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my sake; Ginevra, at aword, will join you. "

"Yes; then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall havethe chance of justifying her character for veracity. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE HÔTEL CRÉCY. 

The morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we--or than I, at least-had anticipated. It seems it was the birthday of one of theyoung princes of Labassecour-the eldest, I think, the Duc deDindonneau, and a general holiday was given in his honour at theschools, and especially at the principal "Athénée, " or college. Theyouth of that institution had also concocted, and were to present aloyal address; for which purpose they were to be assembled in thepublic building where the yearly examinations were conducted, and theprizes distributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration, or"discours, " was to follow from one of the professors. 

Several of M. De Bassompierre's friends-the savants-being more or lessconnected with the Athénée, they were expected to attend on thisoccasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. LeChevalier Staas, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of theAthenians in general. M. De Bassompierre was engaged by his friends toaccompany them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party, and she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us comeearly that we might join her. 

As Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing in the dormitory of the RueFossette, she (Miss F. ) suddenly burst into a laugh. 

"What now?" I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arrangingher attire, and was gazing at me. 

"It seems so odd, " she replied, with her usual half-honest half-insolent unreserve, "that you and I should now be so much on a level, visiting in the same sphere; having the same connections. "

"Why, yes, " said I; "I had not much respect for the connections youchiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs. Cholmondeley and Co. Would neverhave suited me at all. "

"Who _are_ you, Miss Snowe?" she inquired, in a tone of suchundisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in myturn. 

"You used to call yourself a nursery governess; when you first camehere you really had the care of the children in this house: I haveseen you carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne--fewgovernesses would have condescended so far--and now Madame Beck treatsyou with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; andthat proud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!"

"Wonderful!" I agreed, much amused at her mystification. "Who am Iindeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don't look thecharacter. "

"I wonder you are not more flattered by all this, " she went on; "youtake it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I oncethought you, you must be a cool hand. "

"The nobody you once thought me!" I repeated, and my face grew alittle hot; but I would not be angry: of what importance was a school-girl's crude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself, therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility; andasked "what she saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever ofconfusion?"

"One can't help wondering at some things, " she persisted. 

"Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?"

"Yes; let me take your arm. "

"I would rather not: we will walk side by side. "

When she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight; and, as I was not a gentleman, or her lover, I did not like it. 

"There, again!" she cried. "I thought, by offering to take your arm, tointimate approbation of your dress and general appearance: I meant itas a compliment. "

"You did? You meant, in short, to express that you are not ashamed tobe seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondeley should befondling her lapdog at some window, or Colonel de Hamal picking histeeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would notquite blush for your companion?"

"Yes, " said she, with that directness which was her best point--whichgave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them--whichwas, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of acharacter otherwise not formed to keep. 

I delegated the trouble of commenting on this "yes" to my countenance;or rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue of course, reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look Igave her. 

"Scornful, sneering creature!" she went on, as we crossed a greatsquare, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to theRue Crécy. "Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as youare!"

"You bring it on yourself: let me alone: have the sense to be quiet: Iwill let you alone. "

"As if one _could_ let you alone, when you are so peculiar and somysterious!"

"The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your ownbrain--maggots--neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them outof my sight. "

"But _are_ you anybody?" persevered she, pushing her hand, inspite of me, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself withinhospitable closeness against my side, by way of keeping out theintruder. 

"Yes, " I said, "I am a rising character: once an old lady's companion, then a nursery-governess, now a school-teacher. "

"Do--_do_ tell me who you are? I'll not repeat it, " she urged, adhering with ludicrous tenacity to the wise notion of an incognitoshe had got hold of; and she squeezed the arm of which she had nowobtained full possession, and coaxed and conjured till I was obligedto pause in the park to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the mostfanciful changes on this theme; proving, by her obstinate credulity, or incredulity, her incapacity to conceive how any person notbolstered up by birth or wealth, not supported by some consciousnessof name or connection, could maintain an attitude of reasonableintegrity. As for me, it quite sufficed to my mental tranquillity thatI was known where it imported that known I should be; the rest sat onme easily: pedigree, social position, and recondite intellectualacquisition, occupied about the same space and place in my interestsand thoughts; they were my third-class lodgers--to whom could beassigned only the small sitting-room and the little back bedroom: evenif the dining and drawing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it tothem, as thinking minor accommodations better suited to theircircumstances. The world, I soon learned, held a different estimate:and I make no doubt, the world is very right in its view, yet believealso that I am not quite wrong in mine. 

There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whomloss of connection costs loss of self-respect: are not these justifiedin placing the highest value on that station and association which istheir safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would becomecontemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestrywere simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and notcapitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping thesefatal facts out of sight--for starting, trembling, quailing at thechance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more outexperience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbour'sconduct, to question the world's wisdom: wherever an accumulation ofsmall defences is found, whether surrounding the prude's virtue or theman of the world's respectability, there, be sure, it is needed. 

We reached the Hôtel Crécy; Paulina was ready; Mrs. Bretton was withher; and, under her escort and that of M. De Bassompierre, we weresoon conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, ata convenient distance from the Tribune. The youth of the Athénée weremarshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were inplaces of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied aconspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded withthe aristocracy and first burghers of the town. 

Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the "discours" was tobe delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Somevague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver aformal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to theprinces. 

The Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after itwas filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and armsgrew above the crimson desk. This head I knew: its colour, shape, port, expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe; theblackness and closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness ofbrow, the blueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated inthe memory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almostby this their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, Iconfess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent myhead, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidantsof my mirth. 

I think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rather pleasant thanotherwise, to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark andcandid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class. His presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expectinghim, though I knew he filled the chair of Belles Lettres in thecollege. With _him_ in that Tribune, I felt sure that neitherformalism nor flattery would be our doom; but for what was vouchsafedus, for what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously, on our heads--I own I was not prepared. 

He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and theburghers, with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, choleric earnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the threedivisions of the Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not asschoolboys, but as future citizens and embryo patriots. The timeswhich have since come on Europe had not been foretold yet, and M. Emanuel's spirit seemed new to me. Who would have thought the flat andfat soil of Labassecour could yield political convictions and nationalfeelings, such as were now strongly expressed? Of the bearing of hisopinions I need here give no special indication; yet it may bepermitted me to say that I believed the little man not more earnestthan right in what he said: with all his fire he was severe andsensible; he trampled Utopian theories under his heel; he rejectedwild dreams with scorn;--but when he looked in the face of tyranny--oh, then there opened a light in his eye worth seeing; and when hespoke of injustice, his voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded merather of the band-trumpet, ringing at twilight from the park. 

I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharinghis flame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire ashe eloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour intheir country's and in Europe's future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing cheer, as he concluded: with all his fierceness, he was theirfavourite professor. 

As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knewme, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and utteredthe words "Qu'en dites vous?"--question eminently characteristic, andreminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitiverestlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared justthen to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought, but he _did_care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress hiswish. Well! if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his_naiveté_. I would have praised him: I had plenty of praise in myheart; but, alas! no words on my lips. Who _has_ words at theright moment? I stammered some lame expressions; but was truly gladwhen other people, coming up with profuse congratulations, covered mydeficiency by their redundancy. 

A gentleman introduced him to M. De Bassompierre; and the Count, whohad likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends (forthe most part M. Emanuel's likewise), and to dine with them at theHôtel Crécy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shyat meeting the advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdyindependence in the stringing of his sinews--not obtrusive, butpleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of hischaracter; he promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A----, a French Academician, in the course of the evening. 

At dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way, very beautiful; the former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in materialcharms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtleand spiritual: for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, forwinning variety of expression. Ginevra's dress of deep crimsonrelieved well her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-likebloom. Paulina's attire--in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in texture clear and white--made the eye grateful for the delicatelife of her complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, forthe tender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flowof her hair--darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also hereyebrows, her eyelashes, her full irids, and large mobile pupils. Nature having traced all these details slightly, and with a carelesshand, in Miss Fanshawe's case; and in Miss de Bassompierre's, wroughtthem to a high and delicate finish. 

Paulina was awed by the savants, but not quite to mutism: sheconversed modestly, diffidently; not without effort, but with so truea sweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense, that her father morethan once suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her aneye of proud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, M. Z----, a verylearned, but quite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. Iwas charmed with her French; it was faultless--the structure correct, the idioms true, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her lifeon the Continent, could do nothing like it not that words ever failedMiss Fanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, norin any number of years would acquire. Here, too, M. De Bassompierrewas gratified; for, on the point of language, he was critical. 

Another listener and observer there was; one who, detained by someexigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladieswere quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the moment of taking his seatat the table; and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. Hisarrival roused Miss Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless: shenow became smiling and complacent, talked--though what she said wasrarely to the purpose--or rather, was of a purpose somewhatmortifyingly below the standard of the occasion. Her light, disconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once; perhaps itpleased him still: perhaps it was only fancy which suggested thethought that, while his eye was filled and his ear fed, his taste, hiskeen zest, his lively intelligence, were not equally consulted andregaled. It is certain that, restless and exacting as seemed thedemand on his attention, he yielded courteously all that was required:his manner showed neither pique nor coolness: Ginevra was hisneighbour, and to her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confinedhis notice. She appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room invery good spirits. 

Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she againbecame flat and listless: throwing herself on a couch, she denouncedboth the "discours" and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired ofher cousin how she could hear such a set of prosaic "gros-bonnets" asher father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard tomove, her railings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, anddashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the first, tookup his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain thatpost: there was a position near the hearth to which I expected to seehim attracted: this position he only scanned with his eye; while_he_ looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulinacharmed these thoughtful Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, thesoft courtesy of her manner, her immature, but real and inbred tact, pleased their national taste; they clustered about her, not indeed totalk science; which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on manysubjects in letters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soonappeared that she had both read and reflected. I listened. I am surethat though Graham stood aloof, he listened too: his hearing as wellas his vision was very fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gatheredthe conversation; I felt that the mode in which it was sustainedsuited him exquisitely--pleased him almost to pain. 

In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character; thanmost people thought--than Graham himself imagined--than she would evershow to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there is no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliablerefinement, without strength as excellent, as complete, astrustworthy. As well might you look for good fruit and blossom on arootless and sapless tree, as for charms that will endure in a feebleand relaxed nature. For a little while, the blooming semblance ofbeauty may flourish round weakness; but it cannot bear a blast: itsoon fades, even in serenest sunshine. Graham would have started hadany suggestive spirit whispered of the sinew and the staminasustaining that delicate nature; but I who had known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good and strong root her graces held to thefirm soil of reality. 

While Dr. Bretton listened, and waited an opening in the magic circle, his glance restlessly sweeping the room at intervals, lighted bychance on me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmotherand M. De Bassompierre, who, as usual, were engaged in what Mr. Homecalled "a two-handed crack:" what the Count would have interpreted asa tête-à-tête. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked mehow I was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my ownthought: it was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken tome-a lapse of which he was not even conscious. He sat down, and becamesilent. His wish was rather to look than converse. Ginevra and Paulinawere now opposite to him: he could gaze his fill: he surveyed bothforms--studied both faces. 

Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the roomsince dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation; and amongstthe gentlemen, I may incidentally observe, I had already noticed byglimpses, a severe, dark, professorial outline, hovering aloof in aninner saloon, seen only in vista. M. Emanuel knew many of thegentlemen present, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting myself; in looking towards the hearth, he could not but seeme, and naturally made a movement to approach; seeing, however, Dr. Bretton also, he changed his mind and held back. If that had been all, there would have been no cause for quarrel; but not satisfied withholding back, he puckered up his eyebrows, protruded his lip, andlooked so ugly that I averted my eyes from the displeasing spectacle. M. Joseph Emanuel had arrived, as well as his austere brother, and atthis very moment was relieving Ginevra at the piano. What a master-touch succeeded her school-girl jingle! In what grand, grateful tonesthe instrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist!

"Lucy, " began Dr. Bretton, breaking silence and smiling, as Ginevraglided before him, casting a glance as she passed by, "Miss Fanshaweis certainly a fine girl. "

Of course I assented. 

"Is there, " he pursued, "another in the room as lovely?"

"I think there is not another as handsome. "

"I agree with you, Lucy: you and I do often agree in opinion, intaste, I think; or at least in judgment. "

"Do we?" I said, somewhat doubtfully. 

"I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl--my mother'sgod-son instead of her god-daughter, we should have been good friends:our opinions would have melted into each other. "

He had assumed a bantering air: a light, half-caressing, half-ironic, shone aslant in his eye. Ah, Graham! I have given more than onesolitary moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of LucySnowe: was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically thesame but possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station, would your manner to her, your value for her, have been quite whatthey actually were? And yet by these questions I would not seriouslyinfer blame. No; you might sadden and trouble me sometimes; but thenmine was a soon-depressed, an easily-deranged temperament--it fell ifa cloud crossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity Ishould stand more at fault than you. 

Trying, then, to keep down the unreasonable pain which thrilled myheart, on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote toothers the most grave and earnest, the manliest interest, he had nomore than light raillery for Lucy, the friend of lang syne, I inquiredcalmly, --"On what points are we so closely in accordance?"

"We each have an observant faculty. You, perhaps, don't give me creditfor the possession; yet I have it. "

"But you were speaking of tastes: we may see the same objects, yetestimate them differently?"

"Let us bring it to the test. Of course, you cannot but render homageto the merits of Miss Fanshawe: now, what do you think of others inthe room?--my mother, for instance; or the lions yonder, MessieursA---- and Z----; or, let us say, that pale little lady, Miss deBassompierre?"

"You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of MessieursA---- and Z----. "

"And the other?"

"I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady--pale, certainly, justnow, when she is fatigued with over-excitement. "

"You don't remember her as a child?"

"I wonder, sometimes, whether you do. "

"I had forgotten her; but it is noticeable, that circumstances, persons, even words and looks, that had slipped your memory, may, under certain conditions, certain aspects of your own or another'smind, revive. "

"That is possible enough. "

"Yet, " he continued, "the revival is imperfect--needs confirmation, partakes so much of the dim character of a dream, or of the airy oneof a fancy, that the testimony of a witness becomes necessary forcorroboration. Were you not a guest at Bretton ten years ago, when Mr. Home brought his little girl, whom we then called 'little Polly, ' tostay with mamma?"

"I was there the night she came, and also the morning she went away. "

"Rather a peculiar child, was she not? I wonder how I treated her. WasI fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious orkindly about me--great, reckless, schoolboy as I was? But you don'trecollect me, of course?"

"You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like youpersonally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day. "

"But, Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really whets my curiosity. What am I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?"

"Gracious to whatever pleased you--unkindly or cruel to nothing. "

"There you are wrong; I think I was almost a brute to _you_, forinstance. "

"A brute! No, Graham: I should never have patiently enduredbrutality. "

"_This_, however, I _do_ remember: quiet Lucy Snowe tastednothing of my grace. "

"As little of your cruelty. "

"Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a beinginoffensive as a shadow. "

I smiled; but I also hushed a groan. Oh!--I just wished he would letme alone--cease allusion to me. These epithets--these attributes I putfrom me. His "quiet Lucy Snowe, " his "inoffensive shadow, " I gave himback; not with scorn, but with extreme weariness: theirs was thecoldness and the pressure of lead; let him whelm me with no suchweight. Happily, he was soon on another theme. 

"On what terms were 'little Polly' and I? Unless my recollectionsdeceive me, we were not foes--"

"You speak very vaguely. Do you think little Polly's memory, not moredefinite?"

"Oh! we don't talk of 'little Polly' _now_. Pray say, Miss deBassompierre; and, of course, such a stately personage remembersnothing of Bretton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy; can they read a wordin the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to ahorn-book? She does not know that I partly taught her to read. "

"In the Bible on Sunday nights?"

"She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now: once what a littlerestless, anxious countenance was hers! What a thing is a child'spreference--what a bubble! Would you believe it? that lady was fond ofme!"

"I think she was in some measure fond of you, " said I, moderately. 

"You don't remember then? _I_ had forgotten; but I remember_now_. She liked me the best of whatever there was at Bretton. "

"You thought so. "

"I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall; orrather, I wish some one, you for instance, would go behind and whisperit all in her ear, and I could have the delight--here, as I sit--ofwatching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, thinkyou, Lucy, and make me ever grateful?"

"Could I manage to make you ever grateful?" said I. "No, _I couldnot_. " And I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock: I felt, too, an inward courage, warm and resistant. In this matter I was notdisposed to gratify Dr. John: not at all. With now welcome force, Irealized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. Hewanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him. Hedid not at all guess what I felt: he did not read my eyes, or face, orgestures; though, I doubt not, all spoke. Leaning towards mecoaxingly, he said, softly, "_Do_ content me, Lucy. "

And I would have contented, or, at least, I would clearly haveenlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me thepart of officious soubrette in a love drama; when, following his, soft, eager, murmur, meeting almost his pleading, mellow--"_Do_content me, Lucy!" a sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side. 

"Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!" sibillated the sudden boa-constrictor; "vous avez l'air bien triste, soumis, rêveur, mais vousne l'êtes pas: c'est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme à l'âme, l'éclair aux yeux!"

"Oui; j'ai la flamme à l'âme, et je dois l'avoir!" retorted I, turningin just wrath: but Professor Emanuel had hissed his insult and wasgone. 

The worst of the matter was, that Dr. Bretton, whose ears, as I havesaid, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe; heput his handkerchief to his face, and laughed till he shook. 

"Well done, Lucy, " cried he; "capital! petite chatte, petite coquette!Oh, I must tell my mother! Is it true, Lucy, or half-true? I believeit is: you redden to the colour of Miss Fanshawe's gown. And really, by my word, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was sosavage with you at the concert: the very same, and in his soul he isfrantic at this moment because he sees me laughing. Oh! I must teasehim. "

And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed, jested, andwhispered on till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled. 

Suddenly he was sobered: a vacant space appeared near Miss deBassompierre; the circle surrounding her seemed about to dissolve. This movement was instantly caught by Graham's eye--ever-vigilant, even while laughing; he rose, took his courage in both hands, crossedthe room, and made the advantage his own. Dr. John, throughout hiswhole life, was a man of luck--a man of success. And why? Because hehad the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timedaction, the nerve to consummate a perfect work. And no tyrant-passiondragged him back; no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way. Howwell he looked at this very moment! When Paulina looked up as hereached her side, her glance mingled at once with an encounteringglance, animated, yet modest; his colour, as he spoke to her, becamehalf a blush, half a glow. He stood in her presence brave and bashful:subdued and unobtrusive, yet decided in his purpose and devoted in hisardour. I gathered all this by one view. I did not prolong myobservation--time failed me, had inclination served: the night worelate; Ginevra and I ought already to have been in the Rue Fossette. Irose, and bade good-night to my godmother and M. De Bassompierre. 

I know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my reluctantacceptance of Dr. Bretton's badinage, or whether he perceived that Iwas pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flowof exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure-loving MademoiselleLucie; but, as I was leaving the room, he stepped up and inquiredwhether I had any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette. The professor_now_ spoke politely, and even deferentially, and he lookedapologetic and repentant; but I could not recognise his civility at aword, nor meet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion. Neverhitherto had I felt seriously disposed to resent his brusqueries, orfreeze before his fierceness; what he had said to-night, however, Iconsidered unwarranted: my extreme disapprobation of the proceedingmust be marked, however slightly. I merely said:--"I am provided withattendance. "

Which was true, as Ginevra and I were to be sent home in the carriage;and I passed him with the sliding obeisance with which he was wont tobe saluted in classe by pupils crossing his estrade. 

Having sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emanuel stoodthere as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine. 

"Is it?" I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness andfrostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properlyact out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had beengrieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successfuleffort. That "Is it?" sounded just like the manner of other people. Ihad heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, fromthe pursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficingmisses and mesdemoiselles. That M. Paul would not stand any prolongedexperience of this sort of dialogue I knew; but he certainly merited asample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for hetook the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl and objected to itslightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Recedingaloof, and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religiouspainting darkening the wall. 

Ginevra was long in coming: tedious seemed her loitering. M. Paul wasstill there; my ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He camenearer. "Now for another hiss!" thought I: had not the action been toouncivil I could have, stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of thethrill. Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur; itis then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek, an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low kind whisper. M. Paul spoke gently:--"Friends, " said he, "do not quarrel for a word. Tell me, was it I or ce grand fat d'Anglais" (so he profanelydenominated Dr. Bretton), "who made your eyes so humid, and yourcheeks so hot as they are even now?"

"I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excitedsuch emotion as you indicate, " was my answer; and in giving it, Iagain surpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood. 

"But what did I say?" he pursued; "tell me: I was angry: I haveforgotten my words; what were they?"

"Such as it is best to forget!" said I, still quite calm and chill. 

"Then it was _my_ words which wounded you? Consider them unsaid:permit my retractation; accord my pardon. "

"I am not angry, Monsieur. "

"Then you are worse than angry--grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy. "

"M. Emanuel, I _do_ forgive you. "

"Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in thatalien tone, 'Mon ami, je vous pardonne. '"

He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, hissimplicity, his earnestness?

"Bon!" he cried. "Voilà que le jour va poindre! Dites donc, mon ami. "

"Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne. "

"I will have no monsieur: speak the other word, or I shall not believeyou sincere: another effort--_mon ami_, or else in English, --myfriend!"

Now, "my friend" had rather another sound and significancythan "_mon ami_;" it did not breathe the same sense of domesticand intimate affection; "_mon ami_" I could _not_ say to M. Paul; "my friend, " I could, and did say without difficulty. Thisdistinction existed not for him, however, and he was quite satisfiedwith the English phrase. He smiled. You should have seen him smile, reader; and you should have marked the difference between hiscountenance now, and that he wore half an hour ago. I cannot affirmthat I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, orkindness round M. Paul's lips, or in his eyes before. The ironic, thesarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant, I had hundredsof times seen him express by what he called a smile, but anyilluminated sign of milder or warmer feelings struck me as wholly newin his visage. It changed it as from a mask to a face: the deep linesleft his features; the very complexion seemed clearer and fresher;that swart, sallow, southern darkness which spoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter hue. I know not that I have ever seen inany other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. Henow took me to the carriage: at the same moment M. De Bassompierrecame out with his niece. 

In a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshawe; she had found the evening agrand failure: completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the mostuncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated, and the carriage-door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Bretton had something venomousin them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or sting him, hatred was her only resource; and this hatred she expressed in termsso unmeasured and proportion so monstrous, that, after listening for awhile with assumed stoicism, my outraged sense of justice at last andsuddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued: for I could be passionate, too; especially with my present fair but faulty associate, who neverfailed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was well that the carriage-wheels made a tremendous rattle over the flinty Choseville pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither dead silence nor calmdiscussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, half in seeming, Imade it my business to storm down Ginevra. She had set out rampantfrom the Rue Crécy; it was necessary to tame her before we reached theRue Fossette: to this end it was indispensable to show up her sterlingvalue and high deserts; and this must be done in language of which thefidelity and homeliness might challenge comparison with thecompliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the rightdiscipline for Ginevra; it suited her. I am quite sure she went to bedthat night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and sleptall the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE WATCHGUARD. 

M. Paul Emanuel owned an acute sensitiveness to the annoyance ofinterruption, from whatsoever cause occurring, during his lessons: topass through the classe under such circumstances was considered by theteachers and pupils of the school, individually and collectively, tobe as much as a woman's or girl's life was worth. 

Madame Beck herself, if forced to the enterprise, would "skurry"through, retrenching her skirts, and carefully coasting the formidableestrade, like a ship dreading breakers. As to Rosine, the portress--onwhom, every half-hour, devolved the fearful duty of fetching pupilsout of the very heart of one or other of the divisions to take theirmusic-lessons in the oratory, the great or little saloon, the salle-à-manger, or some other piano-station--she would, upon her second orthird attempt, frequently become almost tongue-tied from excess ofconsternation--a sentiment inspired by the unspeakable looks levelledat her through a pair of dart-dealing spectacles. 

One morning I was sitting in the carré, at work upon a piece ofembroidery which one of the pupils had commenced but delayed tofinish, and while my fingers wrought at the frame, my ears regaledthemselves with listening to the crescendos and cadences of a voiceharanguing in the neighbouring classe, in tones that waxed momentarilymore unquiet, more ominously varied. There was a good strongpartition-wall between me and the gathering storm, as well as a facilemeans of flight through the glass-door to the court, in case it sweptthis way; so I am afraid I derived more amusement than alarm fromthese thickening symptoms. Poor Rosine was not safe: four times thatblessed morning had she made the passage of peril; and now, for thefifth time, it became her dangerous duty to snatch, as it were, abrand from the burning--a pupil from under M. Paul's nose. 

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!" cried she. "Que vais-je devenir? Monsieur va metuer, je suis sûre; car il est d'une colère!"

Nerved by the courage of desperation, she opened the door. 

"Mademoiselle La Malle au piano!" was her cry. 

Ere she could make good her retreat, or quite close the door, thisvoice uttered itself:--

"Dès ce moment!--la classe est défendue. La première qui ouvrira cetteporte, ou passera par cette division, sera pendue--fut-ce Madame Beckelle-même!"

Ten minutes had not succeeded the promulgation of this decree whenRosine's French pantoufles were again heard shuffling along thecorridor. 

"Mademoiselle, " said she, "I would not for a five-franc piece go intothat classe again just now: Monsieur's lunettes are really terrible;and here is a commissionaire come with a message from the Athénée. Ihave told Madame Beck I dare not deliver it, and she says I am tocharge you with it. "

"Me? No, that is rather too bad! It is not in my line of duty. Come, come, Rosine! bear your own burden. Be brave--charge once more!"

"I, Mademoiselle?--impossible! Five times I have crossed him this day. Madame must really hire a gendarme for this service. Ouf! Je n'en puisplus!"

"Bah! you are only a coward. What is the message?"

"Precisely of the kind with which Monsieur least likes to be pestered:an urgent summons to go directly to the Athénée, as there is anofficial visitor--inspector--I know not what--arrived, and Monsieur_must_ meet him: you know how he hates a _must_. "

Yes, I knew well enough. The restive little man detested spur or curb:against whatever was urgent or obligatory, he was sure to revolt. However, I accepted the responsibility--not, certainly, without fear, but fear blent with other sentiments, curiosity, amongst them. Iopened the door, I entered, I closed it behind me as quickly andquietly as a rather unsteady hand would permit; for to be slow orbustling, to rattle a latch, or leave a door gaping wide, wereaggravations of crime often more disastrous in result than the maincrime itself. There I stood then, and there he sat; his humour wasvisibly bad--almost at its worst; he had been giving a lesson inarithmetic--for he gave lessons on any and every subject that struckhis fancy--and arithmetic being a dry subject, invariably disagreedwith him: not a pupil but trembled when he spoke of figures. He sat, bent above his desk: to look up at the sound of an entrance, at theoccurrence of a direct breach of his will and law, was an effort hecould not for the moment bring himself to make. It was quite as well:I thus gained time to walk up the long classe; and it suited myidiosyncracy far better to encounter the near burst of anger like his, than to bear its menace at a distance. 

At his estrade I paused, just in front; of course I was not worthy ofimmediate attention: he proceeded with his lesson. Disdain would notdo: he must hear and he must answer my message. 

Not being quite tall enough to lift my head over his desk, elevatedupon the estrade, and thus suffering eclipse in my present position, Iventured to peep round, with the design, at first, of merely getting abetter view of his face, which had struck me when I entered as bearinga close and picturesque resemblance to that of a black and sallowtiger. Twice did I enjoy this side-view with impunity, advancing andreceding unseen; the third time my eye had scarce dawned beyond theobscuration of the desk, when it was caught and transfixed through itsvery pupil--transfixed by the "lunettes. " Rosine was right; theseutensils had in them a blank and immutable terror, beyond the mobilewrath of the wearer's own unglazed eyes. 

I now found the advantage of proximity: these short-sighted "lunettes"were useless for the inspection of a criminal under Monsieur's nose;accordingly, he doffed them, and he and I stood on more equal terms. 

I am glad I was not really much afraid of him--that, indeed, close inhis presence, I felt no terror at all; for upon his demanding cord andgibbet to execute the sentence recently pronounced, I was able tofurnish him with a needleful of embroidering thread with suchaccommodating civility as could not but allay some portion at least ofhis surplus irritation. Of course I did not parade this courtesybefore public view: I merely handed the thread round the angle of thedesk, and attached it, ready noosed, to the barred back of theProfessor's chair. 

"Que me voulez-vous?" said he in a growl of which the music was whollyconfined to his chest and throat, for he kept his teeth clenched; andseemed registering to himself an inward vow that nothing earthlyshould wring from him a smile. 

My answer commenced uncompromisingly: "Monsieur, " I said, "je veuxl'impossible, des choses inouïes;" and thinking it best not to mincematters, but to administer the "douche" with decision, in a low butquick voice, I delivered the Athenian message, floridly exaggeratingits urgency. 

Of course, he would not hear a word of it. "He would not go; he wouldnot leave his present class, let all the officials of Villette sendfor him. He would not put himself an inch out of his way at thebidding of king, cabinet, and chambers together. "

I knew, however, that he _must_ go; that, talk as he would, bothhis duty and interest commanded an immediate and literal compliancewith the summons: I stood, therefore, waiting in silence, as if he hadnot yet spoken. He asked what more I wanted. 

"Only Monsieur's answer to deliver to the commissionaire. "

He waved an impatient negative. 

I ventured to stretch my hand to the bonnet-grec which lay in grimrepose on the window-sill. He followed this daring movement with hiseye, no doubt in mixed pity and amazement at its presumption. 

"Ah!" he muttered, "if it came to that--if Miss Lucy meddled with hisbonnet-grec--she might just put it on herself, turn garçon for theoccasion, and benevolently go to the Athénée in his stead. "

With great respect, I laid the bonnet on the desk, where its tasselseemed to give me an awful nod. 

"I'll write a note of apology--that will do!" said he, still bent onevasion. 

Knowing well it would _not_ do, I gently pushed the bonnettowards his hand. Thus impelled, it slid down the polished slope ofthe varnished and unbaized desk, carried before it the light steel-framed "lunettes, " and, fearful to relate, they fell to the estrade. Ascore of times ere now had I seen them fall and receive no damage--_this_ time, as Lucy Snowe's hapless luck would have it, they sofell that each clear pebble became a shivered and shapeless star. 

Now, indeed, dismay seized me--dismay and regret. I knew the value ofthese "lunettes": M. Paul's sight was peculiar, not easily fitted, andthese glasses suited him. I had heard him call them his treasures: asI picked them up, cracked and worthless, my hand trembled. Frightenedthrough all my nerves I was to see the mischief I had done, but Ithink I was even more sorry than afraid. For some seconds I dared notlook the bereaved Professor in the face; he was the first to speak. 

"Là!" said he: "me voilà veuf de mes lunettes! I think MademoiselleLucy will now confess that the cord and gallows are amply earned; shetrembles in anticipation of her doom. Ah, traitress! traitress! Youare resolved to have me quite blind and helpless in your hands!"

I lifted my eyes: his face, instead of being irate, lowering, andfurrowed, was overflowing with the smile, coloured with the bloom Ihad seen brightening it that evening at the Hotel Crécy. He was notangry--not even grieved. For the real injury he showed himself full ofclemency; under the real provocation, patient as a saint. This event, which seemed so untoward--which I thought had ruined at once my chanceof successful persuasion--proved my best help. Difficult of managementso long as I had done him no harm, he became graciously pliant as soonas I stood in his presence a conscious and contrite offender. 

Still gently railing at me as "une forte femme--une Anglaise terrible--une petite casse-tout"--he declared that he dared not but obey onewho had given such an instance of her dangerous prowess; it wasabsolutely like the "grand Empereur smashing the vase to inspiredismay. " So, at last, crowning himself with his bonnet-grec, andtaking his ruined "lunettes" from my hand with a clasp of kind pardonand encouragement, he made his bow, and went off to the Athénée infirst-rate humour and spirits. 

 * * * * *

After all this amiability, the reader will be sorry for my sake tohear that I was quarrelling with M. Paul again before night; yet so itwas, and I could not help it. 

It was his occasional custom--and a very laudable, acceptable custom, too--to arrive of an evening, always à l'improviste, unannounced, burst in on the silent hour of study, establish a sudden despotismover us and our occupations, cause books to be put away, work-bags tobe brought out, and, drawing forth a single thick volume, or a handfulof pamphlets, substitute for the besotted "lecture pieuse, " drawled bya sleepy pupil, some tragedy made grand by grand reading, ardent byfiery action--some drama, whereof, for my part, I rarely studied theintrinsic merit; for M. Emanuel made it a vessel for an outpouring, and filled it with his native verve and passion like a cup with avital brewage. Or else he would flash through our conventual darknessa reflex of a brighter world, show us a glimpse of the currentliterature of the day, read us passages from some enchanting tale, orthe last witty feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloonsof Paris; taking care always to expunge, with the severest hand, whether from tragedy, melodrama, tale, or essay, whatever passage, phrase, or word, could be deemed unsuited to an audience of "jeunesfilles. " I noticed more than once, that where retrenchment withoutsubstitute would have left unmeaning vacancy, or introduced weakness, he could, and did, improvise whole paragraphs, no less vigorous thanirreproachable; the dialogue--the description--he engrafted was oftenfar better than that he pruned away. 

Well, on the evening in question, we were sitting silent as nuns in a"retreat, " the pupils studying, the teachers working. I remember mywork; it was a slight matter of fancy, and it rather interested me; ithad a purpose; I was not doing it merely to kill time; I meant it whenfinished as a gift; and the occasion of presentation being near, hastewas requisite, and my fingers were busy. 

We heard the sharp bell-peal which we all knew; then the rapid stepfamiliar to each ear: the words "Voilà Monsieur!" had scarcely brokensimultaneously from every lip, when the two-leaved door split (assplit it always did for his admission--such a slow word as "open" isinefficient to describe his movements), and he stood in the midst ofus. 

There were two study tables, both long and flanked with benches; overthe centre of each hung a lamp; beneath this lamp, on either side thetable, sat a teacher; the girls were arranged to the right hand andthe left; the eldest and most studious nearest the lamps or tropics;the idlers and little ones towards the north and south poles. Monsieur's habit was politely to hand a chair to some teacher, generally Zélie St. Pierre, the senior mistress; then to take hervacated seat; and thus avail himself of the full beam of Cancer orCapricorn, which, owing to his near sight, he needed. 

As usual, Zélie rose with alacrity, smiling to the whole extent of hermouth, and the full display of her upper and under rows of teeth--thatstrange smile which passes from ear to ear, and is marked only by asharp thin curve, which fails to spread over the countenance, andneither dimples the cheek nor lights the eye. I suppose Monsieur didnot see her, or he had taken a whim that he would not notice her, forhe was as capricious as women are said to be; then his "lunettes" (hehad got another pair) served him as an excuse for all sorts of littleoversights and shortcomings. Whatever might be his reason, he passedby Zélie, came to the other side of the table, and before I couldstart up to clear the way, whispered, "Ne bougez pas, " and establishedhimself between me and Miss Fanshawe, who always would be myneighbour, and have her elbow in my side, however often I declared toher, "Ginevra, I wish you were at Jericho. "

It was easy to say, "Ne bougez pas;" but how could I help it? I mustmake him room, and I must request the pupils to recede that _I_might recede. It was very well for Ginevra to be gummed to me, "keeping herself warm, " as she said, on the winter evenings, andharassing my very heart with her fidgetings and pokings, obliging me, indeed, sometimes to put an artful pin in my girdle by way ofprotection against her elbow; but I suppose M. Emanuel was not to besubjected to the same kind of treatment, so I swept away my workingmaterials, to clear space for his book, and withdrew myself to makeroom for his person; not, however, leaving more than a yard ofinterval, just what any reasonable man would have regarded as aconvenient, respectful allowance of bench. But M. Emanuel never_was_ reasonable; flint and tinder that he was! he struck andtook fire directly. 

"Vous ne voulez pas de moi pour voisin, " he growled: "vous vous donnezdes airs de caste; vous me traitez en paria;" he scowled. "Soit! jevais arranger la chose!" And he set to work. 

"Levez vous toutes, Mesdemoiselles!" cried he. 

The girls rose. He made them all file off to the other table. He thenplaced me at one extremity of the long bench, and having duly andcarefully brought me my work-basket, silk, scissors, all myimplements, he fixed himself quite at the other end. 

At this arrangement, highly absurd as it was, not a soul in the roomdared to laugh; luckless for the giggler would have been the giggle. As for me, I took it with entire coolness. There I sat, isolated andcut off from human intercourse; I sat and minded my work, and wasquiet, and not at all unhappy. 

"Est ce assez de distance?" he demanded. 

"Monsieur en est l'arbitre, " said I. 

"Vous savez bien que non. C'est vous qui avez crée ce vide immense:moi je n'y ai pas mis la main. "

And with this assertion he commenced the reading. 

For his misfortune he had chosen a French translation of what hecalled "un drame de Williams Shackspire; le faux dieu, " he furtherannounced, "de ces sots païens, les Anglais. " How far otherwise hewould have characterized him had his temper not been upset, I scarcelyneed intimate. 

Of course, the translation being French, was very inefficient; nor didI make any particular effort to conceal the contempt which some of itsforlorn lapses were calculated to excite. Not that it behoved orbeseemed me to say anything: but one can occasionally _look_ theopinion it is forbidden to embody in words. Monsieur's lunettes beingon the alert, he gleaned up every stray look; I don't think he lostone: the consequence was, his eyes soon discarded a screen, that theirblaze might sparkle free, and he waxed hotter at the north pole towhich he had voluntarily exiled himself, than, considering the generaltemperature of the room, it would have been reasonable to become underthe vertical ray of Cancer itself. 

The reading over, it appeared problematic whether he would depart withhis anger unexpressed, or whether he would give it vent. Suppressionwas not much in his habits; but still, what had been done to himdefinite enough to afford matter for overt reproof? I had not uttereda sound, and could not justly be deemed amenable to reprimand orpenalty for having permitted a slightly freer action than usual to themuscles about my eyes and mouth. 

The supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted with tepid water, was brought in. In respectful consideration of the Professor'spresence, the rolls and glasses were allowed to stand instead of beingimmediately handed round. 

"Take your supper, ladies, " said he, seeming to be occupied in makingmarginal notes to his "Williams Shackspire. " They took it. I alsoaccepted a roll and glass, but being now more than ever interested inmy work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched mybread and sipped my beverage, the whole with easy _sang-froid_;with a certain snugness of composure, indeed, scarcely in my habits, and pleasantly novel to my feelings. It seemed as if the presence of anature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul absorbed allfeverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none butsuch as were placid and harmonious. 

He rose. "Will he go away without saying another word?" Yes; he turnedto the door. 

No: he _re_-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take hispencil-case, which had been left on the table. 

He took it--shut the pencil in and out, broke its point against thewood, re-cut and pocketed it, and . . . Walked promptly up to me. 

The girls and teachers, gathered round the other table, were talkingpretty freely: they always talked at meals; and, from the constanthabit of speaking fast and loud at such times, did not now subduetheir voices much. 

M. Paul came and stood behind me. He asked at what I was working; andI said I was making a watchguard. 

He asked, "For whom?" And I answered, "For a gentleman--one of myfriends. "

M. Paul stooped down and proceeded--as novel-writers say, and, as wasliterally true in his case--to "hiss" into my ear some poignant words. 

He said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one who could makeherself the most consummately unpleasant: I was she with whom it wasleast possible to live on friendly terms. I had a "caractèreintraitable, " and perverse to a miracle. How I managed it, or whatpossessed me, he, for his part, did not know; but with whateverpacific and amicable intentions a person accosted me--crac! I turnedconcord to discord, good-will to enmity. He was sure, he--M. Paul--wished me well enough; he had never done me any harm that he knew of;he might, at least, he supposed, claim a right to be regarded as aneutral acquaintance, guiltless of hostile sentiments: yet, how Ibehaved to him! With what pungent vivacities--what an impetus ofmutiny--what a "fougue" of injustice!

Here I could not avoid opening my eyes somewhat wide, and evenslipping in a slight interjectional observation: "Vivacities? Impetus?Fougue? I didn't know.... "

"Chut! à l'instant! There! there I went--vive comme la poudre!" He wassorry--he was very sorry: for my sake he grieved over the haplesspeculiarity. This "emportement, " this "chaleur"--generous, perhaps, but excessive--would yet, he feared, do me a mischief. It was a pity:I was not--he believed, in his soul--wholly without good qualities:and would I but hear reason, and be more sedate, more sober, less "enl'air, " less "coquette, " less taken by show, less prone to set anundue value on outside excellence--to make much of the attentions ofpeople remarkable chiefly for so many feet of stature, "des couleursde poupée, " "un nez plus ou moins bien fait, " and an enormous amountof fatuity--I might yet prove an useful, perhaps an exemplarycharacter. But, as it was--And here, the little man's voice was for aminute choked. 

I would have looked up at him, or held out my hand, or said a soothingword; but I was afraid, if I stirred, I should either laugh or cry; soodd, in all this, was the mixture of the touching and the absurd. 

I thought he had nearly done: but no; he sat down that he might go onat his ease. 

"While he, M. Paul, was on these painful topics, he would dare myanger for the sake of my good, and would venture to refer to a changehe had noticed in my dress. He was free to confess that when he firstknew me--or, rather, was in the habit of catching a passing glimpse ofme from time to time--I satisfied him on this point: the gravity, theaustere simplicity, obvious in this particular, were such as toinspire the highest hopes for my best interests. What fatal influencehad impelled me lately to introduce flowers under the brim of mybonnet, to wear 'des cols brodés, ' and even to appear on one occasionin a _scarlet gown_--he might indeed conjecture, but, for thepresent, would not openly declare. "

Again I interrupted, and this time not without an accent at onceindignant and horror-struck. 

"Scarlet, Monsieur Paul? It was not scarlet! It was pink, and palepink to: and further subdued by black lace. "

"Pink or scarlet, yellow or crimson, pea-green or sky-blue, it was allone: these were all flaunting, giddy colours; and as to the lace Italked of, _that_ was but a 'colifichet de plus. '" And he sighedover my degeneracy. "He could not, he was sorry to say, be soparticular on this theme as he could wish: not possessing the exactnames of these 'babioles, ' he might run into small verbal errors whichwould not fail to lay him open to my sarcasm, and excite my unhappilysudden and passionate disposition. He would merely say, in generalterms--and in these general terms he knew he was correct--that mycostume had of late assumed 'des façons mondaines, ' which it woundedhim to see. "

What "façons mondaines" he discovered in my present winter merino andplain white collar, I own it puzzled me to guess: and when I askedhim, he said it was all made with too much attention to effect--andbesides, "had I not a bow of ribbon at my neck?"

"And if you condemn a bow of ribbon for a lady, Monsieur, you wouldnecessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a gentleman?"--holdingup my bright little chainlet of silk and gold. His sole reply was agroan--I suppose over my levity. 

After sitting some minutes in silence, and watching the progress ofthe chain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, heinquired: "Whether what he had just said would have the effect ofmaking me entirely detest him?"

I hardly remember what answer I made, or how it came about; I don'tthink I spoke at all, but I know we managed to bid good-night onfriendly terms: and, even after M. Paul had reached the door, heturned back just to explain, "that he would not be understood to speakin entire condemnation of the scarlet dress" ("Pink! pink!" I threwin); "that he had no intention to deny it the merit of _looking_rather well" (the fact was, M. Emanuel's taste in colours decidedlyleaned to the brilliant); "only he wished to counsel me, whenever, Iwore it, to do so in the same spirit as if its material were 'bure, 'and its hue 'gris de poussière. '"

"And the flowers under my bonnet, Monsieur?" I asked. "They are verylittle ones--?"

"Keep them little, then, " said he. "Permit them not to become full-blown. "

"And the bow, Monsieur--the bit of ribbon?"

"Va pour le ruban!" was the propitious answer. 

And so we settled it. 

 * * * * *

"Well done, Lucy Snowe!" cried I to myself; "you have come in for apretty lecture--brought on yourself a 'rude savant, ' and all throughyour wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it?You deemed yourself a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawethere regards you as a second Diogenes. M. De Bassompierre, the otherday, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the wild gifts ofthe actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said, 'Miss Snowe lookeduncomfortable. ' Dr. John Bretton knows you only as 'quiet Lucy'--'acreature inoffensive as a shadow;' he has said, and you have heard himsay it: 'Lucy's disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes andmanner--want of colour in character and costume. ' Such are your ownand your friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a littleman, differing diametrically from all these, roundly charging you withbeing too airy and cheery--too volatile and versatile--too flowery andcoloury. This harsh little man--this pitiless censor--gathers up allyour poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless chiffon of rose-colour, your small fringe of a wreath, your small scrap of ribbon, your silly bit of lace, and calls you to account for the lot, and foreach item. You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow inLife's sunshine: it its a new thing to see one testily lifting hishand to screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MONSIEUR'S FÊTE. 

I was up the next morning an hour before daybreak, and finished myguard, kneeling on the dormitory floor beside the centre stand, forthe benefit of such expiring glimmer as the night-lamp afforded in itslast watch. 

All my materials--my whole stock of beads and silk--were used upbefore the chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I hadwrought it double, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to, suitthe particular taste whose gratification was in view, an effectiveappearance was quite indispensable. As a finish to the ornament, alittle gold clasp was needed; fortunately I possessed it in thefastening of my sole necklace; I duly detached and re-attached it, then coiled compactly the completed guard; and enclosed it in a smallbox I had bought for its brilliancy, made of some tropic shell of thecolour called "nacarat, " and decked with a little coronal of sparklingblue stones. Within the lid of the box, I carefully graved with myscissors' point certain initials. 

 * * * * *

The reader will, perhaps, remember the description of Madame Beck'sfête; nor will he have forgotten that at each anniversary, a handsomepresent was subscribed for and offered by the school. The observanceof this day was a distinction accorded to none but Madame, and, in amodified form, to her kinsman and counsellor, M. Emanuel. In thelatter case it was an honour spontaneously awarded, not plotted andcontrived beforehand, and offered an additional proof, amongst manyothers, of the estimation in which--despite his partialities, prejudices, and irritabilities--the professor of literature was heldby his pupils. No article of value was offered to him: he distinctlygave it to be understood, that he would accept neither plate norjewellery. Yet he liked a slight tribute; the cost, the money-value, did not touch him: a diamond ring, a gold snuff-box, presented, withpomp, would have pleased him less than a flower, or a drawing, offeredsimply and with sincere feelings. Such was his nature. He was a man, not wise in his generation, yet could he claim a filial sympathy with"the dayspring on high. "

M. Paul's fête fell on the first of March and a Thursday. It proved afine sunny day; and being likewise the morning on which it wascustomary to attend mass; being also otherwise distinguished by thehalf-holiday which permitted the privilege of walking out, shopping, or paying visits in the afternoon: these combined considerationsinduced a general smartness and freshness of dress. Clean collars werein vogue; the ordinary dingy woollen classe-dress was exchanged forsomething lighter and clearer. Mademoiselle Zélie St. Pierre, on thisparticular Thursday, even assumed a "robe de soie, " deemed ineconomical Labassecour an article of hazardous splendour and luxury;nay, it was remarked that she sent for a "coiffeur" to dress her hairthat morning; there were pupils acute enough to discover that she hadbedewed her handkerchief and her hands with a new and fashionableperfume. Poor Zélie! It was much her wont to declare about this time, that she was tired to death of a life of seclusion and labour; thatshe longed to have the means and leisure for relaxation; to have someone to work for her--a husband who would pay her debts (she waswoefully encumbered with debt), supply her wardrobe, and leave her atliberty, as she said, to "goûter un peu les plaisirs. " It had longbeen rumoured, that her eye was upon M. Emanuel. Monsieur Emanuel'seye was certainly often upon her. He would sit and watch herperseveringly for minutes together. I have seen him give her aquarter-of-an-hour's gaze, while the class was silently composing, and he sat throned on his estrade, unoccupied. Conscious always ofthis basilisk attention, she would writhe under it, half-flattered, half-puzzled, and Monsieur would follow her sensations, sometimeslooking appallingly acute; for in some cases, he had the terribleunerring penetration of instinct, and pierced in its hiding-place thelast lurking thought of the heart, and discerned under florid veilingsthe bare; barren places of the spirit: yes, and its pervertedtendencies, and its hidden false curves--all that men and women wouldnot have known--the twisted spine, the malformed limb that was bornwith them, and far worse, the stain or disfigurement they have perhapsbrought on themselves. No calamity so accursed but M. Emanuel couldpity and forgive, if it were acknowledged candidly; but where hisquestioning eyes met dishonest denial--where his ruthless researchesfound deceitful concealment--oh, then, he could be cruel, and Ithought wicked! he would exultantly snatch the screen from poorshrinking wretches, passionately hurry them to the summit of the mountof exposure, and there show them all naked, all false--poor livinglies--the spawn of that horrid Truth which cannot be looked onunveiled. He thought he did justice; for my part I doubt whether manhas a right to do such justice on man: more than once in these hisvisitations, I have felt compelled to give tears to his victims, andnot spared ire and keen reproach to himself. He deserved it; but itwas difficult to shake him in his firm conviction that the work wasrighteous and needed. 

Breakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell rang and therooms filled: a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe. Pupilsand teachers sat neatly arrayed, orderly and expectant, each bearingin her hand the bouquet of felicitation--the prettiest spring-flowersall fresh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had nobouquet. I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless andperishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowersto those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me. Mademoiselle St. Pierre marked my empty hands--she could not believe Ihad been so remiss; with avidity her eye roved over and round me:surely I must have some solitary symbolic flower somewhere: some smallknot of violets, something to win myself praise for taste, commendation for ingenuity. The unimaginative "Anglaise" proved betterthan the Parisienne's fears: she sat literally unprovided, as bare ofbloom or leaf as the winter tree. This ascertained, Zélie smiled, wellpleased. 

"How wisely you have acted to keep your money, Miss Lucie, " she said:"silly I have gone and thrown away two francs on a bouquet of hot-house flowers!"

And she showed with pride her splendid nosegay. 

But hush! a step: _the_ step. It came prompt, as usual, but witha promptitude, we felt disposed to flatter ourselves, inspired byother feelings than mere excitability of nerve and vehemence ofintent. We thought our Professor's "foot-fall" (to speak romantically)had in it a friendly promise this morning; and so it had. 

He entered in a mood which made him as good as a new sunbeam to thealready well-lit first classe. The morning light playing amongst ourplants and laughing on our walls, caught an added lustre from M. Paul's all-benignant salute. Like a true Frenchman (though I don'tknow why I should say so, for he was of strain neither French norLabassecourien), he had dressed for the "situation" and the occasion. Not by the vague folds, sinister and conspirator-like, of his soot-dark paletôt were the outlines of his person obscured; on thecontrary, his figure (such as it was, I don't boast of it) was wellset off by a civilized coat and a silken vest quite pretty to behold. The defiant and pagan bonnet-grec had vanished: bare-headed, he cameupon us, carrying a Christian hat in his gloved hand. The little manlooked well, very well; there was a clearness of amity in his blueeye, and a glow of good feeling on his dark complexion, which passedperfectly in the place of beauty: one really did not care to observethat his nose, though far from small, was of no particular shape, hischeek thin, his brow marked and square, his mouth no rose-bud: oneaccepted him as he was, and felt his presence the reverse of dampingor insignificant. 

He passed to his desk; he placed on the same his hat and gloves. "Bonjour, mes amies, " said he, in a tone that somehow made amends to someamongst us for many a sharp snap and savage snarl: not a jocund, good-fellow tone, still less an unctuous priestly, accent, but a voice hehad belonging to himself--a voice used when his heart passed the wordsto his lips. That same heart did speak sometimes; though an irritable, it was not an ossified organ: in its core was a place, tender beyond aman's tenderness; a place that humbled him to little children, thatbound him to girls and women to whom, rebel as he would, he could notdisown his affinity, nor quite deny that, on the whole, he was betterwith them than with his own sex. 

"We all wish Monsieur a good day, and present to him ourcongratulations on the anniversary of his fête, " said MademoiselleZélie, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly; and advancingwith no more twists of affectation than were with her indispensable tothe achievement of motion, she laid her costly bouquet before him. Hebowed over it. 

The long train of offerings followed: all the pupils, sweeping pastwith the gliding step foreigners practise, left their tributes as theywent by. Each girl so dexterously adjusted her separate gift, thatwhen the last bouquet was laid on the desk, it formed the apex to ablooming pyramid--a pyramid blooming, spreading, and towering withsuch exuberance as, in the end, to eclipse the hero behind it. Thisceremony over, seats were resumed, and we sat in dead silence, expectant of a speech. 

I suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush remainedunbroken; ten--and there was no sound. 

Many present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited; aswell they might. Voiceless and viewless, stirless and wordless, hekept his station behind the pile of flowers. 

At last there issued forth a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke out ofa hollow:--

"Est-ce là tout?"

Mademoiselle Zélie looked round. 

"You have all presented your bouquets?" inquired she of the pupils. 

Yes; they had all given their nosegays, from the eldest to theyoungest, from the tallest to the most diminutive. The senior mistresssignified as much. 

"Est-ce là tout?" was reiterated in an intonation which, deep before, had now descended some notes lower. 

"Monsieur, " said Mademoiselle St. Pierre, rising, and this timespeaking with her own sweet smile, "I have the honour to tell youthat, with a single exception, every person in classe has offered herbouquet. For Meess Lucie, Monsieur will kindly make allowance; as aforeigner she probably did not know our customs, or did not appreciatetheir significance. Meess Lucie has regarded this ceremony as toofrivolous to be honoured by her observance. "

"Famous!" I muttered between my teeth: "you are no bad speaker, Zélie, when you begin. "

The answer vouchsafed to Mademoiselle St Pierre from the estrade wasgiven in the gesticulation of a hand from behind the pyramid. Thismanual action seemed to deprecate words, to enjoin silence. 

A form, ere long, followed the hand. Monsieur emerged from hiseclipse; and producing himself on the front of his estrade, and gazingstraight and fixedly before him at a vast "mappe-monde" covering thewall opposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragictones--

"Est-ce là tout?"

I might yet have made all right, by stepping forwards and slippinginto his hand the ruddy little shell-box I at that moment held tightin my own. It was what I had fully purposed to do; but, first, thecomic side of Monsieur's behaviour had tempted me to delay, and now, Mademoiselle St. Pierre's affected interference provoked contumacity. The reader not having hitherto had any cause to ascribe to MissSnowe's character the most distant pretensions to perfection, will bescarcely surprised to learn that she felt too perverse to defendherself from any imputation the Parisienne might choose to insinuateand besides, M. Paul was so tragic, and took my defection soseriously, he deserved to be vexed. I kept, then, both my box and mycountenance, and sat insensate as any stone. 

"It is well!" dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul; and havinguttered this phrase, the shadow of some great paroxysm--the swell ofwrath, scorn, resolve--passed over his brow, rippled his lips, andlined his cheeks. Gulping down all further comment, he launched intohis customary "discours. "

I can't at all remember what this "discours" was; I did not listen toit: the gulping-down process, the abrupt dismissal of hismortification or vexation, had given me a sensation which half-counteracted the ludicrous effect of the reiterated "Est-ce là tout?"

Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion myattention was again amusingly arrested. 

Owing to some little accidental movement--I think I dropped my thimbleon the floor, and in stooping to regain it, hit the crown of my headagainst the sharp corner of my desk; which casualties (exasperating tome, by rights, if to anybody) naturally made a slight bustle--M. Paulbecame irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, and casting tothe winds that dignity and self-control with which he never cared longto encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated togive him ease. 

I don't know how, in the progress of his "discours, " he had contrivedto cross the Channel and land on British ground; but there I found himwhen I began to listen. 

Casting a quick, cynical glance round the room--a glance whichscathed, or was intended to scathe, as it crossed me--he fell withfury upon "les Anglaises. "

Never have I heard English women handled as M. Paul that morninghandled them: he spared nothing--neither their minds, morals, manners, nor personal appearance. I specially remember his abuse of their tallstature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their pedantic education, their impious scepticism(!), theirinsufferable pride, their pretentious virtue: over which he ground histeeth malignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have saidsingular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage; and, as a naturalconsequence, detestably ugly. 

"Little wicked venomous man!" thought I; "am I going to harass myselfwith fears of displeasing you, or hurting your feelings? No, indeed;you shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in yourpyramid"

I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For sometime the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid: Ibore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissingcockatrice was determined to sting, and he said such things at last--fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest names andbest men; sullying, the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the unionjack in mud--that I was stung. With vicious relish he brought up themost spicy current continental historical falsehoods--than whichnothing can be conceived more offensive. Zélie, and the whole class, became one grin of vindictive delight; for it is curious to discoverhow these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, Istruck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose thiscry:--

"Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Héros! A bas la France, laFiction et les Faquins!"

The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. TheProfessor put up his handkerchief, and fiendishly smiled into itsfolds. Little monster of malice! He now thought he had got thevictory, since he had made me angry. In a second he became good-humoured. With great blandness he resumed the subject of his flowers;talked poetically and symbolically of their sweetness, perfume, purity, etcetera; made Frenchified comparisons between the "jeunesfilles" and the sweet blossoms before him; paid Mademoiselle St. Pierre a very full-blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet;and ended by announcing that the first really fine, mild, and balmymorning in spring, he intended to take the whole class out tobreakfast in the country. "Such of the class, at least, " he added, with emphasis, "as he could count amongst the number of his friends. "

"Donc je n'y serai pas, " declared I, involuntarily. 

"Soit!" was his response; and, gathering his flowers in his arms, heflashed out of classe; while I, consigning my work, scissors, thimble, and the neglected little box, to my desk, swept up-stairs. I don'tknow whether _he_ felt hot and angry, but I am free to confessthat _I_ did. 

Yet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edgeof my bed, picturing and repicturing his look, manner, words ere Ismiled at the whole scene. A little pang of regret I underwent thatthe box had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate wouldnot have it so. 

In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in classe wereby no means inviolate repositories, and thinking that it was as wellto secure the box, on account of the initials in the lid, P. C. D. E. , for Paul Carl (or Carlos) David Emanuel--such was his full name--theseforeigners must always have a string of baptismals--I descended to theschoolroom. 

It slept in holiday repose. The day pupils were all gone home, theboarders were out walking, the teachers, except the surveillante ofthe week, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite of divisionswas vacant; so was the grande salle, with its huge solemn globehanging in the midst, its pair of many-branched chandeliers, and itshorizontal grand piano closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I rather wondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room beingusually locked when empty, and being then inaccessible to any saveMadame Beck and myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wonderedstill more, on approaching, to hear a vague movement as of life--astep, a chair stirred, a sound like the opening of a desk. 

"It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty, " was the conclusionfollowing a moment's reflection. The partially-opened door gaveopportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not theinspecting garb of Madame Beck--the shawl and the clean cap--but thecoat, and the close-shorn, dark head of a man. This person occupied mychair; his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to viewamongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be amoment's question about identity. Already was the attire of ceremonydiscarded: the cherished and ink-stained paletôt was resumed; theperverse bonnet-grec lay on the floor, as if just dropped from thehand, culpably busy. 

Now I knew, and I had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel's wason the most intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and loweredthe lid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly asmy own. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he leftsigns of each visit palpable and unmistakable; hitherto, however, Ihad never caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detectthe hours and moments of his coming. I saw the brownie's work inexercises left overnight full of faults, and found next morningcarefully corrected: I profited by his capricious good-will in loansfull welcome and refreshing. Between a sallow dictionary and worn-outgrammar would magically grow a fresh interesting new work, or aclassic, mellow and sweet in its ripe age. Out of my work-basket wouldlaughingly peep a romance, under it would lurk the pamphlet, themagazine, whence last evening's reading had been extracted. Impossibleto doubt the source whence these treasures flowed: had there been noother indication, one condemning and traitor peculiarity, common tothem all, settled the question--_they smelt of cigars_. This wasvery shocking, of course: _I_ thought so at first, and used toopen the window with some bustle, to air my desk, and with fastidiousfinger and thumb, to hold the peccant brochures forth to the purifyingbreeze. I was cured of that formality suddenly. Monsieur caught me atit one day, understood the inference, instantly relieved my hand ofits burden, and, in another moment, would have thrust the same intothe glowing stove. It chanced to be a book, on the perusal of which Iwas bent; so for once I proved as decided and quicker than himself;recaptured the spoil, and--having saved this volume--never hazarded asecond. With all this, I had never yet been able to arrest in hisvisits the freakish, friendly, cigar-loving phantom. 

But now at last I had him: there he was--the very brownie himself; andthere, curling from his lips, was the pale blue breath of his Indiandarling: he was smoking into my desk: it might well betray him. Provoked at this particular, and yet pleased to surprise him--pleased, that is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at lasther strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn--Isoftly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution over hisshoulder. 

My heart smote me to see that--after this morning's hostility, aftermy seeming remissness, after the puncture experienced by his feelings, and the ruffling undergone by his temper--he, all willing to forgetand forgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which thetitle and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he satbending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but withgentle and careful hand; disarranging indeed, but not harming. Myheart smote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing mewhat good he could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, mymorning's anger quite melted: I did not dislike Professor Emanuel. 

I think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly: his temperament wasnervous, yet he never started, and seldom changed colour: there wassomething hardy about him. 

"I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers, " said he, taking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half-escaped him--"It is as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? NotI. I often visit your desk. "

"Monsieur, I know it. "

"You find a brochure or tome now and then; but you don't read them, because they have passed under this?"--touching his cigar. 

"They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them. "

"Without pleasure?"

"Monsieur must not be contradicted. "

"Do you like them, or any of them?--are they acceptable?" "Monsieurhas seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so manyrecreations as to undervalue those he provides. "

"I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive some littleamusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?"

"A fatalist would say--because we cannot. "

"This morning, " he continued, "I awoke in a bright mood, and came intoclasse happy; you spoiled my day. "

"No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally. "

"Unintentionally! No. It was my fête-day; everybody wished mehappiness but you. The little children of the third division gave eachher knot of violets, lisped each her congratulation:--you--nothing. Not a bud, leaf, whisper--not a glance. Was this unintentional?"

"I meant no harm. "

"Then you really did not know our custom? You were unprepared? Youwould willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give mepleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so, and all isforgotten, and the pain soothed. "

"I did know that it was expected: I _was_ prepared; yet I laidout no centimes on flowers. "

"It is well--you do right to be honest. I should almost have hated youhad you flattered and lied. Better declare at once 'Paul Carl Emanuel--je te déteste, mon garçon!'--than smile an interest, look anaffection, and be false and cold at heart. False and cold I don'tthink you are; but you have made a great mistake in life, that Ibelieve; I think your judgment is warped--that you are indifferentwhere you ought to be grateful--and perhaps devoted and infatuated, where you ought to be cool as your name. Don't suppose that I wish youto have a passion for me, Mademoiselle; Dieu vous en garde! What doyou start for? Because I said passion? Well, I say it again. There issuch a word, and there is such a thing--though not within these walls, thank heaven! You are no child that one should not speak of whatexists; but I only uttered the word--the thing, I assure you, is aliento my whole life and views. It died in the past--in the present itlies buried--its grave is deep-dug, well-heaped, and many winters old:in the future there will be a resurrection, as I believe to my soulsconsolation; but all will then be changed--form and feeling: themortal will have put on immortality--it will rise, not for earth, butheaven. All I say to _you_, Miss Lucy Snowe, is--that you oughtto treat Professor Paul Emanuel decently. "

I could not, and did not contradict such a sentiment. 

"Tell me, " he pursued, "when it is _your_ fête-day, and I willnot grudge a few centimes for a small offering. "

"You will be like me, Monsieur: this cost more than a few centimes, and I did not grudge its price. "

And taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand. 

"It lay ready in my lap this morning, " I continued; "and if Monsieurhad been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre lessinterfering--perhaps I should say, too, if _I_ had been calmerand wiser--I should have given it then. "

He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright azurecirclet, pleased his eyes. I told him to open it. 

"My initials!" said he, indicating the letters in the lid. "Who toldyou I was called Carl David?"

"A little bird, Monsieur. "

"Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wingwhen needful. ", He took out the chain--a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy withsilk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too--admired itartlessly, like a child. 

"For me?"

"Yes, for you. "

"This is the thing you were working at last night?"

"The same. "

"You finished it this morning?"

"I did. "

"You commenced it with the intention that it should be mine?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"And offered on my fête-day?"

"Yes. "

"This purpose continued as you wove it?"

Again I assented. 

"Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion--saying, this part is not mine: it was plaited under the idea and for theadornment of another?"

"By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just. "

"This object is _all_ mine?"

"That object is yours entirely. "

Straightway Monsieur opened his paletôt, arranged the guard splendidlyacross his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as hecould: for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thoughtdecorative. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonnière--hewas fond of bonbons, by the way--and as he always liked to share withothers what pleased himself, he would give his "dragées" as freely ashe lent his books. Amongst the kind brownie's gifts left in my desk, Iforgot to enumerate many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes inthese matters were southern, and what we think infantine. His simplelunch consisted frequently of a "brioche, " which, as often as not, toshared with some child of the third division. 

"A présent c'est un fait accompli, " said he, re-adjusting his paletôt;and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the twovolumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his penknife(he generally pruned before lending his books, especially if they werenovels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of hiscensorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose, politely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day. 

"We are friends now, " thought I, "till the next time we quarrel. "

We _might_ have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderful to relate, failed, for once, to make the most of ouropportunity. 

Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study-hour. Havingseen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presenceat night. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than heappeared. I own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not helpgreeting his arrival with a smile; and when he made his way to thesame seat about which so serious a misunderstanding had formerlyarisen, I took good care not to make too much room for him; he watchedwith a jealous, side-long look, to see whether I shrank away, but Idid not, though the bench was a little crowded. I was losing the earlyimpulse to recoil from M. Paul. Habituated to the paletôt and bonnet-grec, the neighbourhood of these garments seemed no longeruncomfortable or very formidable. I did not now sit restrained, "asphyxiée" (as he used to say) at his side; I stirred when I wishedto stir, coughed when it was necessary, even yawned when I was tired--did, in short, what I pleased, blindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity, this evening at least, meet the punishment itperhaps merited; he was both indulgent and good-natured; not a crossglance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his lips. Till thevery close of the evening, he did not indeed address me at all, yet Ifelt, somehow, that he was full of friendliness. Silence is ofdifferent kinds, and breathes different meanings; no words couldinspire a pleasanter content than did M. Paul's worldless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle of supper commenced, he justsaid, as he retired, that he wished me a good night and sweet dreams;and a good night and sweet dreams I had. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

M. PAUL. 

Yet the reader is advised not to be in any hurry with his kindlyconclusions, or to suppose, with an over-hasty charity, that from thatday M. Paul became a changed character--easy to live with, and nolonger apt to flash danger and discomfort round him. 

No; he was naturally a little man of unreasonable moods. When over-wrought, which he often was, he became acutely irritable; and, besides, his veins were dark with a livid belladonna tincture, theessence of jealousy. I do not mean merely the tender jealousy of theheart, but that sterner, narrower sentiment whose seat is in the head. 

I used to think, as I Sat looking at M. Paul, while he was knittinghis brow or protruding his lip over some exercise of mine, which hadnot as many faults as he wished (for he liked me to commit faults: aknot of blunders was sweet to him as a cluster of nuts), that he hadpoints of resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I think so still. 

In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the greatEmperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty learned women, would have unblushingly carried on a system of petty bickering andrecrimination with a whole capital of coteries, never troublinghimself about loss or lack of dignity. He would have exiled fiftyMadame de Staëls, if, they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, oropposed him. 

I well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame Panache--alady temporarily employed by Madame Beck to give lessons in history. She was clever--that is, she knew a good deal; and, besides, thoroughly possessed the art of making the most of what she knew; ofwords and confidence she held unlimited command. Her personalappearance was far from destitute of advantages; I believe many peoplewould have pronounced her "a fine woman;" and yet there were points inher robust and ample attractions, as well as in her bustling anddemonstrative presence, which, it appeared, the nice and capricioustastes of M. Paul could not away with. The sound of her voice, echoingthrough the carré, would put him into a strange taking; her long freestep--almost stride--along the corridor, would often make him snatchup his papers and decamp on the instant. 

With malicious intent he bethought himself, one day, to intrude on herclass; as quick as lightning he gathered her method of instruction; itdiffered from a pet plan of his own. With little ceremony, and lesscourtesy, he pointed out what he termed her errors. Whether heexpected submission and attention, I know not; he met an acridopposition, accompanied by a round reprimand for his certainlyunjustifiable interference. 

Instead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have done, hethrew down the gauntlet of defiance. Madame Panache, bellicose as aPenthesilea, picked it up in a minute. She snapped her fingers in theintermeddler's face; she rushed upon him with a storm of words. M. Emanuel was eloquent; but Madame Panache was voluble. A system offierce antagonism ensued. Instead of laughing in his sleeve at hisfair foe, with all her sore amour-propre and loud self-assertion, M. Paul detested her with intense seriousness; he honoured her with hisearnest fury; he pursued her vindictively and implacably, refusing torest peaceably in his bed, to derive due benefit from his meals, oreven serenely to relish his cigar, till she was fairly rooted out ofthe establishment. The Professor conquered, but I cannot say that thelaurels of this victory shadowed gracefully his temples. Once Iventured to hint as much. To my great surprise he allowed that I mightbe right, but averred that when brought into contact with either menor women of the coarse, self-complacent quality, whereof MadamePanache was a specimen, he had no control over his own passions; anunspeakable and active aversion impelled him to a war ofextermination. 

Three months afterwards, hearing that his vanquished foe had met withreverses, and was likely to be really distressed for want ofemployment, he forgot his hatred, and alike active in good and evil, he moved heaven and earth till he found her a place. Upon her comingto make up former differences, and thank him for his recent kindness, the old voice--a little loud--the old manner--a little forward--soacted upon him that in ten minutes he started up and bowed her, orrather himself, out of the room, in a transport of nervous irritation. 

To pursue a somewhat audacious parallel, in a love of power, in aneager grasp after supremacy, M. Emanuel was like Bonaparte. He was aman not always to be submitted to. Sometimes it was needful to resist;it was right to stand still, to look up into his eyes and tell himthat his requirements went beyond reason--that his absolutism vergedon tyranny. 

The dawnings, the first developments of peculiar talent appearingwithin his range, and under his rule, curiously excited, evendisturbed him. He watched its struggle into life with a scowl; he heldback his hand--perhaps said, "Come on if you have strength, " but wouldnot aid the birth. 

When the pang and peril of the first conflict were over, when thebreath of life was drawn, when he saw the lungs expand and contract, when he felt the heart beat and discovered life in the eye, he did notyet offer to foster. 

"Prove yourself true ere I cherish you, " was his ordinance; and howdifficult he made that proof! What thorns and briers, what flints, hestrewed in the path of feet not inured to rough travel! He watchedtearlessly--ordeals that he exacted should be passed through--fearlessly. He followed footprints that, as they approached thebourne, were sometimes marked in blood--followed them grimly, holdingthe austerest police-watch over the pain-pressed pilgrim. And when atlast he allowed a rest, before slumber might close the eyelids, heopened those same lids wide, with pitiless finger and thumb, and gazeddeep through the pupil and the irids into the brain, into the heart, to search if Vanity, or Pride, or Falsehood, in any of its subtlestforms, was discoverable in the furthest recess of existence. If, atlast, he let the neophyte sleep, it was but a moment; he woke himsuddenly up to apply new tests: he sent him on irksome errands when hewas staggering with weariness; he tried the temper, the sense, and thehealth; and it was only when every severest test had been applied andendured, when the most corrosive aquafortis had been used, and failedto tarnish the ore, that he admitted it genuine, and, still in cloudedsilence, stamped it with his deep brand of approval. 

I speak not ignorant of these evils. 

Till the date at which the last chapter closes, M. Paul had not beenmy professor--he had not given me lessons, but about that time, accidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an ignorance of somebranch of education (I think it was arithmetic), which would havedisgraced a charity-school boy, as he very truly remarked, he took mein hand, examined me first, found me, I need not say, abundantlydeficient, gave me some books and appointed me some tasks. 

He did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealedexultation, condescending to say that he believed I was "bonne et pastrop faible" (i. E. Well enough disposed, and not wholly destitute ofparts), but, owing he supposed to adverse circumstances, "as yet in astate of wretchedly imperfect mental development. "

The beginning of all effort has indeed with me been marked by apreternatural imbecility. I never could, even in forming a commonacquaintance, assert or prove a claim to average quickness. Adepressing and difficult passage has prefaced every new page I haveturned in life. 

So long as this passage lasted, M. Paul was very kind, very good, veryforbearing; he saw the sharp pain inflicted, and felt the weightyhumiliation imposed by my own sense of incapacity; and words canhardly do justice to his tenderness and helpfulness. His own eyeswould moisten, when tears of shame and effort clouded mine; burdenedas he was with work, he would steal half his brief space of recreationto give to me. 

But, strange grief! when that heavy and overcast dawn began at last toyield to day; when my faculties began to struggle themselves, free, and my time of energy and fulfilment came; when I voluntarily doubled, trebled, quadrupled the tasks he set, to please him as I thought, hiskindness became sternness; the light changed in his eyes from a beamto a spark; he fretted, he opposed, he curbed me imperiously; the moreI did, the harder I worked, the less he seemed content. Sarcasms ofwhich the severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed my ears; thenflowed out the bitterest inuendoes against the "pride of intellect. " Iwas vaguely threatened with I know not what doom, if I ever trespassedthe limits proper to my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite forunfeminine knowledge. Alas! I had no such appetite. What I loved, itjoyed me by any effort to content; but the noble hunger for science inthe abstract--the godlike thirst after discovery--these feelings wereknown to me but by briefest flashes. 

Yet, when M. Paul sneered at me, I wanted to possess them more fully;his injustice stirred in me ambitious wishes--it imparted a strongstimulus--it gave wings to aspiration. 

In the beginning, before I had penetrated to motives, thatuncomprehended sneer of his made my heart ache, but by-and-by it onlywarmed the blood in my veins, and sent added action to my pulses. Whatever my powers--feminine or the contrary--God had given them, andI felt resolute to be ashamed of no faculty of his bestowal. 

The combat was very sharp for a time. I seemed to have lost M. Paul'saffection; he treated me strangely. In his most unjust moments hewould insinuate that I had deceived him when I appeared, what hecalled "faible"--that is incompetent; he said I had feigned a falseincapacity. Again, he would turn suddenly round and accuse me of themost far-fetched imitations and impossible plagiarisms, asserting thatI had extracted the pith out of books I had not so much as heard of--and over the perusal of which I should infallibly have fallen down ina sleep as deep as that of Eutychus. 

Once, upon his preferring such an accusation, I turned upon him--Irose against him. Gathering an armful of his books out of my desk, Ifilled my apron and poured them in a heap upon his estrade, at hisfeet. 

"Take them away, M. Paul, " I said, "and teach me no more. I neverasked to be made learned, and you compel me to feel very profoundlythat learning is not happiness. "

And returning to my desk, I laid my head on my arms, nor would I speakto him for two days afterwards. He pained and chagrined me. Hisaffection had been very sweet and dear--a pleasure new andincomparable: now that this seemed withdrawn, I cared not for hislessons. 

The books, however, were not taken away; they were all restored withcareful hand to their places, and he came as usual to teach me. Hemade his peace somehow--too readily, perhaps: I ought to have stoodout longer, but when he looked kind and good, and held out his handwith amity, memory refused to reproduce with due force his oppressivemoments. And then, reconcilement is always sweet!

On a certain morning a message came from my godmother, inviting me toattend some notable lecture to be delivered in the same public roomsbefore described. Dr. John had brought the message himself, anddelivered it verbally to Rosine, who had not scrupled to follow thesteps of M. Emanuel, then passing to the first classe, and, in hispresence, stand "carrément" before my desk, hand in apron-pocket, andrehearse the same, saucily and aloud, concluding with the words, "Qu'il est vraiment beau, Mademoiselle, ce jeune docteur! Quels yeux--quel regard! Tenez! J'en ai le coeur tout ému!"

When she was gone, my professor demanded of me why I suffered "cettefille effrontée, cette créature sans pudeur, " to address me in suchterms. 

I had no pacifying answer to give. The terms were precisely such asRosine--a young lady in whose skull the organs of reverence andreserve were not largely developed--was in the constant habit ofusing. Besides, what she said about the young doctor was true enough. Graham _was_ handsome; he had fine eyes and a thrilling: glance. An observation to that effect actually formed itself into sound on mylips. 

"Elle ne dit que la vérité, " I said. 

"Ah! vous trouvez?"

"Mais, sans doute. "

The lesson to which we had that day to submit was such as to make usvery glad when it terminated. At its close, the released, pupilsrushed out, half-trembling, half-exultant. I, too, was going. Amandate to remain arrested me. I muttered that I wanted some fresh airsadly--the stove was in a glow, the classe over-heated. An inexorablevoice merely recommended silence; and this salamander--for whom noroom ever seemed too hot--sitting down between my desk and the stove--a situation in which he ought to have felt broiled, but did not--proceeded to confront me with--a Greek quotation!

In M. Emanuel's soul rankled a chronic suspicion that I knew bothGreek and Latin. As monkeys are said to have the power of speech ifthey would but use it, and are reported to conceal this faculty infear of its being turned to their detriment, so to me was ascribed afund of knowledge which I was supposed criminally and craftily toconceal. The privileges of a "classical education, " it was insinuated, had been mine; on flowers of Hymettus I had revelled; a golden store, hived in memory, now silently sustained my efforts, and privilynurtured my wits. 

A hundred expedients did M. Paul employ to surprise my secret--towheedle, to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placedGreek and Latin books in my way, and then watched me, as Joan of Arc'sjailors tempted her with the warrior's accoutrements, and lay in waitfor the issue. Again he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classictones fell musically from his lips--for he had a good voice--remarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression), hewould fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often malicious eye. It wasevident he sometimes expected great demonstrations; they neveroccurred, however; not comprehending, of course I could neither becharmed nor annoyed. 

Baffled--almost angry--he still clung to his fixed idea; mysusceptibilities were pronounced marble--my face a mask. It appearedas if he could not be brought to accept the homely truth, and take mefor what I was: men, and women too, must have delusion of some sort;if not made ready to their hand, they will invent exaggeration forthemselves. 

At moments I _did_ wish that his suspicions had been betterfounded. There were times when I would have given my right hand topossess the treasures he ascribed to me. He deserved condignpunishment for his testy crotchets. I could have gloried in bringinghome to him his worst apprehensions astoundingly realized. I couldhave exulted to burst on his vision, confront and confound his"lunettes, " one blaze of acquirements. Oh! why did nobody undertake tomake me clever while I was young enough to learn, that I might, by onegrand, sudden, inhuman revelation--one cold, cruel, overwhelmingtriumph--have for ever crushed the mocking spirit out of Paul CarlDavid Emanuel!

Alas! no such feat was in my power. To-day, as usual, his quotationsfell ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground. 

"Women of intellect" was his next theme: here he was at home. A "womanof intellect, " it appeared, was a sort of "lusus naturae, " a lucklessaccident, a thing for which there was neither place nor use increation, wanted neither as wife nor worker. Beauty anticipated her inthe first office. He believed in his soul that lovely, placid, andpassive feminine mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly thoughtand sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work, malemind alone could work to any good practical result--hein?

This "hein?" was a note of interrogation intended to draw from mecontradiction or objection. However, I only said--"Cela ne me regardepas: je ne m'en soucie pas;" and presently added--"May I go, Monsieur?They have rung the bell for the second déjeuner" (_i. E. _ luncheon). 

"What of that? You are not hungry?"

"Indeed I was, " I said; "I had had nothing since breakfast, at seven, and should have nothing till dinner, at five, if I missed this bell. "

"Well, he was in the same plight, but I might share with him. "

And he broke in two the "brioche" intended for his own refreshment, and gave me half. Truly his bark was worse than his bite; but thereally formidable attack was yet to come. While eating his cake, Icould not forbear expressing my secret wish that I really knew all ofwhich he accused me. 

"Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus?" he asked, in asoftened tone. 

If I had replied meekly by an unqualified affirmative, I believe hewould have stretched out his hand, and we should have been friends onthe spot, but I answered--

"Not exactly. I am ignorant, Monsieur, in the knowledge you ascribe tome, but I _sometimes_, not _always_, feel a knowledge of myown. "

"What did I mean?" he inquired, sharply. 

Unable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded it by change ofsubject. He had now finished his half of the brioche feeling sure thaton so trifling a fragment he could not have satisfied his appetite, asindeed I had not appeased mine, and inhaling the fragrance of bakedapples afar from the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he didnot also perceive that agreeable odour. He confessed that he did. Isaid if he would let me out by the garden-door, and permit me just torun across the court, I would fetch him a plateful; and added that Ibelieved they were excellent, as Goton had a very good method ofbaking, or rather stewing fruit, putting in a little spice, sugar, anda glass or two of vin blanc--might I go?

"Petite gourmande!" said he, smiling, "I have not forgotten howpleased you were with the pâté â la crême I once gave you, and youknow very well, at this moment, that to fetch the apples for me willbe the same as getting them for yourself. Go, then, but come backquickly. "

And at last he liberated me on parole. My own plan was to go andreturn with speed and good faith, to put the plate in at the door, andthen to vanish incontinent, leaving all consequences for futuresettlement. 

That intolerably keen instinct of his seemed to have anticipated myscheme: he met me at the threshold, hurried me into the room, andfixed me in a minute in my former seat. Taking the plate of fruit frommy hand, he divided the portion intended only for himself, and orderedme to eat my share. I complied with no good grace, and vexed, Isuppose, by my reluctance, he opened a masked and dangerous battery. All he had yet said, I could count as mere sound and fury, signifyingnothing: not so of the present attack. 

It consisted in an unreasonable proposition with which he had beforeafflicted me: namely, that on the next public examination-day I shouldengage--foreigner as I was--to take my place on the first form offirst-class pupils, and with them improvise a composition in French, on any subject any spectator might dictate, without benefit of grammaror lexicon. 

I knew what the result of such an experiment would be. I, to whomnature had denied the impromptu faculty; who, in public, was by naturea cypher; whose time of mental activity, even when alone, was notunder the meridian sun; who needed the fresh silence of morning, orthe recluse peace of evening, to win from the Creative Impulse oneevidence of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom thatImpulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the mostmaddening of masters (him before me always excepted)--a deity whichsometimes, under circumstances--apparently propitious, would not speakwhen questioned, would not hear when appealed to, would not, whensought, be found; but would stand, all cold, all indurated, allgranite, a dark Baal with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breastlike the stone face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, somesound, some long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing past of anunseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon would wakeunsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would rush from its pedestallike a perturbed Dagon, calling to its votary for a sacrifice, whatever the hour--to its victim for some blood, or some breath, whatever the circumstance or scene--rousing its priest, treacherouslypromising vaticination, perhaps filling its temple with a strange humof oracles, but sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudging to the desperate listener even a miserable remnant--yielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of thedeathless ichor of its own dark veins. And this tyrant I was to compelinto bondage, and make it improvise a theme, on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and a Coralie, under the eye of a Madame Beck, forthe pleasure, and to the inspiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour!

Upon this argument M. Paul and I did battle more than once--strongbattle, with confused noise of demand and rejection, exaction andrepulse. 

On this particular day I was soundly rated. "The obstinacy of my wholesex, " it seems, was concentrated in me; I had an "orgueil de diable. "I feared to fail, forsooth! What did it matter whether I failed ornot? Who was I that I should not fail, like my betters? It would do megood to fail. He wanted to see me worsted (I knew he did), and oneminute he paused to take breath. 

"Would I speak now, and be tractable?"

"Never would I be tractable in this matter. Law itself should notcompel me. I would pay a fine, or undergo an imprisonment, rather thanwrite for a show and to order, perched up on a platform. "

"Could softer motives influence me? Would I yield for friendship'ssake?"

"Not a whit, not a hair-breadth. No form of friendship under the sunhad a right to exact such a concession. No true friendship wouldharass me thus. "

He supposed then (with a sneer--M. Paul could sneer supremely, curlinghis lip, opening his nostrils, contracting his eyelids)--he supposedthere was but one form of appeal to which I would listen, and of thatform it was not for him to make use. 

"Under certain persuasions, from certain quarters, je vous voisd'ici, " said he, "eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionatelyarming for the effort. "

"Making a simpleton, a warning, and an example of myself, before ahundred and fifty of the 'papas' and 'mammas' of Villette. "

And here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry that I wantedto be liberated--to get out into the air--I was almost in a fever. 

"Chut!" said the inexorable, "this was a mere pretext to run away;_he_ was not hot, with the stove close at his back; how could Isuffer, thoroughly screened by his person?"

"I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing of the naturalhistory of salamanders. For my own part, I was a phlegmatic islander, and sitting in an oven did not agree with me; at least, might I stepto the well, and get a glass of water--the sweet apples had made methirsty?"

"If that was all, he would do my errand. "

He went to fetch the water. Of course, with a door only on the latchbehind me, I lost not my opportunity. Ere his return, his half-worriedprey had escaped. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DRYAD. 

The spring was advancing, and the weather had turned suddenly warm. This change of temperature brought with it for me, as probably formany others, temporary decrease of strength. Slight exertion at thistime left me overcome with fatigue--sleepless nights entailed languiddays. 

One Sunday afternoon, having walked the distance of half a league tothe Protestant church, I came back weary and exhausted; and takingrefuge in my solitary sanctuary, the first classe, I was glad to sitdown, and to make of my desk a pillow for my arms and head. 

Awhile I listened to the lullaby of bees humming in the berceau, andwatched, through the glass door and the tender, lightly-strewn springfoliage, Madame Beck and a gay party of friends, whom she hadentertained that day at dinner after morning mass, walking in thecentre-alley under orchard boughs dressed at this season in blossom, and wearing a colouring as pure and warm as mountain-snow at sun-rise. 

My principal attraction towards this group of guests lay, I remember, in one figure--that of a handsome young girl whom I had seen before asa visitor at Madame Beck's, and of whom I had been vaguely told thatshe was a "filleule, " or god-daughter, of M. Emanuel's, and thatbetween her mother, or aunt, or some other female relation of hers, and the Professor, had existed of old a special friendship. M. Paulwas not of the holiday band to-day, but I had seen this young girlwith him ere now, and as far as distant observation could enable me tojudge, she seemed to enjoy him with the frank ease of a ward with anindulgent guardian. I had seen her run up to him, put her arm throughhis, and hang upon him. Once, when she did so, a curious sensation hadstruck through me--a disagreeable anticipatory sensation--one of thefamily of presentiments, I suppose--but I refused to analyze or dwellupon it. While watching this girl, Mademoiselle Sauveur by name, andfollowing the gleam of her bright silk robe (she was always richlydressed, for she was said to be wealthy) through the flowers and theglancing leaves of tender emerald, my eyes became dazzled--theyclosed; my lassitude, the warmth of the day, the hum of bees andbirds, all lulled me, and at last I slept. 

Two hours stole over me. Ere I woke, the sun had declined out of sightbehind the towering houses, the garden and the room were grey, beeshad gone homeward, and the flowers were closing; the party of guests, too, had vanished; each alley was void. 

On waking, I felt much at ease--not chill, as I ought to have beenafter sitting so still for at least two hours; my cheek and arms werenot benumbed by pressure against the hard desk. No wonder. Instead ofthe bare wood on which I had laid them, I found a thick shawl, carefully folded, substituted for support, and another shawl (bothtaken from the corridor where such things hung) wrapped warmly roundme. 

Who had done this? Who was my friend? Which of the teachers? Which ofthe pupils? None, except St. Pierre, was inimical to me; but which ofthem had the art, the thought, the habit, of benefiting thus tenderly?Which of them had a step so quiet, a hand so gentle, but I should haveheard or felt her, if she had approached or touched me in a day-sleep?

As to Ginevra Fanshawe, that bright young creature was not gentle atall, and would certainly have pulled me out of my chair, if she hadmeddled in the matter. I said at last: "It is Madame Beck's doing; shehas come in, seen me asleep, and thought I might take cold. Sheconsiders me a useful machine, answering well the purpose for which itwas hired; so would not have me needlessly injured. And now, "methought, "I'll take a walk; the evening is fresh, and not verychill. "

So I opened the glass door and stepped into the berceau. 

I went to my own alley: had it been dark, or even dusk, I should havehardly ventured there, for I had not yet forgotten the curiousillusion of vision (if illusion it were) experienced in that placesome months ago. But a ray of the setting sun burnished still the greycrown of Jean Baptiste; nor had all the birds of the garden yetvanished into their nests amongst the tufted shrubs and thick wall-ivy. I paced up and down, thinking almost the same thoughts I hadpondered that night when I buried my glass jar--how I should make someadvance in life, take another step towards an independent position;for this train of reflection, though not lately pursued, had never byme been wholly abandoned; and whenever a certain eye was averted fromme, and a certain countenance grew dark with unkindness and injustice, into that track of speculation did I at once strike; so that, littleby little, I had laid half a plan. 

"Living costs little, " said I to myself, "in this economical town ofVillette, where people are more sensible than I understand they are indear old England--infinitely less worried about appearance, and lessemulous of display--where nobody is in the least ashamed to be quiteas homely and saving as he finds convenient. House-rent, in aprudently chosen situation, need not be high. When I shall have savedone thousand francs, I will take a tenement with one large room, andtwo or three smaller ones, furnish the first with a few benches anddesks, a black tableau, an estrade for myself; upon it a chair andtable, with a sponge and some white chalks; begin with taking day-pupils, and so work my way upwards. Madame Beck's commencement was--asI have often heard her say--from no higher starting-point, and whereis she now? All these premises and this garden are hers, bought withher money; she has a competency already secured for old age, and aflourishing establishment under her direction, which will furnish acareer for her children. 

"Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now, and steadyexertion by-and-by, an object in life need not fail you. Venture notto complain that such an object is too selfish, too limited, and lacksinterest; be content to labour for independence until you have proved, by winning that prize, your right to look higher. But afterwards, isthere nothing more for me in life--no true home--nothing to be dearerto me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw from mebetter things than I care to culture for myself only? Nothing, atwhose feet I can willingly lay down the whole burden of human egotism, and gloriously take up the nobler charge of labouring and living forothers? I suppose, Lucy Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be sorounded: for you, the crescent-phase must suffice. Very good. I see ahuge mass of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances. I seethat a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life onconditions of denial and privation. I find no reason why I should beof the few favoured. I believe in some blending of hope and sunshinesweetening the worst lots. I believe that this life is not all;neither the beginning nor the end. I believe while I tremble; I trustwhile I weep. "

So this subject is done with. It is right to look our life-accountsbravely in the face now and then, and settle them honestly. And he isa poor self-swindler who lies to himself while he reckons the items, and sets down under the head--happiness that which is misery. Callanguish--anguish, and despair--despair; write both down in strongcharacters with a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt toDoom. Falsify: insert "privilege" where you should have written"pain;" and see if your mighty creditor will allow the fraud to pass, or accept the coin with which you would cheat him. Offer to thestrongest--if the darkest angel of God's host--water, when he hasasked blood--will he take it? Not a whole pale sea for one red drop. Isettled another account. 

Pausing before Methusaleh--the giant and patriarch of the garden--andleaning my brow against his knotty trunk, my foot rested on the stonesealing the small sepulchre at his root; and I recalled the passage offeeling therein buried; I recalled Dr. John; my warm affection forhim; my faith in his excellence; my delight in his grace. What wasbecome of that curious one-sided friendship which was half marble andhalf life; only on one hand truth, and on the other perhaps a jest?

Was this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried. Sometimes Ithought the tomb unquiet, and dreamed strangely of disturbed earth, and of hair, still golden, and living, obtruded through coffin-chinks. 

Had I been too hasty? I used to ask myself; and this question wouldoccur with a cruel sharpness after some brief chance interview withDr. John. He had still such kind looks, such a warm hand; his voicestill kept so pleasant a tone for my name; I never liked "Lucy" sowell as when he uttered it. But I learned in time that this benignity, this cordiality, this music, belonged in no shape to me: it was a partof himself; it was the honey of his temper; it was the balm of hismellow mood; he imparted it, as the ripe fruit rewards with sweetnessthe rifling bee; he diffused it about him, as sweet plants shed theirperfume. Does the nectarine love either the bee or bird it feeds? Isthe sweetbriar enamoured of the air?

"Good-night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful; but you arenot mine. Good-night, and God bless you!"

Thus I closed my musings. "Good-night" left my lips in sound; I heardthe words spoken, and then I heard an echo--quite close. 

"Good-night, Mademoiselle; or, rather, good-evening--the sun is scarceset; I hope you slept well?"

I started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew the voice andspeaker. 

"Slept, Monsieur! When? where?"

"You may well inquire when--where. It seems you turn day into night, and choose a desk for a pillow; rather hard lodging--?"

"It was softened for me, Monsieur, while I slept. That unseen, gift-bringing thing which haunts my desk, remembered me. No matter how Ifell asleep; I awoke pillowed and covered. "

"Did the shawls keep you warm?"

"Very warm. Do you ask thanks for them?"

"No. You looked pale in your slumbers: are you home-sick?"

"To be home-sick, one must have a home; which I have not. "

"Then you have more need of a careful friend. I scarcely know any one, Miss Lucy, who needs a friend more absolutely than you; your veryfaults imperatively require it. You want so much checking, regulating, and keeping down. "

This idea of "keeping down" never left M. Paul's head; the mosthabitual subjugation would, in my case, have failed to relieve him ofit. No matter; what did it signify? I listened to him, and did nottrouble myself to be too submissive; his occupation would have beengone had I left him nothing to "keep down. "

"You need watching, and watching over, " he pursued; "and it is wellfor you that I see this, and do my best to discharge both duties. Iwatch you and others pretty closely, pretty constantly, nearer andoftener than you or they think. Do you see that window with a light init?"

He pointed to a lattice in one of the college boarding-houses. 

"That, " said he, "is a room I have hired, nominally for a study--virtually for a post of observation. There I sit and read for hourstogether: it is my way--my taste. My book is this garden; its contentsare human nature--female human nature. I know you all by heart. Ah! Iknow you well--St. Pierre, the Parisienne--cette maîtresse-femme, mycousin Beck herself. "

"It is not right, Monsieur. "

"Comment? it is not right? By whose creed? Does some dogma of Calvinor Luther condemn it? What is that to me? I am no Protestant. My richfather (for, though I have known poverty, and once starved for a yearin a garret in Rome--starved wretchedly, often on a meal a day, andsometimes not that--yet I was born to wealth)--my rich father was agood Catholic; and he gave me a priest and a Jesuit for a tutor. Iretain his lessons; and to what discoveries, grand Dieu! have they notaided me!"

"Discoveries made by stealth seem to me dishonourable discoveries. "

"Puritaine! I doubt it not. Yet see how my Jesuit's system works. Youknow the St. Pierre?"

"Partially. "

He laughed. "You say right--_'partially'_; whereas _I_ knowher _thoroughly_; there is the difference. She played before methe amiable; offered me patte de velours; caressed, flattered, fawnedon me. Now, I am accessible to a woman's flattery--accessible againstmy reason. Though never pretty, she was--when I first knew her--young, or knew how to look young. Like all her countrywomen, she had the artof dressing--she had a certain cool, easy, social assurance, whichspared me the pain of embarrassment--"

"Monsieur, that must have been unnecessary. I never saw youembarrassed in my life. "

"Mademoiselle, you know little of me; I can be embarrassed as a petitepensionnaire; there is a fund of modesty and diffidence in my nature--"

"Monsieur, I never saw it. "

"Mademoiselle, it is there. You ought to have seen it. "

"Monsieur, I have observed you in public--on platforms, in tribunes, before titles and crowned heads--and you were as easy as you are inthe third division. "

"Mademoiselle, neither titles nor crowned heads excite my modesty; andpublicity is very much my element. I like it well, and breathe in itquite freely;--but--but, in short, here is the sentiment brought intoaction, at this very moment; however, I disdain to be worsted by it. If, Mademoiselle, I were a marrying man (which I am not; and you mayspare yourself the trouble of any sneer you may be contemplating atthe thought), and found it necessary to ask a lady whether she couldlook upon me in the light of a future husband, then would it be provedthat I am as I say--modest"

I quite believed him now; and, in believing, I honoured him with asincerity of esteem which made my heart ache. 

"As to the St. Pierre, " he went on, recovering himself, for his voicehad altered a little, "she once intended to be Madame Emanuel; and Idon't know whither I might have been led, but for yonder littlelattice with the light. Ah, magic lattice! what miracles of discoveryhast thou wrought! Yes, " he pursued, "I have seen her rancours, hervanities, her levities--not only here, but elsewhere: I have witnessedwhat bucklers me against all her arts: I am safe from poor Zélie. "

"And my pupils, " he presently recommenced, "those blondes jeunesfilles--so mild and meek--I have seen the most reserved--romp likeboys, the demurest--snatch grapes from the walls, shake pears from thetrees. When the English teacher came, I saw her, marked her earlypreference for this alley, noticed her taste for seclusion, watchedher well, long before she and I came to speaking terms; do yourecollect my once coming silently and offering you a little knot ofwhite violets when we were strangers?"

"I recollect it. I dried the violets, kept them, and have them still. "

"It pleased me when you took them peacefully and promptly, withoutprudery--that sentiment which I ever dread to excite, and which, whenit is revealed in eye or gesture, I vindictively detest. To return. Not only did _I_ watch you; but often--especially at eventide--another guardian angel was noiselessly hovering near: night afternight my cousin Beck has stolen down yonder steps, and glidinglypursued your movements when you did not see her. "

"But, Monsieur, you could not from the distance of that window seewhat passed in this garden at night?"

"By moonlight I possibly might with a glass--I use a glass--but thegarden itself is open to me. In the shed, at the bottom, there is adoor leading into a court, which communicates with the college; ofthat door I possess the key, and thus come and go at pleasure. Thisafternoon I came through it, and found you asleep in classe; againthis evening I have availed myself of the same entrance. "

I could not help saying, "If you were a wicked, designing man, howterrible would all this be!"

His attention seemed incapable of being arrested by this view of thesubject: he lit his cigar, and while he puffed it, leaning against atree, and looking at me in a cool, amused way he had when his humourwas tranquil, I thought proper to go on sermonizing him: he oftenlectured me by the hour together--I did not see why I should not speakmy mind for once. So I told him my impressions concerning his Jesuit-system. 

"The knowledge it brings you is bought too dear, Monsieur; this comingand going by stealth degrades your own dignity. "

"My dignity!" he cried, laughing; "when did you ever see me trouble myhead about my dignity? It is you, Miss Lucy, who are 'digne. ' Howoften, in your high insular presence, have I taken a pleasure intrampling upon, what you are pleased to call, my dignity; tearing it, scattering it to the winds, in those mad transports you witness withsuch hauteur, and which I know you think very like the ravings of athird-rate London actor. "

"Monsieur, I tell you every glance you cast from that lattice is awrong done to the best part of your own nature. To study the humanheart thus, is to banquet secretly and sacrilegiously on Eve's apples. I wish you were a Protestant. "

Indifferent to the wish, he smoked on. After a space of smiling yetthoughtful silence, he said, rather suddenly--"I have seen otherthings. "

"What other things?"

Taking the weed from his lips, he threw the remnant amongst theshrubs, where, for a moment, it lay glowing in the gloom. 

"Look, at it, " said he: "is not that spark like an eye watching youand me?"

He took a turn down the walk; presently returning, he went on:--"Ihave seen, Miss Lucy, things to me unaccountable, that have made mewatch all night for a solution, and I have not yet found it. "

The tone was peculiar; my veins thrilled; he saw me shiver. 

"Are you afraid? Whether is it of my words or that red jealous eyejust winking itself out?"

"I am cold; the night grows dark and late, and the air is changed; itis time to go in. "

"It is little past eight, but you shall go in soon. Answer me onlythis question. "

Yet he paused ere he put it. The garden was truly growing dark; duskhad come on with clouds, and drops of rain began to patter through thetrees. I hoped he would feel this, but, for the moment, he seemed toomuch absorbed to be sensible of the change. 

"Mademoiselle, do you Protestants believe in the supernatural?"

"There is a difference of theory and belief on this point amongstProtestants as amongst other sects, " I answered. "Why, Monsieur, doyou ask such a question?"

"Why do you shrink and speak so faintly? Are you superstitious?"

"I am constitutionally nervous. I dislike the discussion of suchsubjects. I dislike it the more because--"

"You believe?"

"No: but it has happened to me to experience impressions--"

"Since you came here?"

"Yes; not many months ago. "

"Here?--in this house?"

"Yes. "

"Bon! I am glad of it. I knew it, somehow; before you told me. I wasconscious of rapport between you and myself. You are patient, and I amcholeric; you are quiet and pale, and I am tanned and fiery; you are astrict Protestant, and I am a sort of lay Jesuit: but we are alike--there is affinity between us. Do you see it, Mademoiselle, when youlook in the glass? Do you observe that your forehead is shaped likemine--that your eyes are cut like mine? Do you hear that you have someof my tones of voice? Do you know that you have many of my looks? Iperceive all this, and believe that you were born under my star. Yes, you were born under my star! Tremble! for where that is the case withmortals, the threads of their destinies are difficult to disentangle;knottings and catchings occur--sudden breaks leave damage in the web. But these 'impressions, ' as you say, with English caution. I, too, have had my 'impressions. '"

"Monsieur, tell me them. "

"I desire no better, and intend no less. You know the legend of thishouse and garden?"

"I know it. Yes. They say that hundreds of years ago a nun was buriedhere alive at the foot of this very tree, beneath the ground which nowbears us. "

"And that in former days a nun's ghost used to come and go here. "

"Monsieur, what if it comes and goes here still?"

"Something comes and goes here: there is a shape frequenting thishouse by night, different to any forms that show themselves by day. Ihave indisputably seen a something, more than once; and to me itsconventual weeds were a strange sight, saying more than they can do toany other living being. A nun!"

"Monsieur, I, too, have seen it. "

"I anticipated that. Whether this nun be flesh and blood, or somethingthat remains when blood is dried, and flesh is wasted, her business isas much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean to make it out; ithas baffled me so far, but I mean to follow up the mystery. I mean--"

Instead of telling what he meant, he raised his head suddenly; I madethe same movement in the same instant; we both looked to one point--the high tree shadowing the great berceau, and resting some of itsboughs on the roof of the first classe. There had been a strange andinexplicable sound from that quarter, as if the arms of that tree hadswayed of their own motion, and its weight of foliage had rushed andcrushed against the massive trunk. Yes; there scarce stirred a breeze, and that heavy tree was convulsed, whilst the feathery shrubs stoodstill. For some minutes amongst the wood and leafage a rending andheaving went on. Dark as it was, it seemed to me that something moresolid than either night-shadow, or branch-shadow, blackened out of theboles. At last the struggle ceased. What birth succeeded this travail?What Dryad was born of these throes? We watched fixedly. A sudden bellrang in the house--the prayer-bell. Instantly into our alley therecame, out of the berceau, an apparition, all black and white. With asort of angry rush-close, close past our faces--swept swiftly the veryNUN herself! Never had I seen her so clearly. She looked tall ofstature, and fierce of gesture. As she went, the wind rose sobbing;the rain poured wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE FIRST LETTER. 

Where, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary? How fared myintercourse with the sumptuous Hôtel Crécy? That intercourse had, foran interval, been suspended by absence; M. And Miss de Bassompierrehad been travelling, dividing some weeks between the provinces andcapital of France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortlyafter it took place. 

I was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard, wanderingslowly on, enjoying the benign April sun, and some thoughts notunpleasing, when I saw before me a group of riders, stopping as ifthey had just encountered, and exchanging greetings in the midst ofthe broad, smooth, linden-bordered path; on one side a middle-agedgentleman and young lady, on the other--a young and handsome man. Verygraceful was the lady's mien, choice her appointments, delicate andstately her whole aspect. Still, as I looked, I felt they were knownto me, and, drawing a little nearer, I fully recognised them all: theCount Home de Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton. 

How animated was Graham's face! How true, how warm, yet how retiringthe joy it expressed! This was the state of things, this thecombination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, tosubdue and excite Dr. John. The pearl he admired was in itself ofgreat price and truest purity, but he was not the man who, inappreciating the gem, could forget its setting. Had he seen Paulinawith the same youth, beauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple attire, a dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he wouldhave thought her a pretty little creature, and would have loved withhis eye her movements and her mien, but it required other than this toconquer him as he was now vanquished, to bring him safe under dominionas now, without loss, and even with gain to his manly honour, one sawthat he was reduced; there was about Dr. John all the man of theworld; to satisfy himself did not suffice; society must approve--theworld must admire what he did, or he counted his measures false andfutile. In his victrix he required all that was here visible--theimprint of high cultivation, the consecration of a careful andauthoritative protection, the adjuncts that Fashion decrees, Wealthpurchases, and Taste adjusts; for these conditions his spiritstipulated ere it surrendered: they were here to the utmost fulfilled;and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he did homage to Paulina ashis sovereign. As for her, the smile of feeling, rather than ofconscious power, slept soft in her eyes. 

They parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth heskimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked very handsome;mettle and purpose were roused in him fully. 

"Papa, there is Lucy!" cried a musical, friendly voice. "Lucy, dearLucy--_do_ come here!"

I hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from hersaddle to kiss me. 

"I was coming to see you to-morrow, " said she; "but now to-morrow youwill come and see me. "

She named the hour, and I promised compliance. 

The morrow's evening found me with her--she and I shut into her ownroom. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims werebrought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had sosignally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in theinterval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tête-à-tête, a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clearsoft voice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. Myown attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, sheherself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind upher narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise anabridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed--a restlesssilence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, ina diffident, half-appealing voice--"Lucy--"

"Well, I am at your side. "

"Is my cousin Ginevra still at Madame Beck's?"

"Your cousin is still there; you must be longing to see her. "

"No--not much. "

"You want to invite her to spend another evening?"

"No... I suppose she still talks about being married?"

"Not to any one you care for. "

"But of course she still thinks of Dr. Bretton? She cannot havechanged her mind on that point, because it was so fixed two monthsago. "

"Why, you know, it does not matter. You saw the terms on which theystood. "

"There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does sheseem unhappy?"

"Not she. To change the subject. Have you heard or seen nothing of, orfrom. Graham during your absence?"

"Papa had letters from him once or twice about business, I think. Heundertook the management of some affair which required attention whilewe were away. Dr. Bretton seems to respect papa, and to have pleasurein obliging him. "

"Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would be able tojudge from his aspect that his friends need not be painfully anxiousabout his health?"

"Papa seems to have thought with you. I could not help smiling. He isnot particularly observant, you know, because he is often thinking ofother things than what pass before his eyes; but he said, as Dr. Bretton rode away, `Really it does a man good to see the spirit andenergy of that boy. ' He called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almostthinks him so, just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speakingto me, but dropped that remark to himself. Lucy.... "

Again fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant she left herchair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet. 

I liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made concerning myacquaintance, in the course of this book: the reader will bear with itfor once. Intimate intercourse, close inspection, disclosed in Paulinaonly what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regardfor her lay deep. An admiration more superficial might have been moredemonstrative; mine, however, was quiet. 

"What have you to ask of Lucy?" said I; "be brave, and speak out"

But there was no courage in her eye; as it met mine, it fell; andthere was no coolness on her cheek--not a transient surface-blush, buta gathering inward excitement raised its tint and its temperature. 

"Lucy, I _do_ wish to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, _do_ give me your real opinion of his character, his disposition. "

"His character stands high, and deservedly high. "

"And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition, " she urged; "youknow him well. "

"I know him pretty well. "

"You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak ofhim as a son. "

"He is a fine-hearted son; his mother's comfort and hope, her prideand pleasure. "

She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it alittle caressing stroke. 

"In what other way is he good, Lucy?"

"Dr. Bretton is benevolent--humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr. Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worstcriminal. "

"I heard some gentlemen, some of papa's friends, who were talkingabout him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at thehospitals, who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him. "

"They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over ahospital; I saw how he was received: your father's friends are right. "

The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. Shehad yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Duskwas beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilightruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later. 

"How quiet and secluded we feel here!" I remarked, to reassure her. 

"Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down totea; papa is dining out. "

Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously, dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twineof her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, andat last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark's, she said:--

"You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr. Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but--". 

"Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him. "

"And if I did, " said she, with slight quickness, "is that a reason whyI should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?"

"If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit herewaiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease aboutthe room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Goon. "

"I mean to go on, " retorted she; "what else do you suppose I mean todo?"

And she looked and spoke--the little Polly of Bretton--petulant, sensitive. 

"If, " said she, emphatically, "if I liked Dr. John till I was fit todie for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwisethan dumb--dumb as the grave--dumb as you, Lucy Snowe--you know it--and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, andwhined about some rickety liking that was all on my side. "

"It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious eitherin boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, offeelings. But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hearyou. Tell me all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell: I ask nomore. "

"Do you care for me, Lucy?"

"Yes, I do, Paulina. "

"And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when Iwas a little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to methen to lavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptableto me, and I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy. "

And she settled herself, resting against my arm--resting gently, notwith honest Mistress Fanshawe's fatiguing and selfish weight. 

"A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Grahamduring our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa onbusiness; this was true, but I did not tell you all. "

"You evaded?"

"I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speakthe truth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one's ease. Papaoften lets me open the letter-bag and give him out the contents. Onemorning, about three weeks ago, you don't know how surprised I was tofind, amongst a dozen letters for M. De Bassompierre, a note addressedto Miss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; thehandwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going tosay, 'Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;' but the 'Miss'struck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentlemanbefore. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and readit first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa's ideasabout me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he isnot aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall be;so, with a curious mixture of feelings, some of them self-reproachful, and some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe them, I gave papahis twelve letters--his herd of possessions--and kept back my one, myewe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with aninexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent--achild to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. Afterbreakfast I carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself byturning the key in the door, I began to study the outside of mytreasure: it was some minutes before I could get over the directionand penetrate the seal; one does not take a strong place of this kindby instant storm--one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham's hand is like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal--all clear, firm, and rounded--no slovenly splash of wax--a full, solid, steadydrop--a distinct impress; no pointed turns harshly pricking the opticnerve, but a clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes you asyou read. It is like his face--just like the chiselling of hisfeatures: do you know his autograph?"

"I have seen it: go on. "

"The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with myscissors. On the point of reading the letter at last, I once more drewback voluntarily; it was too soon yet to drink that draught--thesparkle in the cup was so beautiful--I would watch it yet a minute. Then I remembered all at once that I had not said my prayers thatmorning. Having heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier thanusual, I had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened tojoin him as soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put off prayers tillafterwards. Some people would say I ought to have served God first andthen man; but I don't think heaven could be jealous of anything Imight do for papa. I believe I am superstitious. A voice seemed now tosay that another feeling than filial affection was in question--tourge me to pray before I dared to read what I so longed to read--todeny myself yet a moment, and remember first a great duty. I have hadthese impulses ever since I can remember. I put the letter down andsaid my prayers, adding, at the end, a strong entreaty that whateverhappened, I might not be tempted or led to cause papa any sorrow, andmight never, in caring for others, neglect him. The very thought ofsuch a possibility, so pierced my heart that it made me cry. Butstill, Lucy, I felt that in time papa would have to be taught thetruth, managed, and induced to hear reason. 

"I read the letter. Lucy, life is said to be all disappointment. _I_ was not disappointed. Ere I read, and while I read, my heartdid more than throb--it trembled fast--every quiver seemed like thepant of an animal athirst, laid down at a well and drinking; and thewell proved quite full, gloriously clear; it rose up munificently ofits own impulse; I saw the sun through its gush, and not a mote, Lucy, no moss, no insect, no atom in the thrice-refined golden gurgle. 

"Life, " she went on, "is said to be full of pain to some. I have readbiographies where the wayfarer seemed to journey on from suffering tosuffering; where Hope flew before him fast, never alighting so near, or lingering so long, as to give his hand a chance of one realizinggrasp. I have read of those who sowed in tears, and whose harvest, sofar from being reaped in joy, perished by untimely blight, or wasborne off by sudden whirlwind; and, alas! some of these met the winterwith empty garners, and died of utter want in the darkest and coldestof the year. "

"Was it their fault, Paulina, that they of whom you speak thus died?"

"Not always their fault. Some of them were good endeavouring people. Iam not endeavouring, nor actively good, yet God has caused me to growin sun, due moisture, and safe protection, sheltered, fostered, taught, by my dear father; and now--now--another comes. Graham lovesme. "

For some minutes we both paused on this climax. 

"Does your father know?" I inquired, in a low voice. 

"Graham spoke with deep respect of papa, but implied that he dared notapproach that quarter as yet; he must first prove his worth: he addedthat he must have some light respecting myself and my own feelings erehe ventured to risk a step in the matter elsewhere. "

"How did you reply?"

"I replied briefly, but I did not repulse him. Yet I almost trembledfor fear of making the answer too cordial: Graham's tastes are sofastidious. I wrote it three times--chastening and subduing thephrases at every rescript; at last, having confected it till it seemedto me to resemble a morsel of ice flavoured with ever so slight a zestof fruit or sugar, I ventured to seal and despatch it. "

"Excellent, Paulina! Your instinct is fine; you understand Dr. Bretton. "

"But how must I manage about papa? There I am still in pain. "

"Do not manage at all. Wait now. Only maintain no furthercorrespondence till your father knows all, and gives his sanction. "

"Will he ever give it?"

"Time will show. Wait. "

"Dr. Bretton wrote one other letter, deeply grateful for my calm, brief note; but I anticipated your advice, by saying, that while mysentiments continued the same, I could not, without my fathersknowledge, write again. "

"You acted as you ought to have done; so Dr. Bretton will feel: itwill increase his pride in you, his love for you, if either be capableof increase. Paulina, that gentle hoar-frost of yours, surrounding somuch pure, fine flame, is a priceless privilege of nature. "

"You see I feel Graham's disposition, " said she. "I feel that nodelicacy can be too exquisite for his treatment. "

"It is perfectly proved that you comprehend him, and then--whateverDr. Bretton's disposition, were he one who expected to be more nearlymet--you would still act truthfully, openly, tenderly, with yourfather. "

"Lucy, I trust I shall thus act always. Oh, it will be pain to wakepapa from his dream, and tell him I am no more a little girl!"

"Be in no hurry to do so, Paulina. Leave the revelation to Time andyour kind Fate. I also have noticed the gentleness of her cares foryou: doubt not she will benignantly order the circumstances, and fitlyappoint the hour. Yes: I have thought over your life just as you haveyourself thought it over; I have made comparisons like those to whichyou adverted. We know not the future, but the past has beenpropitious. 

"As a child I feared for you; nothing that has life was ever moresusceptible than your nature in infancy: under harshness or neglect, neither your outward nor your inward self would have ripened to whatthey now are. Much pain, much fear, much struggle, would have troubledthe very lines of your features, broken their regularity, would haveharassed your nerves into the fever of habitual irritation you wouldhave lost in health and cheerfulness, in grace and sweetness. Providence has protected and cultured you, not only for your own sake, but I believe for Graham's. His star, too, was fortunate: to developfully the best of his nature, a companion like you was needed: thereyou are, ready. You must be united. I knew it the first day I saw youtogether at La Terrasse. In all that mutually concerns you and Grahamthere seems to me promise, plan, harmony. I do not think the sunnyyouth of either will prove the forerunner of stormy age. I think it isdeemed good that you two should live in peace and be happy--not asangels, but as few are happy amongst mortals. Some lives _are_thus blessed: it is God's will: it is the attesting trace andlingering evidence of Eden. Other lives run from the first anothercourse. Other travellers encounter weather fitful and gusty, wild andvariable--breast adverse winds, are belated and overtaken by the earlyclosing winter night. Neither can this happen without the sanction ofGod; and I know that, amidst His boundless works, is somewhere storedthe secret of this last fate's justice: I know that His treasurescontain the proof as the promise of its mercy. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE. 

On the first of May, we had all--i. E. The twenty boarders and thefour teachers--notice to rise at five o'clock of the morning, to bedressed and ready by six, to put ourselves under the command of M. LeProfesseur Emanuel, who was to head our march forth from Villette, forit was on this day he proposed to fulfil his promise of taking us tobreakfast in the country. I, indeed, as the reader may perhapsremember, had not had the honour of an invitation when this excursionwas first projected--rather the contrary; but on my now makingallusion to this fact, and wishing to know how it was to be, my earreceived a pull, of which I did not venture to challenge therepetition by raising, further difficulties. 

"Je vous conseille de vous faire prier, " said M. Emanuel, imperiallymenacing the other ear. One Napoleonic compliment, however, wasenough, so I made up my mind to be of the party. 

The morning broke calm as summer, with singing of birds in the garden, and a light dew-mist that promised heat. We all said it would be warm, and we all felt pleasure in folding away heavy garments, and inassuming the attire suiting a sunny season. The clean fresh printdress, and the light straw bonnet, each made and trimmed as the Frenchworkwoman alone can make and trim, so as to unite the utterlyunpretending with the perfectly becoming, was the rule of costume. Nobody flaunted in faded silk; nobody wore a second-hand best article. 

At six the bell rang merrily, and we poured down the staircase, through the carré, along the corridor, into the vestibule. There stoodour Professor, wearing, not his savage-looking paletôt and severebonnet-grec, but a young-looking belted blouse and cheerful straw hat. He had for us all the kindest good-morrow, and most of us for him hada thanksgiving smile. We were marshalled in order and soon started. 

The streets were yet quiet, and the boulevards were fresh and peacefulas fields. I believe we were very happy as we walked along. This chiefof ours had the secret of giving a certain impetus to happiness whenhe would; just as, in an opposite mood, he could give a thrill tofear. 

He did not lead nor follow us, but walked along the line, giving aword to every one, talking much to his favourites, and not whollyneglecting even those he disliked. It was rather my wish, for a reasonI had, to keep slightly aloof from notice, and being paired withGinevra Fanshawe, bearing on my arm the dear pressure of that angel'snot unsubstantial limb--(she continued in excellent case, and I canassure the reader it was no trifling business to bear the burden ofher loveliness; many a time in the course of that warm day I wished togoodness there had been less of the charming commodity)--however, having her, as I said, I tried to make her useful by interposing heralways between myself and M. Paul, shifting my place, according as Iheard him coming up to the right hand or the left. My private motivefor this manoeuvre might be traced to the circumstance of the newprint dress I wore, being pink in colour--a fact which, under ourpresent convoy, made me feel something as I have felt, when, clad in ashawl with a red border, necessitated to traverse a meadow wherepastured a bull. 

For awhile, the shifting system, together with some modifications inthe arrangement of a black silk scarf, answered my purpose; but, by-and-by, he found out, that whether he came to this side or to that, Miss Fanshawe was still his neighbour. The course of acquaintancebetween Ginevra and him had never run so smooth that his temper didnot undergo a certain crisping process whenever he heard her Englishaccent: nothing in their dispositions fitted; they jarred if they camein contact; he held her empty and affected; she deemed him bearish, meddling, repellent. 

At last, when he had changed his place for about the sixth time, finding still the same untoward result to the experiment--he thrusthis head forward, settled his eyes on mine, and demanded withimpatience, "Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vous me jouez des tours?"

The words were hardly out of his mouth, however, ere, with hiscustomary quickness, he seized the root of this proceeding: in vain Ishook out the long fringe, and spread forth the broad end of my scarf. "A-h-h! c'est la robe rose!" broke from his lips, affecting me verymuch like the sudden and irate low of some lord of the meadow. 

"It is only cotton, " I alleged, hurriedly; "and cheaper, and washesbetter than any other colour. "

"Et Mademoiselle Lucy est coquette comme dix Parisiennes, " heanswered. "A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Regardez plutôt sonchapeau, et ses gants, et ses brodequins!" These articles of dresswere just like what my companions wore; certainly not one whitsmarter--perhaps rather plainer than most--but Monsieur had now gothold of his text, and I began to chafe under the expected sermon. Itwent off, however, as mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passeson a summer day. I got but one flash of sheet lightning in the shapeof a single bantering smile from his eyes; and then he said, "Courage!--à vrai dire je ne suis pas fâché, peut-être même suis jecontent qu'on s'est fait si belle pour ma petite fête. "

"Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, Monsieur--elle n'est que propre. "

"J'aime la propreté, " said he. In short, he was not to bedissatisfied; the sun of good humour was to triumph on this auspiciousmorning; it consumed scudding clouds ere they sullied its disk. 

And now we were in the country, amongst what they called "les bois etles petits sentiers. " These woods and lanes a month later would offerbut a dusty and doubtful seclusion: now, however, in their Maygreenness and morning repose, they looked very pleasant. 

We reached a certain well, planted round, in the taste of Labassecour, with an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt was called; on thegreen swell of ground surrounding this well, we were ordered to beseated, Monsieur taking his place in our midst, and suffering us togather in a knot round him. Those who liked him more than they feared, came close, and these were chiefly little ones; those who feared morethan they liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection hadgiven, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable zest, observed thegreatest distance. 

He began to tell us a story. Well could he narrate: in such a dictionas children love, and learned men emulate; a diction simple in itsstrength, and strong in its simplicity. There were beautiful touchesin that little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of descriptionthat, while I listened, sunk into my mind, and since have never faded. He tinted a twilight scene--I hold it in memory still--such a pictureI have never looked on from artist's pencil. 

I have said, that, for myself, I had no impromptu faculty; and perhapsthat very deficiency made me marvel the more at one who possessed itin perfection. M. Emanuel was not a man to write books; but I haveheard him lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mentalwealth as books seldom boast; his mind was indeed my library, andwhenever it was opened to me, I entered bliss. Intellectuallyimperfect as I was, I could read little; there were few bound andprinted volumes that did not weary me--whose perusal did not fag andblind--but his tomes of thought were collyrium to the spirit's eyes;over their contents, inward sight grew clear and strong. I used tothink what a delight it would be for one who loved him better than heloved himself, to gather and store up those handfuls of gold-dust, sorecklessly flung to heaven's reckless winds. 

His story done, he approached the little knoll where I and Ginevra satapart. In his usual mode of demanding an opinion (he had not reticenceto wait till it was voluntarily offered) he asked, "Were youinterested?"

According to my wonted undemonstrative fashion, I simply answered--"Yes. "

"Was it good?"

"Very good. "

"Yet I could not write that down, " said he. 

"Why not, Monsieur?"

"I hate the mechanical labour; I hate to stoop and sit still. I coulddictate it, though, with pleasure, to an amanuensis who suited me. Would Mademoiselle Lucy write for me if I asked her?"

"Monsieur would be too quick; he would urge me, and be angry if mypen did not keep pace with his lips. "

"Try some day; let us see the monster I can make of myself under thecircumstances. But just now, there is no question of dictation; I meanto make you useful in another office. Do you see yonder farm-house?"

"Surrounded with trees? Yes. ". 

"There we are to breakfast; and while the good fermière makes the caféau lait in a caldron, you and five others, whom I shall select, willspread with butter half a hundred rolls. "

Having formed his troop into line once more, he marched us straight onthe farm, which, on seeing our force, surrendered withoutcapitulation. 

Clean knives and plates, and fresh butter being provided, half-a-dozenof us, chosen by our Professor, set to work under his directions, toprepare for breakfast a huge basket of rolls, with which the baker hadbeen ordered to provision the farm, in anticipation of our coming. Coffee and chocolate were already made hot; cream and new-laid eggswere added to the treat, and M. Emanuel, always generous, would havegiven a large order for "jambon" and "confitures" in addition, butthat some of us, who presumed perhaps upon our influence, insistedthat it would be a most reckless waste of victual. He railed at us forour pains, terming us "des ménagères avares;" but we let him talk, andmanaged the economy of the repast our own way. 

With what a pleasant countenance he stood on the farm-kitchen hearthlooking on! He was a man whom it made happy to see others happy; heliked to have movement, animation, abundance and enjoyment round him. We asked where he would sit. He told us, we knew well he was ourslave, and we his tyrants, and that he dared not so much as choose achair without our leave; so we set him the farmer's great chair at thehead of the long table, and put him into it. 

Well might we like him, with all his passions and hurricanes, when hecould be so benignant and docile at times, as he was just now. Indeed, at the worst, it was only his nerves that were irritable, not histemper that was radically bad; soothe, comprehend, comfort him, and hewas a lamb; he would not harm a fly. Only to the very stupid, perverse, or unsympathizing, was he in the slightest degree dangerous. 

Mindful always of his religion, he made the youngest of the party saya little prayer before we began breakfast, crossing himself asdevotedly as a woman. I had never seen him pray before, or make thatpious sign; he did it so simply, with such child-like faith, I couldnot help smiling pleasurably as I watched; his eyes met my smile; hejust stretched out his kind hand, saying, "Donnez-moi la main! I seewe worship the same God, in the same spirit, though by differentrites. "

Most of M. Emanuel's brother Professors were emancipated free-thinkers, infidels, atheists; and many of them men whose lives wouldnot bear scrutiny; he was more like a knight of old, religious in hisway, and of spotless fame. Innocent childhood, beautiful youth weresafe at his side. He had vivid passions, keen feelings, but his purehonour and his artless piety were the strong charm that kept the lionscouchant. 

That breakfast was a merry meal, and the merriment was not mere vacantclatter: M. Paul originated, led, controlled and heightened it; hissocial, lively temper played unfettered and unclouded; surrounded onlyby women and children there was nothing to cross and thwart him; hehad his own way, and a pleasant way it was. 

The meal over, the party were free to run and play in the meadows; afew stayed to help the farmer's wife to put away her earthenware. M. Paul called me from among these to come out and sit near him under atree--whence he could view the troop gambolling, over a wide pasture--and read to him whilst he took his cigar. He sat on a rustic bench, and I at the tree-root. While I read (a pocket-classic--a Corneille--Idid not like it, but he did, finding therein beauties I never could bebrought to perceive), he listened with a sweetness of calm the moreimpressive from the impetuosity of his general nature; the deepesthappiness filled his blue eye and smoothed his broad forehead. I, too, was happy--happy with the bright day, happier with his presence, happiest with his kindness. 

He asked, by-and-by, if I would not rather run to my companions thansit there? I said, no; I felt content to be where he was. He askedwhether, if I were his sister, I should always he content to stay witha brother such as he. I said, I believed I should; and I felt it. Again, he inquired whether, if he were to leave Villette, and go faraway, I should be sorry; and I dropped Corneille, and made no reply. 

"Petite soeur, " said he; "how long could you remember me if we wereseparated?"

"That, Monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know how long itwill be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly. "

"If I were to go beyond seas for two--three--five years, should youwelcome me on my return?"

"Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?"

"Pourtant j'ai été pour vous bien dur, bien exigeant. "

I hid my face with the book, for it was covered with tears. I askedhim why he talked so; and he said he would talk so no more, andcheered me again with the kindest encouragement. Still, the gentlenesswith which he treated me during the rest of the day, went somehow tomy heart. It was too tender. It was mournful. I would rather he hadbeen abrupt, whimsical, and irate as was his wont. 

When hot noon arrived--for the day turned out as we had anticipated, glowing as June--our shepherd collected his sheep from the pasture, and proceeded to lead us all softly home. But we had a whole league towalk, thus far from Villette was the farm where he had breakfasted;the children, especially, were tired with their play; the spirits ofmost flagged at the prospect of this mid-day walk over chausséesflinty, glaring, and dusty. This state of things had been foreseen andprovided for. Just beyond the boundary of the farm we met two spaciousvehicles coming to fetch us--such conveyances as are hired outpurposely for the accommodation of school-parties; here, with goodmanagement, room was found for all, and in another hour M. Paul madesafe consignment of his charge at the Rue Fossette. It had been apleasant day: it would have been perfect, but for the breathing ofmelancholy which had dimmed its sunshine a moment. 

That tarnish was renewed the same evening. 

Just about sunset, I saw M. Emanuel come out of the front-door, accompanied by Madame Beck. They paced the centre-alley for nearly anhour, talking earnestly: he--looking grave, yet restless; she--wearingan amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air. 

I wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame Beck re-enteredthe house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman Paul yet lingering inthe garden, I said to myself--"He called me 'petite soeur' thismorning. If he were really my brother, how I should like to go to himjust now, and ask what it is that presses on his mind. See how heleans against that tree, with his arms crossed and his brow bent. Hewants consolation, I know: Madame does not console: she onlyremonstrates. What now----?"

Starting from quiescence to action, M. Paul came striding erect andquick down the garden. The carré doors were yet open: I thought he wasprobably going to water the orange-trees in the tubs, after hisoccasional custom; on reaching the court, however, he took an abruptturn and made for the berceau and the first-classe glass door. There, in that first classe I was, thence I had been watching him; but thereI could not find courage to await his approach. He had turned sosuddenly, he strode so fast, he looked so strange; the coward withinme grew pale, shrank and--not waiting to listen to reason, and hearingthe shrubs crush and the gravel crunch to his advance--she was gone onthe wings of panic. 

Nor did I pause till I had taken sanctuary in the oratory, now empty. Listening there with beating pulses, and an unaccountable, undefinedapprehension, I heard him pass through all the schoolrooms, clashingthe doors impatiently as he went; I heard him invade the refectorywhich the "lecture pieuse" was now holding under hallowed constraint;I heard him pronounce these words--"Où est Mademoiselle Lucie?"

And just as, summoning my courage, I was preparing to go down and dowhat, after all, I most wished to do in the world--viz. , meet him--thewiry voice of St. Pierre replied glibly and falsely, "Elle est aulit. " And he passed, with the stamp of vexation, into the corridor. There Madame Beck met, captured, chid, convoyed to the street-door, and finally dismissed him. 

As that street-door closed, a sudden amazement at my own perverseproceeding struck like a blow upon me. I felt from the first it was mehe wanted--me he was seeking--and had not I wanted him too? What, then, had carried me away? What had rapt me beyond his reach? He hadsomething to tell: he was going to tell me that something: my earstrained its nerve to hear it, and I had made the confidenceimpossible. Yearning to listen and console, while I thought audienceand solace beyond hope's reach--no sooner did opportunity suddenly andfully arrive, than I evaded it as I would have evaded the levelledshaft of mortality. 

Well, my insane inconsistency had its reward. Instead of the comfort, the certain satisfaction, I might have won--could I but have putchoking panic down, and stood firm two minutes--here was dead blank, dark doubt, and drear suspense. 

I took my wages to my pillow, and passed the night counting them. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MALEVOLA. 

Madame Beck called me on Thursday afternoon, and asked whether I hadany occupation to hinder me from going into town and executing somelittle commissions for her at the shops. 

Being disengaged, and placing myself at her service, I was presentlyfurnished with a list of the wools, silks, embroidering thread, etcetera, wanted in the pupils' work, and having equipped myself in amanner suiting the threatening aspect of a cloudy and sultry day, Iwas just drawing the spring-bolt of the street-door, in act to issueforth, when Madame's voice again summoned me to the salle-à-manger. 

"Pardon, Meess Lucie!" cried she, in the seeming haste of an impromptuthought, "I have just recollected one more errand for you, if yourgood-nature will not deem itself over-burdened?"

Of course I "confounded myself" in asseverations to the contrary; andMadame, running into the little salon, brought thence a pretty basket, filled with fine hothouse fruit, rosy, perfect, and tempting, reposingamongst the dark green, wax-like leaves, and pale yellow stars of, Iknow not what, exotic plant. 

"There, " she said, "it is not heavy, and will not shame your neattoilette, as if it were a household, servant-like detail. Do me thefavour to leave this little basket at the house of Madame Walravens, with my felicitations on her fête. She lives down in the old town, Numéro 3, Rue des Mages. I fear you will find the walk rather long, but you have the whole afternoon before you, and do not hurry; if youare not back in time for dinner, I will order a portion to be saved, or Goton, with whom you are a favourite, will have pleasure in tossingup some trifle, for your especial benefit. You shall not be forgotten, ma bonne Meess. And oh! please!" (calling me back once more) "be sureto insist on seeing Madame Walravens herself, and giving the basketinto her own hands, in order that there may be no mistake, for she israther a punctilious personage. Adieu! Au revoir!"

And at last I got away. The shop commissions took some time toexecute, that choosing and matching of silks and wools being always atedious business, but at last I got through my list. The patterns forthe slippers, the bell-ropes, the cabas were selected--the slides andtassels for the purses chosen--the whole "tripotage, " in short, wasoff my mind; nothing but the fruit and the felicitations remained tobe attended to. 

I rather liked the prospect of a long walk, deep into the old and grimBasse-Ville; and I liked it no worse because the evening sky, over thecity, was settling into a mass of black-blue metal, heated at the rim, and inflaming slowly to a heavy red. 

I fear a high wind, because storm demands that exertion of strengthand use of action I always yield with pain; but the sullen down-fall, the thick snow-descent, or dark rush of rain, ask only resignation--the quiet abandonment of garments and person to be, drenched. Inreturn, it sweeps a great capital clean before you; it makes you aquiet path through broad, grand streets; it petrifies a living city asif by eastern enchantment; it transforms a Villette into a Tadmor. Let, then, the rains fall, and the floods descend--only I must firstget rid of this basket of fruit. 

An unknown clock from an unknown tower (Jean Baptiste's voice was nowtoo distant to be audible) was tolling the third quarter past five, when I reached that street and house whereof Madame Beck had given methe address. It was no street at all; it seemed rather to be part of asquare: it was quiet, grass grew between the broad grey flags, thehouses were large and looked very old--behind them rose the appearanceof trees, indicating gardens at the back. Antiquity brooded above thisregion, business was banished thence. Rich men had once possessed thisquarter, and once grandeur had made her seat here. That church, whosedark, half-ruinous turrets overlooked the square, was the venerableand formerly opulent shrine of the Magi. But wealth and greatness hadlong since stretched their gilded pinions and fled hence, leavingthese their ancient nests, perhaps to house Penury for a time, orperhaps to stand cold and empty, mouldering untenanted in the courseof winters. 

As I crossed this deserted "place, " on whose pavement drops almost aslarge as a five-franc piece were now slowly darkening, I saw, in itswhole expanse, no symptom or evidence of life, except what was givenin the figure of an infirm old priest, who went past, bending andpropped on a staff--the type of eld and decay. 

He had issued from the very house to which I was directed; and when Ipaused before the door just closed after him, and rang the bell, heturned to look at me. Nor did he soon avert his gaze; perhaps hethought me, with my basket of summer fruit, and my lack of the dignityage confers, an incongruous figure in such a scene. I know, had ayoung ruddy-faced bonne opened the door to admit me, I should havethought such a one little in harmony with her dwelling; but, when Ifound myself confronted by a very old woman, wearing a very antiquepeasant costume, a cap alike hideous and costly, with long flaps ofnative lace, a petticoat and jacket of cloth, and sabots more likelittle boats than shoes, it seemed all right, and soothingly incharacter. 

The expression of her face was not quite so soothing as the cut of hercostume; anything more cantankerous I have seldom seen; she wouldscarcely reply to my inquiry after Madame Walravens; I believe shewould have snatched the basket of fruit from my hand, had not the oldpriest, hobbling up, checked her, and himself lent an ear to themessage with which I was charged. 

His apparent deafness rendered it a little difficult to make him fullyunderstand that I must see Madame Walravens, and consign the fruitinto her own hands. At last, however, he comprehended the fact thatsuch were my orders, and that duty enjoined their literal fulfilment. Addressing the aged bonne, not in French, but in the aboriginal tongueof Labassecour, he persuaded her, at last, to let me cross theinhospitable threshold, and himself escorting me up-stairs, I wasushered into a sort of salon, and there left. 

The room was large, and had a fine old ceiling, and almost church-likewindows of coloured-glass; but it was desolate, and in the shadow of acoming storm, looked strangely lowering. Within--opened a smallerroom; there, however, the blind of the single casement was closed;through the deep gloom few details of furniture were apparent. Thesefew I amused myself by puzzling to make out; and, in particular, I wasattracted by the outline of a picture on the wall. 

By-and-by the picture seemed to give way: to my bewilderment, itshook, it sunk, it rolled back into nothing; its vanishing left anopening arched, leading into an arched passage, with a mystic windingstair; both passage and stair were of cold stone, uncarpeted andunpainted. Down this donjon stair descended a tap, tap, like a stick;soon there fell on the steps a shadow, and last of all, I was aware ofa substance. 

Yet, was it actual substance, this appearance approaching me? thisobstruction, partially darkening the arch?

It drew near, and I saw it well. I began to comprehend where I was. Well might this old square be named quarter of the Magi--well mightthe three towers, overlooking it, own for godfathers three mysticsages of a dead and dark art. Hoar enchantment here prevailed; a spellhad opened for me elf-land--that cell-like room, that vanishingpicture, that arch and passage, and stair of stone, were all parts ofa fairy tale. Distincter even than these scenic details stood thechief figure--Cunegonde, the sorceress! Malevola, the evil fairy. Howwas she?

She might be three feet high, but she had no shape; her skinny handsrested upon each other, and pressed the gold knob of a wand-like ivorystaff. Her face was large, set, not upon her shoulders, but before herbreast; she seemed to have no neck; I should have said there were ahundred years in her features, and more perhaps in her eyes--hermalign, unfriendly eyes, with thick grey brows above, and livid lidsall round. How severely they viewed me, with a sort of dulldispleasure!

This being wore a gown of brocade, dyed bright blue, full-tinted asthe gentianella flower, and covered with satin foliage in a largepattern; over the gown a costly shawl, gorgeously bordered, and solarge for her, that its many-coloured fringe swept the floor. But herchief points were her jewels: she had long, clear earrings, blazingwith a lustre which could not be borrowed or false; she had rings onher skeleton hands, with thick gold hoops, and stones--purple, green, and blood-red. Hunchbacked, dwarfish, and doting, she was adorned likea barbarian queen. 

"Que me voulez-vous?" said she, hoarsely, with the voice rather ofmale than of female old age; and, indeed, a silver beard bristled herchin. 

I delivered my basket and my message. 

"Is that all?" she demanded. 

"It is all, " said I. 

"Truly, it was well worth while, " she answered. "Return to MadameBeck, and tell her I can buy fruit when I want it, et quant à sesfélicitations, je m'en moque!" And this courteous dame turned herback. 

Just as she turned, a peal of thunder broke, and a flash of lightningblazed broad over salon and boudoir. The tale of magic seemed toproceed with due accompaniment of the elements. The wanderer, decoyedinto the enchanted castle, heard rising, outside, the spell-wakenedtempest. 

What, in all this, was I to think of Madame Beck? She owned strangeacquaintance; she offered messages and gifts at an unique shrine, andinauspicious seemed the bearing of the uncouth thing she worshipped. There went that sullen Sidonia, tottering and trembling like palsyincarnate, tapping her ivory staff on the mosaic parquet, andmuttering venomously as she vanished. 

Down washed the rain, deep lowered the welkin; the clouds, ruddy awhile ago, had now, through all their blackness, turned deadly pale, as if in terror. Notwithstanding my late boast about not fearing ashower, I hardly liked to go out under this waterspout. Then thegleams of lightning were very fierce, the thunder crashed very near;this storm had gathered immediately above Villette; it seemed to haveburst at the zenith; it rushed down prone; the forked, slant boltspierced athwart vertical torrents; red zigzags interlaced a descentblanched as white metal: and all broke from a sky heavily black in itsswollen abundance. 

Leaving Madame Walravens' inhospitable salon, I betook myself to hercold staircase; there was a seat on the landing--there I waited. Somebody came gliding along the gallery just above; it was the oldpriest. 

"Indeed Mademoiselle shall not sit there, " said he. "It woulddispleasure our benefactor if he knew a stranger was so treated inthis house. "

And he begged me so earnestly to return to the salon, that, withoutdiscourtesy, I could not but comply. The smaller room was betterfurnished and more habitable than the larger; thither he introducedme. Partially withdrawing the blind, he disclosed what seemed morelike an oratory than a boudoir, a very solemn little chamber, lookingas if it were a place rather dedicated to relics and remembrance, thandesigned for present use and comfort. 

The good father sat down, as if to keep me company; but instead ofconversing, he took out a book, fastened on the page his eyes, andemployed his lips in whispering--what sounded like a prayer or litany. A yellow electric light from the sky gilded his bald head; his figureremained in shade--deep and purple; he sat still as sculpture; heseemed to forget me for his prayers; he only looked up when a fiercerbolt, or a harsher, closer rattle told of nearing danger; even then, it was not in fear, but in seeming awe, he raised his eyes. I too wasawe-struck; being, however, under no pressure of slavish terror, mythoughts and observations were free. 

To speak truth, I was beginning to fancy that the old priest resembledthat Père Silas, before whom I had kneeled in the church of theBéguinage. The idea was vague, for I had seen my confessor only indusk and in profile, yet still I seemed to trace a likeness: I thoughtalso I recognized the voice. While I watched him, he betrayed, by onelifted look, that he felt my scrutiny; I turned to note the room; thattoo had its half mystic interest. 

Beside a cross of curiously carved old ivory, yellow with time, andsloped above a dark-red _prie-dieu_, furnished duly, with richmissal and ebon rosary--hung the picture whose dim outline had drawnmy eyes before--the picture which moved, fell away with the wall andlet in phantoms. Imperfectly seen, I had taken it for a Madonna;revealed by clearer light, it proved to be a woman's portrait in anun's dress. The face, though not beautiful, was pleasing; pale, young, and shaded with the dejection of grief or ill health. I sayagain it was not beautiful; it was not even intellectual; its veryamiability was the amiability of a weak frame, inactive passions, acquiescent habits: yet I looked long at that picture, and could notchoose but look. 

The old priest, who at first had seemed to me so deaf and infirm, mustyet have retained his faculties in tolerable preservation; absorbed inhis book as he appeared, without once lifting his head, or, as far asI knew, turning his eyes, he perceived the point towards which myattention was drawn, and, in a slow distinct voice, dropped, concerning it, these four observations:--

"She was much beloved. 

"She gave herself to God. 

"She died young. 

"She is still remembered, still wept. "

"By that aged lady, Madame Walravens?" I inquired, fancying that Ihad discovered in the incurable grief of bereavement, a key to thatsame aged lady's desperate ill-humour. 

The father shook his head with half a smile. 

"No, no, " said he; "a grand-dame's affection for her children'schildren may be great, and her sorrow for their loss, lively; but itis only the affianced lover, to whom Fate, Faith, and Death havetrebly denied the bliss of union, who mourns what he has lost, asJustine Marie is still mourned. "

I thought the father rather wished to be questioned, and therefore Iinquired who had lost and who still mourned "Justine Marie. " I got, inreply, quite a little romantic narrative, told not unimpressively, with the accompaniment of the now subsiding storm. I am bound to sayit might have been made much more truly impressive, if there had beenless French, Rousseau-like sentimentalizing and wire-drawing; andrather more healthful carelessness of effect. But the worthy fatherwas obviously a Frenchman born and bred (I became more and morepersuaded of his resemblance to my confessor)--he was a true son ofRome; when he did lift his eyes, he looked at me out of their corners, with more and sharper subtlety than, one would have thought, couldsurvive the wear and tear of seventy years. Yet, I believe, he was agood old man. 

The hero of his tale was some former pupil of his, whom he now calledhis benefactor, and who, it appears, had loved this pale JustineMarie, the daughter of rich parents, at a time when his own worldlyprospects were such as to justify his aspiring to a well-dowered hand. The pupil's father--once a rich banker--had failed, died, and leftbehind him only debts and destitution. The son was then forbidden tothink of Marie; especially that old witch of a grand-dame I had seen, Madame Walravens, opposed the match with all the violence of a temperwhich deformity made sometimes demoniac. The mild Marie had neitherthe treachery to be false, nor the force to be quite staunch to herlover; she gave up her first suitor, but, refusing to accept a secondwith a heavier purse, withdrew to a convent, and there died in hernoviciate. 

Lasting anguish, it seems, had taken possession of the faithful heartwhich worshipped her, and the truth of that love and grief had beenshown in a manner which touched even me, as I listened. 

Some years after Justine Marie's death, ruin had come on her housetoo: her father, by nominal calling a jeweller, but who also dealt agood deal on the Bourse, had been concerned in some financialtransactions which entailed exposure and ruinous fines. He died ofgrief for the loss, and shame for the infamy. His old hunchbackedmother and his bereaved wife were left penniless, and might have diedtoo of want; but their lost daughter's once-despised, yet most true-hearted suitor, hearing of the condition of these ladies, came withsingular devotedness to the rescue. He took on their insolent pridethe revenge of the purest charity--housing, caring for, befriendingthem, so as no son could have done it more tenderly and efficiently. The mother--on the whole a good woman--died blessing him; the strange, godless, loveless, misanthrope grandmother lived still, entirelysupported by this self-sacrificing man. Her, who had been the bane ofhis life, blighting his hope, and awarding him, for love and domestichappiness, long mourning and cheerless solitude, he treated with therespect a good son might offer a kind mother. He had brought her tothis house, "and, " continued the priest, while genuine tears rose tohis eyes, "here, too, he shelters me, his old tutor, and Agnes, asuperannuated servant of his father's family. To our sustenance, andto other charities, I know he devotes three-parts of his income, keeping only the fourth to provide himself with bread and the mostmodest accommodations. By this arrangement he has rendered itimpossible to himself ever to marry: he has given himself to God andto his angel-bride as much as if he were a priest, like me. "

The father had wiped away his tears before he uttered these lastwords, and in pronouncing them, he for one instant raised his eyes tomine. I caught this glance, despite its veiled character; themomentary gleam shot a meaning which struck me. 

These Romanists are strange beings. Such a one among them--whom youknow no more than the last Inca of Peru, or the first Emperor ofChina--knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for sayingto you so and so, when you simply thought the communication sprangimpromptu from the instant's impulse: his plan in bringing it aboutthat you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such andsuch circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crudeapprehension the ordinance of chance, or the sequel of exigency. Madame Beck's suddenly-recollected message and present, my artlessembassy to the Place of the Magi, the old priest accidentallydescending the steps and crossing the square, his interposition on mybehalf with the bonne who would have sent me away, his reappearance onthe staircase, my introduction to this room, the portrait, thenarrative so affably volunteered--all these little incidents, taken asthey fell out, seemed each independent of its successor; a handful ofloose beads: but threaded through by that quick-shot and crafty glanceof a Jesuit-eye, they dropped pendent in a long string, like thatrosary on the prie-dieu. Where lay the link of junction, where thelittle clasp of this monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but couldnot yet find the spot, or detect the means of connection. 

Perhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time fallen, appearedsomewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he gently interrupted:"Mademoiselle, " said he, "I trust you have not far to go through theseinundated streets?"

"More than half a league. "

"You live----?"

"In the Rue Fossette. "

"Not" (with animation), "not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?"

"The same. "

"Donc" (clapping his hands), "donc, vous devez connaître mon nobleélève, mon Paul?"

"Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?"

"He and none other. "

A brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to havebecome palpable; I felt it yield to pressure. 

"Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?" I presently inquired. "Washe your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?"

"Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant: and moreover, (with a certainemphasis), he was and _is_ the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in heaven--Justine Marie. "

"And who, father, are _you?_" I continued; and though Iaccentuated the question, its utterance was well nigh superfluous; Iwas ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came. 

"I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom youonce honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me thecore of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemntruth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Norhave I for a day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take inyou a rooted interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded byher high training, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired bythe zeal she alone gives--I realize what then might be your spiritualrank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy her prey. "

This struck me as a special state of things--I half-realized myself inthat condition also; passed under discipline, moulded, trained, inoculated, and so on. "Not so, " thought I, but I restraineddeprecation, and sat quietly enough. 

"I suppose M. Paul does not live here?" I resumed, pursuing a themewhich I thought more to the purpose than any wild renegade dreams. 

"No; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved saint, to makehis confession to me, and to pay his respects to her he calls hismother. His own lodging consists but of two rooms: he has no servant, and yet he will not suffer Madame Walravens to dispose of thosesplendid jewels with which you see her adorned, and in which she takesa puerile pride as the ornaments of her youth, and the last relics ofher son the jeweller's wealth. "

"How often, " murmured I to myself, "has this man, this M. Emanuel, seemed to me to lack magnanimity in trifles, yet how great he is ingreat things!"

I own I did not reckon amongst the proofs of his greatness, either theact of confession, or the saint-worship. 

"How long is it since that lady died?" I inquired, looking at JustineMarie. 

"Twenty years. She was somewhat older than M. Emanuel; he was thenvery young, for he is not much beyond forty. "

"Does he yet weep her?"

"His heart will weep her always: the essence of Emanuel's nature is--constancy. "

This was said with marked emphasis. 

And now the sun broke out pallid and waterish; the rain yet fell, butthere was no more tempest: that hot firmament had cloven and pouredout its lightnings. A longer delay would scarce leave daylight for myreturn, so I rose, thanked the father for his hospitality and histale, was benignantly answered by a "pax vobiscum, " which I madekindly welcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence; butI liked less the mystic phrase accompanying it. 

"Daughter, you _shall_ be what you _shall_ be!" an oraclethat made me shrug my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door. Few of us know what we are to come to certainly, but for all that hadhappened yet, I had good hopes of living and dying a sober-mindedProtestant: there was a hollowness within, and a flourish around "HolyChurch" which tempted me but moderately. I went on my way ponderingmany things. Whatever Romanism may be, there are good Romanists: thisman, Emanuel, seemed of the best; touched with superstition, influenced by priestcraft, yet wondrous for fond faith, for piousdevotion, for sacrifice of self, for charity unbounded. It remained tosee how Rome, by her agents, handled such qualities; whether shecherished them for their own sake and for God's, or put them out tousury and made booty of the interest. 

By the time I reached home, it was sundown. Goton had kindly saved mea portion of dinner, which indeed I needed. She called me into thelittle cabinet to partake of it, and there Madame Beck soon made herappearance, bringing me a glass of wine. 

"Well, " began she, chuckling, "and what sort of a reception did MadameWalravens give you? Elle est drôle, n'est-ce pas?"

I told her what had passed, delivering verbatim the courteous messagewith which I had been charged. 

"Oh la singulière petite bossue!" laughed she. "Et figurez-vousqu'elle me déteste, parcequ'elle me croit amoureuse de mon cousinPaul; ce petit dévot qui n'ose pas bouger, à moins que son confesseurne lui donne la permission! Au reste" (she went on), "if he wanted tomarry ever so much--soit moi, soit une autre--he could not do it; hehas too large a family already on his hands: Mère Walravens, PèreSilas, Dame Agnes, and a whole troop of nameless paupers. There neverwas a man like him for laying on himself burdens greater than he canbear, voluntarily incurring needless responsibilities. Besides, heharbours a romantic idea about some pale-faced Marie Justine--personnage assez niaise à ce que je pense" (such was Madame'sirreverent remark), "who has been an angel in heaven, or elsewhere, this score of years, and to whom he means to go, free from all earthlyties, pure comme un lis, à ce qu'il dit. Oh, you would laugh could youbut know half M. Emanuel's crotchets and eccentricities! But I hinderyou from taking refreshment, ma bonne Meess, which you must need; eatyour supper, drink your wine, oubliez les anges, les bossues, etsurtout, les Professeurs--et bon soir!"

CHAPTER XXXV

FRATERNITY. 

"Oubliez les Professeurs. " So said Madame Beck. Madame Beck was awise woman, but she should not have uttered those words. To do so wasa mistake. That night she should have left me calm--not excited, indifferent, not interested, isolated in my own estimation and that ofothers--not connected, even in idea, with this second person whom Iwas to forget. 

Forget him? Ah! they took a sage plan to make me forget him--thewiseheads! They showed me how good he was; they made of my dear littleman a stainless little hero. And then they had prated about his mannerof loving. What means had I, before this day, of being certain whetherhe could love at all or not?

I had known him jealous, suspicious; I had seen about him certaintendernesses, fitfulnesses--a softness which came like a warm air, anda ruth which passed like early dew, dried in the heat of hisirritabilities: _this_ was all I had seen. And they, Père Silasand Modeste Maria Beck (that these two wrought in concert I could notdoubt) opened up the adytum of his heart--showed me one grand love, the child of this southern nature's youth, born so strong and perfect, that it had laughed at Death himself, despised his mean rape ofmatter, clung to immortal spirit, and in victory and faith, hadwatched beside a tomb twenty years. 

This had been done--not idly: this was not a mere hollow indulgence ofsentiment; he had proven his fidelity by the consecration of his bestenergies to an unselfish purpose, and attested it by limitlesspersonal sacrifices: for those once dear to her he prized--he had laiddown vengeance, and taken up a cross. 

Now, as for Justine Marie, I knew what she was as well as if I hadseen her. I knew she was well enough; there were girls like her inMadame Beck's school--phlegmatics--pale, slow, inert, but kind-natured, neutral of evil, undistinguished for good. 

If she wore angels' wings, I knew whose poet-fancy conferred them. Ifher forehead shone luminous with the reflex of a halo, I knew in thefire of whose irids that circlet of holy flame had generation. 

Was I, then, to be frightened by Justine Marie? Was the picture of apale dead nun to rise, an eternal barrier? And what of the charitieswhich absorbed his worldly goods? What of his heart sworn tovirginity?

Madame Beck--Père Silas--you should not have suggested thesequestions. They were at once the deepest puzzle, the strongestobstruction, and the keenest stimulus, I had ever felt. For a week ofnights and days I fell asleep--I dreamt, and I woke upon these twoquestions. In the whole world there was no answer to them, exceptwhere one dark little man stood, sat, walked, lectured, under thehead-piece of a bandit bonnet-grec, and within the girth of a sorrypaletôt, much be-inked, and no little adust. 

After that visit to the Rue des Mages, I _did_ want to see himagain. I felt as if--knowing what I now knew--his countenance wouldoffer a page more lucid, more interesting than ever; I felt a longingto trace in it the imprint of that primitive devotedness, the signs ofthat half-knightly, half-saintly chivalry which the priest's narrativeimputed to his nature. He had become my Christian hero: under thatcharacter I wanted to view him. 

Nor was opportunity slow to favour; my new impressions underwent hertest the next day. Yes: I was granted an interview with my "Christianhero"--an interview not very heroic, or sentimental, or biblical, butlively enough in its way. 

About three o'clock of the afternoon, the peace of the first classe--safely established, as it seemed, under the serene sway of MadameBeck, who, _in propriâ personâ_ was giving one of her orderly anduseful lessons--this peace, I say, suffered a sudden fracture by thewild inburst of a paletôt. 

Nobody at the moment was quieter than myself. Eased of responsibilityby Madame Beck's presence, soothed by her uniform tones, pleased andedified with her clear exposition of the subject in hand (for shetaught well), I sat bent over my desk, drawing--that is, copying anelaborate line engraving, tediously working up my copy to the finishof the original, for that was my practical notion of art; and, strangeto say, I took extreme pleasure in the labour, and could even producecuriously finical Chinese facsimiles of steel or mezzotint plates--things about as valuable as so many achievements in worsted-work, butI thought pretty well of them in those days. 

What was the matter? My drawing, my pencils, my precious copy, gathered into one crushed-up handful, perished from before my sight; Imyself appeared to be shaken or emptied out of my chair, as a solitaryand withered nutmeg might be emptied out of a spice-box by an excitedcook. That chair and my desk, seized by the wild paletôt, one undereach sleeve, were borne afar; in a second, I followed the furniture;in two minutes they and I were fixed in the centre of the grand salle--a vast adjoining room, seldom used save for dancing and choralsinging-lessons--fixed with an emphasis which seemed to prohibit theremotest hope of our ever being permitted to stir thence again. 

Having partially collected my scared wits, I found myself in thepresence of two men, gentlemen, I suppose I should say--one dark, theother light--one having a stiff, half-military air, and wearing abraided surtout; the other partaking, in garb and bearing, more of thecareless aspect of the student or artist class: both flourishing infull magnificence of moustaches, whiskers, and imperial. M. Emanuelstood a little apart from these; his countenance and eyes expressedstrong choler; he held forth his hand with his tribune gesture. 

"Mademoiselle, " said he, "your business is to prove to these gentlementhat I am no liar. You will answer, to the best of your ability, suchquestions as they shall put. You will also write on such theme as theyshall select. In their eyes, it appears, I hold the position of anunprincipled impostor. I write essays; and, with deliberate forgery, sign to them my pupils' names, and boast of them as their work. Youwill disprove this charge. "

Grand ciel! Here was the show-trial, so long evaded, come on me like athunder-clap. These two fine, braided, mustachioed, sneeringpersonages, were none other than dandy professors of the college--Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte--a pair of cold-blooded fops andpedants, sceptics, and scoffers. It seems that M. Paul had been rashlyexhibiting something I had written--something, he had never oncepraised, or even mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemedforgotten. The essay was not remarkable at all; it only _seemed_remarkable, compared with the average productions of foreign school-girls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarcenoticed. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte had thought proper toquestion its genuineness, and insinuate a cheat; I was now to bear mytestimony to the truth, and to be put to the torture of theirexamination. 

A memorable scene ensued. 

They began with classics. A dead blank. They went on to Frenchhistory. I hardly knew Mérovée from Pharamond. They tried me invarious 'ologies, and still only got a shake of the head, and anunchanging "Je n'en sais rien. "

After an expressive pause, they proceeded to matters of generalinformation, broaching one or two subjects which I knew pretty well, and on which I had often reflected. M. Emanuel, who had hitherto stoodlooking on, dark as the winter-solstice, brightened up somewhat; hethought I should now show myself at least no fool. 

He learned his error. Though answers to the questions surged upfast, my mind filling like a rising well, ideas were there, but not words. I either _could_ not, or _would_ not speak--I am not sure which:partly, I think, my nerves had got wrong, and partly my humour wascrossed. 

I heard one of my examiners--he of the braided surtout--whisper to hisco-professor, "Est-elle donc idiote?"

"Yes, " I thought, "an idiot she is, and always will be, for such asyou. "

But I suffered--suffered cruelly; I saw the damps gather on M. Paul'sbrow, and his eye spoke a passionate yet sad reproach. He would notbelieve in my total lack of popular cleverness; he thought I_could_ be prompt if I _would_. 

At last, to relieve him, the professors, and myself, I stammered out:

"Gentlemen, you had better let me go; you will get no good of me; asyou say, I am an idiot. "

I wish I could have spoken with calm and dignity, or I wish my sensehad sufficed to make me hold my tongue; that traitor tongue tripped, faltered. Beholding the judges cast on M. Emanuel a hard look oftriumph, and hearing the distressed tremor of my own voice, out Iburst in a fit of choking tears. The emotion was far more of angerthan grief; had I been a man and strong, I could have challenged thatpair on the spot--but it _was_ emotion, and I would rather havebeen scourged than betrayed it. 

The incapables! Could they not see at once the crude hand of a novicein that composition they called a forgery? The subject was classical. When M. Paul dictated the trait on which the essay was to turn, Iheard it for the first time; the matter was new to me, and I had nomaterial for its treatment. But I got books, read up the facts, laboriously constructed a skeleton out of the dry bones of the real, and then clothed them, and tried to breathe into them life, and inthis last aim I had pleasure. With me it was a difficult and anxioustime till my facts were found, selected, and properly jointed; norcould I rest from research and effort till I was satisfied of correctanatomy; the strength of my inward repugnance to the idea of flaw orfalsity sometimes enabled me to shun egregious blunders; but theknowledge was not there in my head, ready and mellow; it had not beensown in Spring, grown in Summer, harvested in Autumn, and garneredthrough Winter; whatever I wanted I must go out and gather fresh;glean of wild herbs my lapful, and shred them green into the pot. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte did not perceive this. They mistookmy work for the work of a ripe scholar. 

They would not yet let me go: I must sit down and write before them. As I dipped my pen in the ink with a shaking hand, and surveyed thewhite paper with eyes half-blinded and overflowing, one of my judgesbegan mincingly to apologize for the pain he caused. 

"Nous agissons dans l'intérêt de la vérité. Nous ne voulons pas vousblesser, " said he. 

Scorn gave me nerve. I only answered, --

"Dictate, Monsieur. "

Rochemorte named this theme: "Human Justice. "

Human Justice! What was I to make of it? Blank, cold abstraction, unsuggestive to me of one inspiring idea; and there stood M. Emanuel, sad as Saul, and stern as Joab, and there triumphed his accusers. 

At these two I looked. I was gathering my courage to tell them that Iwould neither write nor speak another word for their satisfaction, that their theme did not suit, nor their presence inspire me, andthat, notwithstanding, whoever threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel's honour, outraged that truth of which they had announcedthemselves the--champions: I _meant_ to utter all this, I say, when suddenly, a light darted on memory. 

Those two faces looking out of the forest of long hair, moustache, andwhisker--those two cold yet bold, trustless yet presumptuous visages--were the same faces, the very same that, projected in full gaslightfrom behind the pillars of a portico, had half frightened me to deathon the night of my desolate arrival in Villette. These, I felt morallycertain, were the very heroes who had driven a friendless foreignerbeyond her reckoning and her strength, chased her breathless over awhole quarter of the town. 

"Pious mentors!" thought I. "Pure guides for youth! If `Human Justice'were what she ought to be, you two would scarce hold your presentpost, or enjoy your present credit. "

An idea once seized, I fell to work. "Human Justice" rushed before mein novel guise, a red, random beldame, with arms akimbo. I saw her inher house, the den of confusion: servants called to her for orders orhelp which she did not give; beggars stood at her door waiting andstarving unnoticed; a swarm of children, sick and quarrelsome, crawledround her feet, and yelled in her ears appeals for notice, sympathy, cure, redress. The honest woman cared for none of these things. Shehad a warm seat of her own by the fire, she had her own solace in ashort black pipe, and a bottle of Mrs. Sweeny's soothing syrup; shesmoked and she sipped, and she enjoyed her paradise; and whenever acry of the suffering souls about her 'pierced her ears too keenly--myjolly dame seized the poker or the hearth-brush: if the offender wasweak, wronged, and sickly, she effectually settled him: if he wasstrong, lively, and violent, she only menaced, then plunged her handin her deep pouch, and flung a liberal shower of sugar-plums. 

Such was the sketch of "Human Justice, " scratched hurriedly on paper, and placed at the service of Messrs. Boissec and Rochemorte. M. Emanuel read it over my shoulder. Waiting no comment, I curtsied tothe trio, and withdrew. 

After school that day, M. Paul and I again met. Of course the meetingdid not at first run smooth; there was a crow to pluck with him; thatforced examination could not be immediately digested. A crabbeddialogue terminated in my being called "une petite moqueuse et sans-coeur, " and in Monsieur's temporary departure. 

Not wishing him to go quite away, only desiring he should feel thatsuch a transport as he had that day given way to, could not beindulged with perfect impunity, I was not sorry to see him, soonafter, gardening in the berceau. He approached the glass door; I drewnear also. We spoke of some flowers growing round it. By-and-byMonsieur laid down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation, passed to other subjects, and at last touched a point of interest. 

Conscious that his proceeding of that day was specially open to acharge of extravagance, M. Paul half apologized; he half regretted, too, the fitfulness of his moods at all times, yet he hinted that someallowance ought to be made for him. "But, " said he, "I can hardlyexpect it at your hands, Miss Lucy; you know neither me, nor myposition, nor my history. "

His history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea. 

"No, Monsieur, " I rejoined. "Of course, as you say, I know neitheryour history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of yoursorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities. Oh, no! I knownothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger. "

"Hein?" he murmured, arching his brows in surprise. 

"You know, Monsieur, I only see you in classe--stern, dogmatic, hasty, imperious. I only hear of you in town as active and wilful, quick tooriginate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend. Aman like you, without ties, can have no attachments; withoutdependants, no duties. All we, with whom you come in contact, aremachines, which you thrust here and there, inconsiderate of theirfeelings. You seek your recreations in public, by the light of theevening chandelier: this school and yonder college are your workshops, where you fabricate the ware called pupils. I don't so much as knowwhere you live; it is natural to take it for granted that you have nohome, and need none. "

"I am judged, " said he. "Your opinion of me is just what I thought itwas. For you I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void ofaffection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted byprinciple or faith. It is well, Mademoiselle; such is our reward inthis life. "

"You are a philosopher, Monsieur; a cynic philosopher" (and I lookedat his paletôt, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve withhis hand), "despising the foibles of humanity--above its luxuries--independent of its comforts. "

"Et vous, Mademoiselle? vous êtes proprette et douillette, etaffreusement insensible, par-dessus le marché. "

"But, in short, Monsieur, now I think of it, you _must_ livesomewhere? Do tell me where; and what establishment of servants do youkeep?"

With a fearful projection of the under-lip, implying an impetus ofscorn the most decided, he broke out--

"Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, Miss--a cavern, where you wouldnot put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the wholetruth, I talked about my 'study' in that college: know now that this'study' is my whole abode; my chamber is there and my drawing-room. Asfor my 'establishment of servants'" (mimicking my voice) "they numberten; les voilà. "

And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers. 

"I black my boots, " pursued he savagely. "I brush my paletôt. "

"No, Monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that, " was myparenthesis. 

"Je fais mon lit et mon ménage; I seek my dinner in a restaurant; mysupper takes care, of itself; I pass days laborious and loveless;nights long and lonely; I am ferocious, and bearded and monkish; andnothing now living in this world loves me, except some old hearts wornlike my own, and some few beings, impoverished, suffering, poor inpurse and in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but towhom a will and testament not to be disputed has bequeathed thekingdom of heaven. "

"Ah, Monsieur; but I know!"

"What do you know? many things, I verily believe; yet not me, Lucy!"

"I know that you have a pleasant old house in a pleasant old square ofthe Basse-Ville--why don't you go and live there?"

"Hein?" muttered he again. 

"I liked it much, Monsieur; with the steps ascending to the door, thegrey flags in front, the nodding trees behind--real trees, not shrubs--trees dark, high, and of old growth. And the boudoir-oratoire--youshould make that room your study; it is so quiet and solemn. "

He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. "Where did you pickup all that? Who told you?" he asked. 

"Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?"

"Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman's waking thoughts, much less her sleeping fantasies?"

"If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. Isaw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic--old, too, andpicturesque; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarcereach to my elbow--her magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore agown bright as lapis-lazuli--a shawl worth a thousand francs: she wasdecked with ornaments so brilliant, I never saw any with such abeautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken intwo and bent double; she seemed also to have outlived the common yearsof humanity, and to have attained those which are only labour andsorrow. She was become morose--almost malevolent; yet _somebody_, it appears, cared for her in her infirmities--somebody forgave hertrespasses, hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They livedtogether, these three people--the mistress, the chaplain, the servant--all old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing. "

He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did notconceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression I liked. 

"I see you have entered into my secrets, " said he, "but how was itdone?"

So I told him how--the commission on which I had been sent, the stormwhich had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of thepriest. 

"As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Père Silas whiled away thetime with a story, " I said. 

"A story! What story? Père Silas is no romancist. "

"Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?"

"Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy's French--her best or her worst--I don't much care which: let us have a goodpoignée of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent. "

"Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitiousproportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in themidst. But I will tell him the title--the 'Priest's Pupil. '"

"Bah!" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. "Thegood old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weakpoint. But what of the 'Priest's Pupil?'"

"Oh! many things. "

You may as well define _what_ things. I mean to know. "

"There was the pupil's youth, the pupil's manhood;--his avarice, hisingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil, Monsieur!--so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!

"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar. 

"Et puis, " I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did not pity--bore them in a spirit one did not admire--endured wrongs for whichone felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of heapingcoals of fire on his adversary's head. "

"You have not told me all, " said he. 

"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas'schapters. "

"You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil's lack ofaffection--on his hard, cold, monkish heart. "

"True; I remember now. Père Silas _did_ say that his vocation wasalmost that of a priest--that his life was considered consecrated. "

"By what bonds or duties?"

"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present. "

"You have, then, the whole situation?"

"I have now told Monsieur all that was told me. "

Some meditative minutes passed. 

"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which Ibelieve you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raiseyour eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trustme--I am a man to be trusted. "

I raised my eyes. 

"Knowing me thoroughly now--all my antecedents, all myresponsibilities--having long known my faults, can you and I still befriends?"

"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend inhim. "

"But a close friend I mean--intimate and real--kindred in all butblood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?"

I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answerhim; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_ friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit--a cold, distant hope--a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of afinger: I at once felt (or _thought_ I felt) its support likethat of some rock. 

"When I talk of friendship, I mean _true_ friendship, " herepeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words soearnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality ofthat kind, anxious look he gave. If he _really_ wished for myconfidence and regard, and _really_ would give me his--why, itseemed to me that life could offer nothing more or better. In thatcase, I was become strong and rich: in a moment I was madesubstantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fix and seal it, Iasked--

"Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and cantake an interest in me as a sister?"

"Surely, surely, " said he; "a lonely man like me, who has no sister, must be but too glad to find in some woman's heart a sister's pureaffection. "

"And dare I rely on Monsieur's regard? Dare I speak to him when I amso inclined?"

"My little sister must make her own experiments, " said he; "I willgive no promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till shehas drilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductilematerial in some hands. "

While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his nowaffectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had neverfelt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife herhusband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If he would but prove reliable, and he _looked_ reliable, what, beyond his friendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like adream, as once before had happened--?

"Qu'est-ce donc? What is it?" said he, as this thought threw itsweight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; andafter a moment's pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how anequal fear--lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficultand fitful--had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month. 

On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word ofre-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition wascourted. I grew quite happy--strangely happy--in making him secure, content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earthheld, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing. Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow closedarkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, andgrow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience. 

"Lucy, " said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, "didyou see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?"

"I did; a picture painted on a panel. "

"The portrait of a nun?"

"Yes. "

"You heard her history?"

"Yes. "

"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?"

"I shall never forget it. "

"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?"

"I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait, " said I; whichwas true enough. 

"You did not, nor will you fancy, " pursued he, "that a saint in heavenperturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarelysuperstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset _you?_"

"I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectlynatural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at. "

"Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman--much less apure, happy spirit-would trouble amity like ours n'est-il pas vrai?"

Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling outthat I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on someEnglish family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services wereneeded as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable:sufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its goodsufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the "morbidfancies, " against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE APPLE OF DISCORD. 

Besides Fifine Beck's mother, another power had a word to say to M. Paul and me, before that covenant of friendship could be ratified. Wewere under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jealouslyher son through that mystic lattice at which I had knelt once, and towhich M. Emanuel drew nigh month by month--the sliding panel of theconfessional. 

"Why were you so glad to be friends with M. Paul?" asks the reader. "Had he not long been a friend to you? Had he not given proof on proofof a certain partiality in his feelings?"

Yes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly--that hewas my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tenderdeference--that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful whentaught how. He had called me "sister. " It was well. Yes; he might callme what he pleased, so long as he confided in me. I was willing to behis sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill thatrelation to some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was tocelibacy, of this dilemma there seemed little danger. 

Through most of the succeeding night I pondered that evening'sinterview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened forthe bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers andbreakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at lastwhich brought me the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a morethorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with howmuch of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; toprove how much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discoverwhether I could summon a sister's courage, and he a brother'sfrankness. 

He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, willnot, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted me. Hislesson was given rather more quietly than usual, more mildly, and alsomore gravely. He was fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherlyto me. Ere he left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; Igot neither: to my portion fell one nod--hurried, shy. 

This distance, I argued, is accidental--it is involuntary; patience, and it will vanish. It vanished not; it continued for days; itincreased. I suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever otherfeelings began to surge. 

Well might I ask when he offered fraternity--"Dare I rely on you?"Well might he, doubtless knowing himself, withhold all pledge. True, he had bid me make my own experiments--tease and try him. Vaininjunction! Privilege nominal and unavailable! Some women might useit! Nothing in my powers or instinct placed me amongst this braveband. Left alone, I was passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten--mylips would not utter, nor my eyes dart a reminder. It seemed there hadbeen an error somewhere in my calculations, and I wanted for time todisclose it. 

But the day came when, as usual, he was to give me a lesson. Oneevening in seven he had long generously bestowed on me, devoting it tothe examination of what had been done in various studies during thepast week, and to the preparation of work for the week in prospect. Onthese occasions my schoolroom was anywhere, wherever the pupils andthe other teachers happened to be, or in their close vicinage, veryoften in the large second division, where it was easy to choose aquiet nook when the crowding day pupils were absent, and the fewboarders gathered in a knot about the surveillante's estrade. 

On the customary evening, hearing the customary hour strike, Icollected my books and papers, my pen and ink, and sought the largedivision. 

In classe there was no one, and it lay all in cool deep shadow; butthrough the open double doors was seen the carré, filled with pupilsand with light; over hall and figures blushed the westering sun. Itblushed so ruddily and vividly, that the hues of the walls and thevariegated tints of the dresses seemed all fused in one warm glow. The, girls were seated, working or studying; in the midst of theircircle stood M. Emanuel, speaking good-humouredly to a teacher. Hisdark paletôt, his jetty hair, were tinged with many a reflex ofcrimson; his Spanish face, when he turned it momentarily, answered thesun's animated kiss with an animated smile. I took my place at a desk. 

The orange-trees, and several plants, full and bright with bloom, basked also in the sun's laughing bounty; they had partaken it thewhole day, and now asked water. M. Emanuel had a taste for gardening;he liked to tend and foster plants. I used to think that workingamongst shrubs with a spade or a watering-pot soothed his nerves; itwas a recreation to which he often had recourse; and now be looked tothe orange-trees, the geraniums, the gorgeous cactuses, and revivedthem all with the refreshment their drought needed. His lips meantimesustained his precious cigar, that (for him) first necessary and primeluxury of life; its blue wreaths curled prettily enough amongst theflowers, and in the evening light. He spoke no more to the pupils, norto the mistresses, but gave many an endearing word to a smallspanieless (if one may coin a word), that nominally belonged to thehouse, but virtually owned him as master, being fonder of him than anyinmate. A delicate, silky, loving, and lovable little doggie she was, trotting at his side, looking with expressive, attached eyes into hisface; and whenever he dropped his bonnet-grec or his handkerchief, which he occasionally did in play, crouching beside it with the air ofa miniature lion guarding a kingdom's flag. 

There were many plants, and as the amateur gardener fetched all thewater from the well in the court, with his own active hands, his workspun on to some length. The great school-clock ticked on. Another hourstruck. The carré and the youthful group lost the illusion of sunset. Day was drooping. My lesson, I perceived, must to-night be very short;but the orange-trees, the cacti, the camelias were all served now. Wasit my turn?

Alas! in the garden were more plants to be looked after, --favouriterose-bushes, certain choice flowers; little Sylvie's glad bark andwhine followed the receding paletôt down the alleys. I put up some ofmy books; I should not want them all; I sat and thought; and waited, involuntarily deprecating the creeping invasion of twilight. 

Sylvie, gaily frisking, emerged into view once more, heralding thereturning paletôt; the watering-pot was deposited beside the well; ithad fulfilled its office; how glad I was! Monsieur washed his hands ina little stone bowl. There was no longer time for a lesson now; erelong the prayer-bell must ring; but still we should meet; he wouldspeak; a chance would be offered of reading in his eyes the riddle ofhis shyness. His ablutions over, he stood, slowly re-arranging hiscuffs, looking at the horn of a young moon, set pale in the opal sky, and glimmering faint on the oriel of Jean Baptiste. Sylvie watched themood contemplative; its stillness irked her; she whined and jumped tobreak it. He looked down. 

"Petite exigeante, " said he; "you must not be forgotten one moment, itseems. "

He stopped, lifted her in his arms, sauntered across the court, withina yard of the line of windows near one of which I sat: he saunteredlingeringly, fondling the spaniel in his bosom, calling her tendernames in a tender voice. On the front-door steps he turned; once againhe looked at the moon, at the grey cathedral, over the remoter spiresand house-roofs fading into a blue sea of night-mist; he tasted thesweet breath of dusk, and noted the folded bloom of the garden; hesuddenly looked round; a keen beam out of his eye rased the whitefaçade of the classes, swept the long line of croisées. I think hebowed; if he did, I had no time to return the courtesy. In a moment hewas gone; the moonlit threshold lay pale and shadowless before theclosed front door. 

Gathering in my arms all that was spread on the desk before me, Icarried back the unused heap to its place in the third classe. Theprayer-bell rang; I obeyed its summons. 

The morrow would not restore him to the Rue Fossette, that day beingdevoted entirely to his college. I got through my teaching; I got overthe intermediate hours; I saw evening approaching, and armed myselffor its heavy ennuis. Whether it was worse to stay with my co-inmates, or to sit alone, I had not considered; I naturally took up the latteralternative; if there was a hope of comfort for any moment, the heartor head of no human being in this house could yield it; only under thelid of my desk could it harbour, nestling between the leaves of somebook, gilding a pencil-point, the nib of a pen, or tinging the blackfluid in that ink-glass. With a heavy heart I opened my desk-lid; witha weary hand I turned up its contents. 

One by one, well-accustomed books, volumes sewn in familiar covers, were taken out and put back hopeless: they had no charm; they couldnot comfort. Is this something new, this pamphlet in lilac? I had notseen it before, and I re-arranged my desk this very day--this veryafternoon; the tract must have been introduced within the last hour, while we were at dinner. 

I opened it. What was it? What would it say to me?

It was neither tale nor poem, neither essay nor history; it neithersung, nor related, not discussed. It was a theological work; itpreached and it persuaded. 

I lent to it my ear very willingly, for, small as it was, it possessedits own spell, and bound my attention at once. It preached Romanism;it persuaded to conversion. The voice of that sly little book was ahoneyed voice; its accents were all unction and balm. Here roared noutterance of Rome's thunders, no blasting of the breath of herdispleasure. The Protestant was to turn Papist, not so much in fear ofthe heretic's hell, as on account of the comfort, the indulgence, thetenderness Holy Church offered: far be it from her to threaten or tocoerce; her wish was to guide and win. _She_ persecute? Oh dearno! not on any account!

This meek volume was not addressed to the hardened and worldly; it wasnot even strong meat for the strong: it was milk for babes: the mildeffluence of a mother's love towards her tenderest and her youngest;intended wholly and solely for those whose head is to be reachedthrough the heart. Its appeal was not to intellect; it sought to winthe affectionate through their affections, the sympathizing throughtheir sympathies: St. Vincent de Paul, gathering his orphans abouthim, never spoke more sweetly. 

I remember one capital inducement to apostacy was held out in the factthat the Catholic who had lost dear friends by death could enjoy theunspeakable solace of praying them out of purgatory. The writer didnot touch on the firmer peace of those whose belief dispenses withpurgatory altogether: but I thought of this; and, on the whole, preferred the latter doctrine as the most consolatory. The little bookamused, and did not painfully displease me. It was a canting, sentimental, shallow little book, yet something about it cheered mygloom and made me smile; I was amused with the gambols of thisunlicked wolf-cub muffled in the fleece, and mimicking the bleat of aguileless lamb. Portions of it reminded me of certain WesleyanMethodist tracts I had once read when a child; they were flavouredwith about the same seasoning of excitation to fanaticism. He that hadwritten it was no bad man, and while perpetually betraying the trainedcunning--the cloven hoof of his system--I should pause before accusinghimself of insincerity. His judgment, however, wanted surgical props;it was rickety. 

I smiled then over this dose of maternal tenderness, coming from theruddy old lady of the Seven Hills; smiled, too, at my owndisinclination, not to say disability, to meet these melting favours. Glancing at the title-page, I found the name of "Père Silas. " A fly-leaf bore in small, but clear and well-known pencil characters: "FromP. C. D. E. To L--y. " And when I saw this I laughed: but not in myformer spirit. I was revived. 

A mortal bewilderment cleared suddenly from my head and vision; thesolution of the Sphinx-riddle was won; the conjunction of those twonames, Père Silas and Paul Emanuel, gave the key to all. The penitenthad been with his director; permitted to withhold nothing; suffered tokeep no corner of his heart sacred to God and to himself; the wholenarrative of our late interview had been drawn from him; he had avowedthe covenant of fraternity, and spoken of his adopted sister. Howcould such a covenant, such adoption, be sanctioned by the Church?Fraternal communion with a heretic! I seemed to hear Père Silasannulling the unholy pact; warning his penitent of its perils;entreating, enjoining reserve, nay, by the authority of his office, and in the name, and by the memory of all M. Emanuel held most dearand sacred, commanding the enforcement of that new system whose frosthad pierced to the marrow of my bones. 

These may not seem pleasant hypotheses; yet, by comparison, they werewelcome. The vision of a ghostly troubler hovering in the background, was as nothing, matched with the fear of spontaneous change arising inM. Paul himself. 

At this distance of time, I cannot be sure how far the aboveconjectures were self-suggested: or in what measure they owed theirorigin and confirmation to another quarter. Help was not wanting. 

This evening there was no bright sunset: west and east were one cloud;no summer night-mist, blue, yet rose-tinged, softened the distance; aclammy fog from the marshes crept grey round Villette. To-night thewatering-pot might rest in its niche by the well: a small rain hadbeen drizzling all the afternoon, and still it fell fast and quietly. This was no weather for rambling in the wet alleys, under the drippingtrees; and I started to hear Sylvie's sudden bark in the garden--herbark of welcome. Surely she was not accompanied and yet this glad, quick bark was never uttered, save in homage to one presence. 

Through the glass door and the arching berceau, I commanded the deepvista of the allée défendue: thither rushed Sylvie, glistening throughits gloom like a white guelder-rose. She ran to and fro, whining, springing, harassing little birds amongst the bushes. I watched fiveminutes; no fulfilment followed the omen. I returned to my books;Sylvie's sharp bark suddenly ceased. Again I looked up. She wasstanding not many yards distant, wagging her white feathery tail asfast as the muscle would work, and intently watching the operations ofa spade, plied fast by an indefatigable hand. There was M. Emanuel, bent over the soil, digging in the wet mould amongst the rain-ladenand streaming shrubs, working as hard as if his day's pittance wereyet to earn by the literal sweat of his brow. 

In this sign I read a ruffled mood. He would dig thus in frozen snowon the coldest winter day, when urged inwardly by painful emotion, whether of nervous excitation, or, sad thoughts of self-reproach. Hewould dig by the hour, with knit brow and set teeth, nor once lift hishead, or open his lips. 

Sylvie watched till she was tired. Again scampering devious, boundinghere, rushing there, snuffing and sniffing everywhere; she at lastdiscovered me in classe. Instantly she flew barking at the panes, asif to urge me forth to share her pleasure or her master's toil; shehad seen me occasionally walking in that alley with M. Paul; and Idoubt not, considered it my duty to join him now, wet as it was. 

She made such a bustle that M. Paul at last looked up, and of courseperceived why, and at whom she barked. He whistled to call her off;she only barked the louder. She seemed quite bent upon having theglass door opened. Tired, I suppose, with her importunity, he threwdown his spade, approached, and pushed the door ajar. Sylvie burst inall impetuous, sprang to my lap, and with her paws at my neck, and herlittle nose and tongue somewhat overpoweringly busy about my face, mouth, and eyes, flourished her bushy tail over the desk, andscattered books and papers far and wide. 

M. Emanuel advanced to still the clamour and repair thedisarrangement. Having gathered up the books, he captured Sylvie, andstowed her away under his paletôt, where she nestled as quiet as amouse, her head just peeping forth. She was very tiny, and had theprettiest little innocent face, the silkiest long ears, the finestdark eyes in the world. I never saw her, but I thought of Paulina deBassompierre: forgive the association, reader, it _would_ occur. 

M. Paul petted and patted her; the endearments she received were notto be wondered at; she invited affection by her beauty and hervivacious life. 

While caressing the spaniel, his eye roved over the papers and booksjust replaced; it settled on the religious tract. His lips moved; hehalf checked the impulse to speak. What! had he promised never toaddress me more? If so, his better nature pronounced the vow "morehonoured in the breach than in the observance, " for with a secondeffort, he spoke. --"You have not yet read the brochure, I presume? Itis not sufficiently inviting?"

I replied that I had read it. 

He waited, as if wishing me to give an opinion upon it unasked. Unasked, however, I was in no mood to do or say anything. If anyconcessions were to be made--if any advances were demanded--that wasthe affair of the very docile pupil of Père Silas, not mine. His eyesettled upon me gently: there was mildness at the moment in its blueray--there was solicitude--a shade of pathos; there were meaningscomposite and contrasted--reproach melting into remorse. At the momentprobably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me. Icould not show it. In another minute, however, I should have betrayedconfusion, had I not bethought myself to take some quill-pens from mydesk, and begin soberly to mend them. 

I knew that action would give a turn to his mood. He never liked tosee me mend pens; my knife was always dull-edged--my hand, too, wasunskilful; I hacked and chipped. On this occasion I cut my own finger--half on purpose. I wanted to restore him to his natural state, to sethim at his ease, to get him to chide. 

"Maladroit!" he cried at last, "she will make mincemeat of her hands. "

He put Sylvie down, making her lie quiet beside his bonnet-grec, and, depriving me of the pens and penknife, proceeded to slice, nib, andpoint with the accuracy and celerity of a machine. 

"Did I like the little book?" he now inquired. 

Suppressing a yawn, I said I hardly knew. 

"Had it moved me?"

"I thought it had made me a little sleepy. "

(After a pause:) "Allons donc! It was of no use taking that tone withhim. Bad as I was--and he should be sorry to have to name all myfaults at a breath--God and nature had given me 'trop de sensibilitéet de sympathie' not to be profoundly affected by an appeal sotouching. "

"Indeed!" I responded, rousing myself quickly, "I was not affected atall--not a whit. "

And in proof, I drew from my pocket a perfectly dry handkerchief, still clean and in its folds. 

Hereupon I was made the object of a string of strictures ratherpiquant than polite. I listened with zest. After those two days ofunnatural silence, it was better than music to hear M. Paul haranguingagain just in his old fashion. I listened, and meantime solaced myselfand Sylvie with the contents of a bonbonnière, which M. Emanuel'sgifts kept well supplied with chocolate comfits: It pleased him to seeeven a small matter from his hand duly appreciated. He looked at meand the spaniel while we shared the spoil; he put up his penknife. Touching my hand with the bundle of new-cut quills, he said:--"Ditesdonc, petite soeur--speak frankly--what have you thought of me duringthe last two days?"

But of this question I would take no manner of notice; its purportmade my eyes fill. I caressed Sylvie assiduously. M. Paul, leaning--over the desk, bent towards me:--"I called myself your brother, " hesaid: "I hardly know what I am--brother--friend--I cannot tell. I knowI think of you--I feel I wish, you well--but I must check myself; youare to be feared. My best friends point out danger, and whispercaution. "

"You do right to listen to your friends. By all means be cautious. "

"It is your religion--your strange, self-reliant, invulnerable creed, whose influence seems to clothe you in, I know not what, unblessedpanoply. You are good--Père Silas calls you good, and loves you--butyour terrible, proud, earnest Protestantism, there is the danger. Itexpresses itself by your eye at times; and again, it gives you certaintones and certain gestures that make my flesh creep. You are notdemonstrative, and yet, just now--when you handled that tract--my God!I thought Lucifer smiled. "

"Certainly I don't respect that tract--what then?"

"Not respect that tract? But it is the pure essence of faith, love, charity! I thought it would touch you: in its gentleness, I trustedthat it could not fail. I laid it in your desk with a prayer: I mustindeed be a sinner: Heaven will not hear the petitions that comewarmest from my heart. You scorn my little offering. Oh, cela me faitmal!"

"Monsieur, I don't scorn it--at least, not as your gift. Monsieur, sitdown; listen to me. I am not a heathen, I am not hard-hearted, I amnot unchristian, I am not dangerous, as they tell you; I would nottrouble your faith; you believe in God and Christ and the Bible, andso do I. "

"But _do_ you believe in the Bible? Do you receive Revelation?What limits are there to the wild, careless daring of your country andsect. Père Silas dropped dark hints. "

By dint of persuasion, I made him half-define these hints; theyamounted to crafty Jesuit-slanders. That night M. Paul and I talkedseriously and closely. He pleaded, he argued. _I_ could notargue--a fortunate incapacity; it needed but triumphant, logicalopposition to effect all the director wished to be effected; but Icould talk in my own way--the way M. Paul was used to--and of which hecould follow the meanderings and fill the hiatus, and pardon thestrange stammerings, strange to him no longer. At ease with him, Icould defend my creed and faith in my own fashion; in some degree Icould lull his prejudices. He was not satisfied when he went away, hardly was he appeased; but he was made thoroughly to feel thatProtestants were not necessarily the irreverent Pagans his directorhad insinuated; he was made to comprehend something of their mode ofhonouring the Light, the Life, the Word; he was enabled partly toperceive that, while their veneration for things venerable was notquite like that cultivated in his Church, it had its own, perhaps, deeper power--its own more solemn awe. 

I found that Père Silas (himself, I must repeat, not a bad man, thoughthe advocate of a bad cause) had darkly stigmatized Protestants ingeneral, and myself by inference, with strange names, had ascribed tous strange "isms;" Monsieur Emanuel revealed all this in his frankfashion, which knew not secretiveness, looking at me as he spoke witha kind, earnest fear, almost trembling lest there should be truth inthe charges. Père Silas, it seems, had closely watched me, hadascertained that I went by turns, and indiscriminately, to the threeProtestant Chapels of Villette--the French, German, and English--_idest_, the Presbyterian, Lutheran, Episcopalian. Such liberalityargued in the father's eyes profound indifference--who tolerates all, he reasoned, can be attached to none. Now, it happened that I hadoften secretly wondered at the minute and unimportant character of thedifferences between these three sects--at the unity and identity oftheir vital doctrines: I saw nothing to hinder them from being one dayfused into one grand Holy Alliance, and I respected them all, though Ithought that in each there were faults of form, incumbrances, andtrivialities. Just what I thought, that did I tell M. Emanuel, andexplained to him that my own last appeal, the guide to which I looked, and the teacher which I owned, must always be the Bible itself, ratherthan any sect, of whatever name or nation. 

He left me soothed, yet full of solicitude, breathing a wish, asstrong as a prayer, that if I were wrong, Heaven would lead me right. I heard, poured forth on the threshold, some fervid murmurings to"Marie, Reine du Ciel, " some deep aspiration that _his_ hopemight yet be _mine_. 

Strange! I had no such feverish wish to turn him from the faith of hisfathers. I thought Romanism wrong, a great mixed image of gold andclay; but it seemed to me that _this_ Romanist held the purerelements of his creed with an innocency of heart which God must love. 

The preceding conversation passed between eight and nine o'clock ofthe evening, in a schoolroom of the quiet Rue Fossette, opening on asequestered garden. Probably about the same, or a somewhat later hourof the succeeding evening, its echoes, collected by holy obedience, were breathed verbatim in an attent ear, at the panel of aconfessional, in the hoary church of the Magi. It ensued that PèreSilas paid a visit to Madame Beck, and stirred by I know not whatmixture of motives, persuaded her to let him undertake for a time theEnglishwoman's spiritual direction. 

Hereupon I was put through a course of reading--that is, I justglanced at the books lent me; they were too little in my way to bethoroughly read, marked, learned, or inwardly digested. And besides, Ihad a book up-stairs, under my pillow, whereof certain chapterssatisfied my needs in the article of spiritual lore, furnishing suchprecept and example as, to my heart's core, I was convinced could notbe improved on. 

Then Père Silas showed me the fair side of Rome, her good works; andbade me judge the tree by its fruits. 

In answer, I felt and I avowed that these works were _not_ thefruits of Rome; they were but her abundant blossoming, but the fairpromise she showed the world, That bloom, when set, savoured not ofcharity; the apple full formed was ignorance, abasement, and bigotry. Out of men's afflictions and affections were forged the rivets oftheir servitude. Poverty was fed and clothed, and sheltered, to bindit by obligation to "the Church;" orphanage was reared and educatedthat it might grow up in the fold of "the Church;" sickness was tendedthat it might die after the formula and in the ordinance of "theChurch;" and men were overwrought, and women most murderouslysacrificed, and all laid down a world God made pleasant for hiscreatures' good, and took up a cross, monstrous in its galling weight, that they might serve Rome, prove her sanctity, confirm her power, andspread the reign of her tyrant "Church. "

For man's good was little done; for God's glory, less. A thousand wayswere opened with pain, with blood-sweats, with lavishing of life;mountains were cloven through their breasts, and rocks were split totheir base; and all for what? That a Priesthood might march straighton and straight upward to an all-dominating eminence, whence theymight at last stretch the sceptre of their Moloch "Church. "

It will not be. God is not with Rome, and, were human sorrows stillfor the Son of God, would he not mourn over her cruelties andambitions, as once he mourned over the crimes and woes of doomedJerusalem!

Oh, lovers of power! Oh, mitred aspirants for this world's kingdoms!an hour will come, even to you, when it will be well for your hearts--pausing faint at each broken beat--that there is a Mercy beyond humancompassions, a Love, stronger than this strong death which even youmust face, and before it, fall; a Charity more potent than any sin, even yours; a Pity which redeems worlds--nay, absolves Priests. 

 * * * * *

My third temptation was held out in the pomp of Rome--the glory of herkingdom. I was taken to the churches on solemn occasions--days of fêteand state; I was shown the Papal ritual and ceremonial. I looked atit. 

Many people--men and women--no doubt far my superiors in a thousandways, have felt this display impressive, have declared that thoughtheir Reason protested, their Imagination was subjugated. I cannot saythe same. Neither full procession, nor high mass, nor swarming tapers, nor swinging censers, nor ecclesiastical millinery, nor celestialjewellery, touched my imagination a whit. What I saw struck me astawdry, not grand; as grossly material, not poetically spiritual. 

This I did not tell Père Silas; he was old, he looked venerable:through every abortive experiment, under every repeateddisappointment, he remained personally kind to me, and I felt tenderof hurting his feelings. But on the evening of a certain day when, from the balcony of a great house, I had been made to witness a hugemingled procession of the church and the army--priests with relics, and soldiers with weapons, an obese and aged archbishop, habited incambric and lace, looking strangely like a grey daw in bird-of-paradise plumage, and a band of young girls fantastically robed andgarlanded--_then_ I spoke my mind to M. Paul. 

"I did not like it, " I told him; "I did not respect such ceremonies; Iwished to see no more. "

And having relieved my conscience by this declaration, I was able togo on, and, speaking more currently and clearly than my wont, to showhim that I had a mind to keep to my reformed creed; the more I saw ofPopery the closer I clung to Protestantism; doubtless there wereerrors in every church, but I now perceived by contrast how severelypure was my own, compared with her whose painted and meretricious facehad been unveiled for my admiration. I told him how we kept fewerforms between us and God; retaining, indeed, no more than, perhaps, the nature of mankind in the mass rendered necessary for dueobservance. I told him I could not look on flowers and tinsel, on wax-lights and embroidery, at such times and under such circumstances asshould be devoted to lifting the secret vision to Him whose home isInfinity, and His being--Eternity. That when I thought of sin andsorrow, of earthly corruption, mortal depravity, weighty temporal woe--I could not care for chanting priests or mumming officials; that whenthe pains of existence and the terrors of dissolution pressed beforeme--when the mighty hope and measureless doubt of the future arose inview--_then_, even the scientific strain, or the prayer in alanguage learned and dead, harassed: with hindrance a heart which onlylonged to cry--"God be merciful to me, a sinner!"

When I had so spoken, so declared my faith, and so widely severedmyself, from him I addressed--then, at last, came a tone accordant, anecho responsive, one sweet chord of harmony in two conflictingspirits. 

"Whatever say priests or controversialists, " murmured M. Emanuel, "Godis good, and loves all the sincere. Believe, then, what you can;believe it as you can; one prayer, at least, we have in common; I alsocry--'O Dieu, sois appaisé envers moi qui suis pécheur!'"

He leaned on the back of my chair. After some thought he again spoke:

"How seem in the eyes of that God who made all firmaments, from whosenostrils issued whatever of life is here, or in the stars shiningyonder--how seem the differences of man? But as Time is not for God, nor Space, so neither is Measure, nor Comparison. We abase ourselvesin our littleness, and we do right; yet it may be that the constancyof one heart, the truth and faith of one mind according to the lightHe has appointed, import as much to Him as the just motion ofsatellites about their planets, of planets about their suns, of sunsaround that mighty unseen centre incomprehensible, irrealizable, withstrange mental effort only divined. 

"God guide us all! God bless you, Lucy!"

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

SUNSHINE. 

It was very, well for Paulina to decline further correspondence withGraham till her father had sanctioned the intercourse. But Dr. Brettoncould not live within a league of the Hôtel Crécy, and not contrive tovisit there often. Both lovers meant at first, I believe, to bedistant; they kept their intention so far as demonstrative courtshipwent, but in feeling they soon drew very near. 

All that was best in Graham sought Paulina; whatever in him was noble, awoke, and grew in her presence. With his past admiration of MissFanshawe, I suppose his intellect had little to do, but his wholeintellect, and his highest tastes, came in question now. These, likeall his faculties, were active, eager for nutriment, and alive togratification when it came. 

I cannot say that Paulina designedly led him to talk of books, orformally proposed to herself for a moment the task of winning him toreflection, or planned the improvement of his mind, or so much asfancied his mind could in any one respect be improved. She thought himvery perfect; it was Graham himself, who, at first by the merestchance, mentioned some book he had been reading, and when in herresponse sounded a welcome harmony of sympathies, something, pleasantto his soul, he talked on, more and better perhaps than he had evertalked before on such subjects. She listened with delight, andanswered with animation. In each successive answer, Graham heard amusic waxing finer and finer to his sense; in each he found asuggestive, persuasive, magic accent that opened a, scarce-knowntreasure-house within, showed him unsuspected power in his own mind, and what was better, latent goodness in his heart. Each liked the wayin which the other talked; the voice, the diction, the expressionpleased; each keenly relished the flavour of the other's wit; they meteach other's meaning with strange quickness, their thoughts oftenmatched like carefully-chosen pearls. Graham had wealth of mirth bynature; Paulina possessed no such inherent flow of animal spirits--unstimulated, she inclined to be thoughtful and pensive--but now sheseemed merry as a lark; in her lover's genial presence, she glancedlike some soft glad light. How beautiful she grew in her happiness, Ican hardly express, but I wondered to see her. As to that gentle iceof hers--that reserve on which she had depended; where was it now? Ah!Graham would not long bear it; he brought with him a generousinfluence that soon thawed the timid, self-imposed restriction. 

Now were the old Bretton days talked over; perhaps brokenly at first, with a sort of smiling diffidence, then with opening candour and stillgrowing confidence. Graham had made for himself a better opportunitythan that he had wished me to give; he had earned independence of thecollateral help that disobliging Lucy had refused; all hisreminiscences of "little Polly" found their proper expression in hisown pleasant tones, by his own kind and handsome lips; how much betterthan if suggested by me. 

More than once when we were alone, Paulina would tell me how wonderfuland curious it was to discover the richness and accuracy of his memoryin this matter. How, while he was looking at her, recollections wouldseem to be suddenly quickened in his mind. He reminded her that shehad once gathered his head in her arms, caressed his leonine graces, and cried out, "Graham, I _do_ like you!" He told her how shewould set a footstool beside him, and climb by its aid to his knee. Atthis day he said he could recall the sensation of her little handssmoothing his cheek, or burying themselves in his thick mane. Heremembered the touch of her small forefinger, placed half tremblingly, half curiously, in the cleft in his chin, the lisp, the look withwhich she would name it "a pretty dimple, " then seek his eyes andquestion why they pierced so, telling him he had a "nice, strangeface; far nicer, far stranger, than either his mamma or Lucy Snowe. "

"Child as I was, " remarked Paulina, "I wonder how I dared be soventurous. To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible, and, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear, when I look at his firm, marblechin, at his straight Greek features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he is not like a woman, therefore I suppose he is not beautiful, but what is he, then? Do other people see him with my eyes? Do_you_ admire him?"

"I'll tell you what I do, Paulina, " was once my answer to her manyquestions. "_I never see him_. I looked at him twice or thriceabout a year ago, before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes;and if he were to cross their balls twelve times between each day'ssunset and sunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know whatshape had gone by. "

"Lucy, what do you mean?" said she, under her breath. 

"I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind. "

It was best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for everthe tender, passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, and sometimes dropped in my ear--molten lead. To me, she commented nomore on her lover's beauty. 

Yet speak of him she would; sometimes shyly, in quiet, brief phrases;sometimes with a tenderness of cadence, and music of voice exquisitein itself; but which chafed me at times miserably; and then, I know, Igave her stern looks and words; but cloudless happiness had dazzledher native clear sight, and she only thought Lucy--fitful. 

"Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!" she would say, smiling at me. "Graham saysyou are the most peculiar, capricious little woman he knows; but yetyou are excellent; we both think so. "

"You both think you know not what, " said I. "Have the goodness to makeme as little the subject of your mutual talk and thoughts as possible. I have my sort of life apart from yours. "

"But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shallshare it. "

"I shall share no man's or woman's life in this world, as youunderstand sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am notsure; and till I _am_ sure, I live solitary. "

"But solitude is sadness. "

"Yes; it is sadness. Life, however; has worse than that. Deeper thanmelancholy, lies heart-break. "

"Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you altogether. "

There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will havea witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulinahad forbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved againstcorrespondence, yet she answered, were it only to chide. She showed methese letters; with something of the spoiled child's wilfulness, andof the heiress's imperiousness, she _made_ me read them. As Iread Graham's, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood herpride: they were fine letters--manly and fond--modest and gallant. Hers must have appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written toshow her talents; still less, I think, to express her love. On thecontrary, it appeared that she had proposed to herself the task ofhiding that feeling, and bridling her lover's ardour. But how couldsuch letters serve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life;he drew her like a powerful magnet. For her there was influenceunspeakable in all he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With thisunconfessed confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, fromgreeting to adieu. 

"I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!" began now to be heranxious murmur. "I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham backfrom telling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have thisaffair settled--to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. Iknow, I am certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he willdislike me almost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it willbe a surprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him. "

The fact was--her father, long calm, was beginning to be a littlestirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginningto trespass on his eye. 

To _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, orperhaps thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her. 

One evening--Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, toGraham; she had left me in the library, reading--M. De Bassompierrecame in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me toremain--gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. Hehad taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened adesk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this bookhe studied a certain entry for several minutes. 

"Miss Snowe, " said he, laying it down, "do you know my little girl'sage?"

"About eighteen, is it not, sir?"

"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th ofMay, in the year 18--, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lostthe just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve--fourteen--an indefinite date; but she seemed a child. "

"She is about eighteen, " I repeated. "She is grown up; she will be notaller. "

"My little jewel!" said M. De Bassompierre, in a tone which penetratedlike some of his daughter's accents. 

He sat very thoughtful. 

"Sir, don't grieve, " I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspokenas they were. 

"She is the only pearl I have, " he said; "and now others will find outthat she is pure and of price: they will covet her. "

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he hadshone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloomembellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under thestimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole mannerwhich compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day toindicate the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. De Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry thedirection and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, hewas logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guidedhim through a long labyrinth. 

"Where is she?" he asked. 

"She is up-stairs. "

"What is she doing?"

"She is writing. "

"She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?"

"None but such as she can show me. And--sir--she--_they_ havelong wanted to consult you. "

"Pshaw! They don't think of me--an old father! I am in the way. "

"Ah, M. De Bassompierre--not so--that can't be! But Paulina must speakfor herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate. "

"It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems. "

"Sir, till you approve, nothing is done--only they love each other. "

"Only!" he echoed. 

Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I wasobliged to go on: "Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the pointof appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears youmortally. "

"He may well--he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing Ihave. Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child foryears yet. So. Are they engaged?"

"They could not become engaged without your permission. "

"It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that proprietywhich always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; mylittle girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son;Bretton might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of richand pretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and conduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?"

"If he had never seen your 'Polly, ' others might and would havepleased him--your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance. "

"Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!--Ican't let him have her. No--I can't. He is not her equal, " heaffirmed, rather gruffly. "In what particular is he her match? Theytalk of fortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but theworld thinks of these things--and Polly will be rich. "

"Yes, that is known, " said I: "all Villette knows her as an heiress. "

"Do they talk of my little girl in that light?"

"They do, sir. "

He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, "Would you, sir, thinkany one Paulina's match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Doyou think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference inyour feelings towards a future son-in-law?"

"You touch me there, " said he. 

"Look at the aristocracy of Villette--you would not like them, sir?"

"I should not--never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot. "

"I am told many of these persons think about her, sir, " I went on, gaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse. "Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused. Wherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independentof heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of thosewho see her. "

"Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty. "

"Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful. "

"Nonsense!--begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are toopartial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks--but thenI am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She isamusing, fairy-like, interesting to me;--you must be mistaken insupposing her handsome?"

"She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of yourwealth and position. "

"My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thoughtso----"

"Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. DeBassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would--as _you_would yourself, under the same circumstances--but they are not hisbaits. He loves your daughter very much; he feels her finestqualities, and they influence him worthily. "

"What! has my little pet 'fine qualities?'"

"Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men ofeminence and learning dined here?"

"I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day;its womanliness made me smile. "

"And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in thedrawing-room?"

"I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation--as one might amuseone's self with a pretty infant. "

"Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the Frenchgentlemen say she was 'pétrie d'esprit et de graces. ' Dr. Brettonthought the same. "

"She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I _do_ believeshe has some character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Pollynursed me; they thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at oncestronger and tenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam she was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chairas noiselessly and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought inmarriage! I don't want to part with her, " said he, and he groaned. 

"You have known Dr. And Mrs. Bretton so long, " I suggested, "it wouldbe less like separation to give her to him than to another. "

He reflected rather gloomily. 

"True. I have long known Louisa Bretton, " he murmured. "She and I areindeed old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she wasyoung. You talk of beauty, Miss Snowe! _she_ was handsome, if youwill--tall, straight, and blooming--not the mere child or elf my Pollyseems to me: at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for aprincess. She is a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; Ihave always thought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now herepays me by this robbery! My little treasure used to love her oldfather dearly and truly. It is all over now, doubtless--I am anincumbrance. "

The door opened--his "little treasure" came in. She was dressed, so tospeak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes withthe close of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimsonheightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lilyneck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, shehad brought in her hand the letter just written--brought it folded butunsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping stepfaltered a little, paused a moment--the colour in her cheek flowedrosy over her whole face. 

"Polly, " said M. De Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile, "do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new. "

"I don't blush--I never _do_ blush, " affirmed she, while anothereddy from the heart sent up its scarlet. "But I thought you were inthe dining-room, and I wanted Lucy. "

"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he hasjust been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post yourletter for you; it will save Matthieu a 'course, ' as he calls it. "

"I don't post letters, " said she, rather pettishly. 

"What do you do with them, then?--come here and tell me. "

Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second--to say "Shall Icome?"--but she approached. 

"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seemsyesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutelywith both hands at the pen. "

"Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person'shands, just to satisfy. "

"The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?"

"No, papa--not Lucy. "

"Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?"

"No, papa--not Mrs. Bretton. "

"Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth. "

"Oh, papa!" she cried with earnestness, "I will--I _will_ tellyou the truth--all the truth; I am glad to tell you--glad, though Itremble. "

She _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and alsogathering courage, shook her. 

"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love youabove everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address. "

She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his handshaking, his eyes glistening meantime. 

He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful amaze. 

"Can _she_ write so--the little thing that stood at my knee butyesterday? Can she feel so?"

"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?"

"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it painsme. "

"But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give upeverything--almost" (correcting herself); "I would die rather thanmake you unhappy; that would be too wicked!"

She shuddered. 

"Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? Itshall, for your sake, if you order it. "

"I order nothing. "

"Order something, papa; express your wish; only don't hurt, don'tgrieve Graham. I cannot, _cannot_ bear that. I love you, papa;but I love Graham too--because--because--it is impossible to help it. "

"This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly--that is my presentnotion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I donot love him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad's eyeI never quite fathomed--something his mother has not--a depth whichwarned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, Ifind myself taken over the crown of the head. "

"Papa, you don't--you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank;you can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me upin a convent, and break Graham's heart to-morrow, if you choose to beso cruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?"

"Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don't likehim, Polly, and I wonder that you should. "

"Papa, " said she, "do you know you are very naughty? I never saw youlook so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There isan expression in your face which does not belong to you. "

"Off with him!" pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorelycrossed and annoyed--even a little bitter; "but, I suppose, if hewent, Polly would pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairlywon--won, and weaned from her old father. "

"Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in thatway. I am _not_ weaned from you, and no human being and no mortalinfluence _can_ wean me. "

"Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter;go and be a wife!"

"Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care ofprejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, yourcountrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think, when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown. "

"Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away. "

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness, superiority to taunts; knowing her father's character, guessing hisfew foibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was nowtranspiring; it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to letit pass with dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her inno stead. Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:--"I won't leave you, papa; I'll never leave you. I won't pain you!I'll never pain you!" was her cry. 

"My lamb! my treasure!" murmured the loving though rugged sire. Hesaid no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse. 

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant: a tallgentleman was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his glovesslowly--lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither bysign nor word; yet his eye said:--"Lucy, come here. " And I went. 

Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitationwhich now fevered him. 

"M. De Bassompierre is there--is he not?" he inquired, pointing to thelibrary. 

"Yes. "

"He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?"

"Yes, Graham. "

"I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is _she_?"

"Mr. Home" (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times)"is talking to his daughter. "

"Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!"

He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was goingto write _mortal_, but such words ill apply to one all livinglike him)--a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in allthis trouble his smile never faded. 

"Is he _very_ angry, Lucy?"

"_She_ is very faithful, Graham. "

"What will be done unto me?"

"Graham, your star must be fortunate. "

"Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeedto quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to lovethem, and I do. My mother is good; _she_ is divine; and _you_are true as steel. Are you not?"

"Yes, Graham. "

"Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly littlehand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God bewith the right. Lucy, say Amen!"

He turned, and waited till I said "Amen!"--which I did to please him:the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success;and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some areborn vanquished. 

"Follow me!" he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home's presence. 

"Sir, " he asked, "what is my sentence?"

The father looked at him: the daughter kept her face hid. 

"Well, Bretton, " said Mr. Home, "you have given me the usual reward ofhospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was alwaysglad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you _robbed_ me, but I am bereaved, and what I have lost, _you_, it seems, havewon. "

"Sir, I cannot repent. "

"Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descendedpartly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celtin all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm. The red--(Well then, Polly, the _fair_) hair, the tongue ofguile, and brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance. "

"Sir, I _feel_ honest enough, " said Graham; and a genuine Englishblush covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. "And yet, "he added, "I won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. Inyour presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing theworld owns for me. I wished for it: I tried for it. Sir, I ask for itnow. "

"John, you ask much. "

"Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; fromyour justice, as a reward. I can never earn it. "

"Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!" said Mr. Home. "Look up, Polly!Answer this 'braw wooer;' send him away!"

She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. Shegazed tenderly on her furrowed sire. 

"Papa, I love you both, " said she; "I can take care of you both. Ineed not send Graham away--he can live here; he will be noinconvenience, " she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology whichat times was wont to make both her father and Graham smile. Theysmiled now. 

"He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me, " still persisted Mr. Home. "I don't want him, Polly, he is too tall; he is in my way. Tellhim to march. "

"You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me atfirst--like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, Iwould rather not have him otherwise. "

"I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. Ishould never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me inthat relation. Dismiss this gentleman. "

"But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well. "

"Suits _me_, forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinionsand tastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly, you and I will bid him good-by. "

"Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa. "

"No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don't think to coax mebetween you. "

"Indeed, indeed, you _are_ friends. Graham, stretch out yourright hand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don't bestiff; close your fingers; be pliant--there! But that is not a clasp--it is a grasp? Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham's hand tothe bone; you hurt him!"

He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round withbrilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's flesh and drewblood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made himsmile. 

"Come with me into my study, " at last said Mr. Home to the doctor. They went. Their intercourse was not long, but I suppose it wasconclusive. The suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutinyon many things. Whether Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look andlanguage or not, there was a sound foundation below. His answers, Iunderstood afterwards, evinced both wisdom and integrity. He hadmanaged his affairs well. He had struggled through entanglements; hisfortunes were in the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a positionto marry. 

Once more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. DeBassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter. 

"Take her, " he said. "Take her, John Bretton: and may God deal withyou as you deal with her!"

 * * * * *

Not long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons, Count deBassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on oneseat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of thepalace at Bois l'Etang. They had come thither to enjoy a summerevening: outside the magnificent gates their carriage waited to takethem home; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and dim;the palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on Pentelicus; theevening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs embalmed theclimate of this spot; the hour was still and sweet; the scene, but forthis group, was solitary. 

Paulina sat between the two gentlemen: while they conversed, herlittle hands were busy at some work; I thought at first she wasbinding a nosegay. No; with the tiny pair of scissors, glittering inher lap, she had severed spoils from each manly head beside her, andwas now occupied in plaiting together the grey lock and the goldenwave. The plait woven--no silk-thread being at hand to bind it--atress of her own hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied it likea knot, prisoned it in a locket, and laid it on her heart. 

"Now, " said she, "there is an amulet made, which has virtue to keepyou two always friends. You can never quarrel so long as I wear this. "

An amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which rendered enmityimpossible. She was become a bond to both, an influence over each, amutual concord. From them she drew her happiness, and what sheborrowed, she, with interest, gave back. 

"Is there, indeed, such happiness on earth?" I asked, as I watched thefather, the daughter, the future husband, now united--all blessed andblessing. 

Yes; it is so. Without any colouring of romance, or any exaggerationof fancy, it is so. Some real lives do--for some certain days oryears--actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, ifsuch perfect happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked itnever comes), its sweet effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trialsfollow, whatever pains of sickness or shades of death, the gloryprecedent still shines through, cheering the keen anguish, and tingingthe deep cloud. 

I will go farther. I _do_ believe there are some human beings soborn, so reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and lategrave, that no excessive suffering penetrates their lot, and notempestuous blackness overcasts their journey. And often, these arenot pampered, selfish beings, but Nature's elect, harmonious andbenign; men and women mild with charity, kind agents of God's kindattributes. 

Let me not delay the happy truth. Graham Bretton and Paulina deBassompierre were married, and such an agent did Dr. Bretton prove. Hedid not with time degenerate; his faults decayed, his virtues ripened;he rose in intellectual refinement, he won in moral profit: all dregsfiltered away, the clear wine settled bright and tranquil. Bright, too, was the destiny of his sweet wife. She kept her husband's love, she aided in his progress--of his happiness she was the corner stone. 

This pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with greatprosperity, great goodness: they imparted with open hand, yet wisely. Doubtless they knew crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but thesewere well borne. More than once, too, they had to look on Him whoseface flesh scarce can see and live: they had to pay their tribute tothe King of Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. De Bassompierre wastaken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose acry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but otherssprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton sawhimself live again in a son who inherited his looks and hisdisposition; he had stately daughters, too, like himself: thesechildren he reared with a suave, yet a firm hand; they grew upaccording to inheritance and nurture. 

In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives ofGraham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob's favoured son, with "blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that liesunder. " It was so, for God saw that it was good. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

CLOUD. 

But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done itsurely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. Theimpulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen andunseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must begiven. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In fire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fireand in blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint notthrough terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thyloins; look upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, joinin friendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this worldstretches the way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; beour cross our banner. For staff we have His promise, whose "word istried, whose way perfect:" for present hope His providence, "who givesthe shield of salvation, whose gentleness makes great;" for final homeHis bosom, who "dwells in the height of Heaven;" for crowning prize aglory, exceeding and eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let usendure hardness as good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keepthe faith, reliant in the issue to come off more than conquerors: "Artthou not from everlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!"

On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for thelesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master. 

The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-writtencompositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them, neatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of theProfessor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July, the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a freshbreeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in, seeming to whisper tidings. 

M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at hisbeing a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and, instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietlyupon us the cautious Madame Beck. 

She approached M. Paul's desk; she stood before it; she drew round herthe light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yetfirm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, "This morning there willbe no lesson of literature. "

The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes'pause. 

"It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shallrequire at least that space of time to find an efficient substitutefor M. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanksusefully. 

"Your Professor, ladies, " she went on, "intends, if possible, duly totake leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for thatceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgentsummons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leaveEurope for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself. Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, thismorning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy. "

She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, andpassed from the classe. 

A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believesome pupils wept. 

Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbingincreased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort ofgrowing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, and that surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and thesense of duty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, tospeak in my usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. Imade the English reading long and close. I kept them at it the wholemorning. I remember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards thepupils who sobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it wasonly an hysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I halfridiculed them. I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with theirtears, or that gasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited pupil kept it up when the others had done;relentless necessity obliged and assisted me so to accost her, thatshe dared not carry on the demonstration, that she was forced toconquer the convulsion. 

That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when schoolwas over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and whenthey were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them before--pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulseyielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon thatpoignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever. 

I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should haveliked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; thenight, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing meill for the next day's ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course thisnews fell under general discussion. Some little reserve hadaccompanied the first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouthopened; every tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of "Emanuel. " He, whose connection with the schoolwas contemporary with its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! Allfelt it strange. 

They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the verymultitude of their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About the third day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week;then--that he was bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck'sface, and into her eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report;I perused her all over for information, but no part of her disclosedmore than what was unperturbed and commonplace. 

"This secession was an immense loss to her, " she alleged. "She did notknow how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to herkinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him?She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was hisduty. "

She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speakingaudibly to Zélie St. Pierre. 

"Why was it his duty?" I could have asked her that. I had impulses totake hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, tostretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, "Stop. Let us hearthe conclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to gointo banishment?" But Madame always addressed some other teacher, andnever looked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in thequestion. 

The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bidus good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questionedwhether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he shoulddepart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in alltheir talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of coursecould see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should_she_ care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?

The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, thathis destination was "Basseterre in Guadaloupe:" the business whichcalled him abroad related to a friend's interests, not his own: Ithought as much. 

"Basseterre in Guadaloupe. " I had little sleep about this time, butwhenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I wasquickly roused with a start, while the words "Basseterre, ""Guadaloupe, " seemed pronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart thedarkness round and before me, in zigzag characters of red or violetlight. 

For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M. Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growinghourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled thetheological difference, and in all that time there had been noquarrel. Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we hadnot lived aloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more thanbefore; he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eyecontent, with manner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversationhad grown between us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I hadcommunicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeatit more than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar wasover; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings ofunion and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affectionand deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond. 

What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on my"intellect, " no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, forthe jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, weresubstituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tenderforbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when hewould sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or dutybrought separation, he would leave with words like these, "Il estdoux, le repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!"

One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking inmy alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meantto arrest my attention. 

"Bonne petite amie!" said he, softly; "douce consolatrice!" Butthrough his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strangethought found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more thanfriend or brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity oramity?

His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, hisinterpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alleybroke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodefulforms--a woman's and a priest's--Madame Beck and Père Silas. 

The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse itexpressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs ofaffection just surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it thejaundice of ecclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ withunction. He looked on his pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw nothing--nothing; though her kinsman retained inher presence the hand of the heretic foreigner, not sufferingwithdrawal, but clasping it close and fast. 

Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure hadstruck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequentrepetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me, which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense, with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word ofexplanation--I remember, but I cannot describe its passage. 

The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speakhis farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore. 

This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a livingcreature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfastedas usual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their lateProfessor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinaryduties. 

So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, soinexpectant its aspect--I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmospherethus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no one lend me a voice? Had noone a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say--Amen?

I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, aholiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they _would_ notnow band to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with aMaster who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as_they_ could love--but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude?

I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, orcommunicated with; the distance was scarce a stone's-throw: had itbeen in the next room--unsummoned, I could make no use of myknowledge. To follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for thesethings I had no faculty. 

M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passedsilent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered himto go by. 

Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My hearttrembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I wasquite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post--or do my work. Yetthe little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund, free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven dayssince, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appearedquite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion. 

A little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sentfor me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English lettershe had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling tothis work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of herchamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hotday, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her asindispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fiercedistrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? whatsound?

I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the eveningand winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far offthe traveller's tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About themiddle of the letter I heard--what checked my pen--a tread in thevestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless by orders--had anticipated such réveillée. Madame saw me halt. She coughed, madea bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the classes. 

"Proceed, " said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, mythoughts were carried off captive. 

The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from thedwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the suddenstir of numbers, a whole division rising at once. 

"They are putting away work, " said Madame. 

It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush--that instant quell of the tumult?

"Wait, Madame--I will see what it is. "

And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not beleft: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as myshadow. I turned on the last step of the stair. 

"Are you coming, too?" I asked. 

"Yes, " said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect--a look, clouded, yet resolute. 

We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps. 

He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once moreappeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keephim away, but he was come. 

The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving hisfarewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. Thislast ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting--so solemn, to last so long. 

I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following andwatching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under herbreath; I became terribly goaded. 

He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he cameto the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she hadstepped out suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions andamplify her drapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weaknessand deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis--thetotal default of self-assertion--with which, in a crisis, I could bestruck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, shemastered his attention, she hurried him to the door--the glass-dooropening on the garden. I think he looked round; could I but havecaught his eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; butalready the room was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure was lost among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will;yes, she got him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five o'clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the schoolseparated, the room emptied. 

There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction insome certain minutes I then passed alone--a grief inexpressible overa loss unendurable. _What_ should I do; oh! _what_ should I do;when all my life's hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?

What I _should_ have done, I know not, when a little child--theleast child in the school--broke with its simplicity and itsunconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inwardconflict. 

"Mademoiselle, " lisped the treble voice, "I am to give you that. M. Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier tothe cellar, and when I found you, to give you that. "

And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its olive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, onlythese words:--

"It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by tothe rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. Theinterview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you atleisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments arenumbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a privatebusiness on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate--even to you. --PAUL. "

"Be ready?" Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on themorrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of hisvessel's departure advertised. Oh! _I_ would be ready, but couldthat longed-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, theschemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of accessappeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm--Apollyon straddled acrossit, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guidereach me?

Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; itseemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to thewhole throb of mine. 

I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. Ithink if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, norits nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those dayswhich never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades--stood, shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled adoubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hourunlooked for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height andcompass of his promise: spoke thus--then towering, became a star, andvanished into his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense--a worse boonthan despair. 

All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yetin the midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold and peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-beliedpresentiment. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clungto the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud--likethe wrack scudding before a storm. 

They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log;the crimson of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blueshades, over the pale and ashen gleams of its night. 

Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired. Istill remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at leastdisregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before. 

How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afootmany hours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and hadmade for myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when certain that the whole household were abed, and quite out ofhearing--there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding inSolitude, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; theyheaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief couldbe sacred?

Soon after eleven o'clock--a very late hour in the Rue Fossette--thedoor unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp's flame invaded themoonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as ifcoming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of atonce addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed toseek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long. She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; drivenbeyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wontedrespects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usualcircumstances, no yoke could now be borne--no curb obeyed. 

"It is more than time for retirement, " said Madame; "the rule of thehouse has already been transgressed too long. "

Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in myway, I put her out of it. 

"Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber, "said she, trying to speak softly. 

"No!" I said; "neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me. "

"Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall makeyou comfortable: she shall give you a sedative. "

"Madame, " I broke out, "you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity, your peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Makeyour own bed warm and soft; take sedatives and meats, and drinksspiced and sweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow ordisappointment--and, perhaps, you have--nay, I _know_ you have--seek your own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however. _Leave me_, I say!"

"I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton. "

"I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and mytroubles. Oh, Madame! in _your_ hand there is both chill andpoison. You envenom and you paralyze. "

"What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry. "

"Dog in the manger!" I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, andhad always wanted him. She called him "insupportable:" she railed athim for a "dévot:" she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that shemight bind him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame's secrets Ihad entered--I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration whichcame to me--I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, Ihad slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be arival. She was _my_ rival, heart and soul, though secretly, underthe smoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself. 

Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was inmy power, because in some moods, such as the present--in somestimulated states of perception, like that of this instant--herhabitual disguise, her mask and her domino, were to me a mere networkreticulated with holes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, self-indulgent, and ignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, though very uneasy, she said, "If I would not be persuadedto take rest, she must reluctantly leave me. " Which she didincontinent, perhaps even more glad to get away, than I was to see hervanish. 

This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre whichever occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene wasnever repeated. It did not one whit change her manner to me. I do notknow that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worsefor my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secretphilosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irkedher to remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives thereoccurred no repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage. 

That night passed: all nights--even the starless night beforedissolution--must wear away. About six o'clock, the hour which calledup the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in itscold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass, set in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I waschanged: my cheeks and lips were sodden white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids swollen and purple. 

On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me--my heartseemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideouslycertain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guesswhy and for whom I despaired. 

"Isabelle, " the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approachedme. Would she, too, mock me!

"Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!" saidshe, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistfulstupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than thekeenest intelligence. 

Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance:before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards thewhole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than toread hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his owncounsel--be his own secret's sovereign. In the course of that day, proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrowwas unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was still mine only. It was not known--it had not been noted--that Iheld in peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed meby; curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hoveringalways round, had never become centred upon me. A given organizationmay live in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel hadcome and gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out ofseason he had called me, and I had obeyed him: "M. Paul wants MissLucy"--"Miss Lucy is with M. Paul"--such had been the perpetualbulletin; and nobody commented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame Beck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was called illness--a headache: I accepted thebaptism. 

But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty thathe was gone without a farewell--this cruel conviction that fate andpursuing furies--a woman's envy and a priest's bigotry--would sufferme to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found melike the first--untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in anunalterable passion of silent desolation?

Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night--she did notcome near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe--a more efficient agent forthe purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra's first words--"Isyour headache very bad to-night?" (for Ginevra, like the rest, thoughtI had a headache--an intolerable headache which made me frightfullywhite in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)--her firstwords, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it wereonly out of reach. And soon, what followed--plaints about her ownheadaches--completed the business. 

I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed--my miserable bed--hauntedwith quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, whenanother emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I was consumed with thirst--I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, but I tasted a drug. 

"Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou, " said Goton, as shereceived back the emptied cup. 

Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me astrong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night. 

The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitoryhushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easysupremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did notache--he passed by the unquiet. 

The drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or under-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead ofstupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought--to reveriepeculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, theirbugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination wasroused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. Withscorn she looked on Matter, her mate--"Rise!" she said. "Sluggard!this night I will have _my_ will; nor shalt thou prevail. "

"Look forth and view the night!" was her cry; and when I lifted theheavy blind from the casement close at hand--with her own royalgesture, she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep andsplendid. 

To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits, the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me toleave this den and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory. 

She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight. Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleysall silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin--thatbasin I knew, and beside which I had often stood--deep-set in thetree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy, rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked, sentinelled: the place could not be entered. 

Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, Imechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lying still--excited from head to foot--what could I do better than dress?

The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, noadmission to the park?

The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending tothe circumstance, a gap in the paling--one stake broken down: I nowsaw this gap again in recollection--saw it very plainly--the narrow, irregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, plantedorderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through thataperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but Ithought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, atthis hour the whole park would be mine--the moonlight, midnight park!

How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quietbreathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? Ifelt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: whathindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, itslarge white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct. 

As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creakinghinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air couldnot be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will thedormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever aboard is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhatas I descend, but not much:--I am in the carré. 

The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the otherhand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to mythought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, andfor me, filled with spectral and intolerable Memories, laid miserableamongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerfulvista, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon thestreet. 

Hush!--the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of thisconvent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum ofthe last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a soundlike bells or like a band--a sound where sweetness, where victory, where mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen toit alone by the rushy basin! Let me go--oh, let me go! What hinders, what does not aid freedom?

There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, myshawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochère; there is nokey to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be openedfrom the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselesslywithdrawn. Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields withpropitious facility. I wonder as that portal seems almostspontaneously to unclose--I wonder as I cross the threshold and stepon the paved street, wonder at the strange ease with which this prisonhas been forced. It seems as if I had been pioneered invisibly, as ifsome dissolving force had gone before me: for myself, I have scarcemade an effort. 

Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooingsummer night of which I mused; I see its moon over me; I feel its dewin the air. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: soclose under the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemnpeace is not what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face ofthat sky bears the aspect of a world's death. The park also will becalm--I know, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere--yet let me seekthe park. 

I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial and royalHaute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it washushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bellmusic came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like astrong tide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement gathered, chimes pealed--to what was I coming? Entering onthe level of a Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness ofmagic, plunged amidst a gay, living, joyous crowd. 

Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seemsabroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her ownflambeaux, beholds her own splendour--gay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see evenscores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. Butwhere is the park?--I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glarethe park must be shadowy and calm--_there_, at least, are neithertorches, lamps, nor crowd?

I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled withknown faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; thespirited horses fretted in their curbed ardour. I saw the occupants ofthat carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know, folded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in thatmotley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count deBassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely andcheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo ofher beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on hercountenance of joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered tonote the gala elegance of what she wore; I know only that the draperyfloating about her was all white and light and bridal; seated oppositeto her I saw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspecthad caught its lustre--the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamedfirst out of his. 

It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched themalight (carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipatedsplendours. Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, wasspanned by a flaming arch built of massed stars; and, following themcautiously beneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?

In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkledwith coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby andgolden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but of strangest architectural wealth--of altar and of temple, ofpyramid, obelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and thesymbols of Egypt teemed throughout the park of Villette. 

No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine--the key of themystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled--no matter that I quicklyrecognised the material of these solemn fragments--the timber, thepaint, and the pasteboard--these inevitable discoveries failed toquite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. Nomatter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête--afête of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though ithad opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour nearmidnight. 

In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fateof Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights andliberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, ifnot wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets--a bustle--arunning to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting, some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even alittle of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the oldBasse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart, holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a certain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour ofthe said patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory--themorning being given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, theevening devoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such asthese I now saw. 

While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column--while fathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at theclose of which was couched a sphinx--I lost sight of the party which, from the middle of the great square, I had followed--or, rather, theyvanished like a group of apparitions. On this whole scene wasimpressed a dream-like character: every shape was wavering, everymovement floating, every voice echo-like--half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina and her friends being gone, I scarce could avouchthat I had really seen them; nor did I miss them as guides through thechaos, far less regret them as protectors amidst the night. 

That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half thepeasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and thedecent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. Mystraw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and longcalico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took theprecaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with asupplementary ribbon--and then I felt safe as if masked. 

Safe I passed down the avenues--safe I mixed with the crowd where itwas deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I took a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air--the swellof sound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happinessor Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now--I scorned Despair. 

My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its cleardepth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, withthe passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, andhurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed tocome on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moonglassing therein her pearly front. 

I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing itdirect: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me downthis alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees whichframed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a gladeto the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heavenwere to open--such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above theplain of Bethlehem, on the night of glad tidings. 

The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on fast-strengthening pinions--there swept through these shades so full astorm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I think I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me, unnumbered; instruments varied and countless--bugle, horn, and trumpetI knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves. 

The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followedits retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building--a sort of kiosknear the park's centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gatheredto a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, awild Jäger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood, had but enhanced the sounds and their impression. 

Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: someof their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, theflowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about theirdecorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering sound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladiesoccupied the little light park-chairs, and behind and beside themstood guardian gentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up ofcitizens, plebeians and police. 

In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself thesilent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the shortpetticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe, the velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life andjoy, too, it suited me to be alone--quite alone. Having neither wishnor power to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my stationwas on the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but couldsee little. 

"Mademoiselle is not well placed, " said a voice at my elbow. Who daredaccost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, ratherto repel than to reply. I saw a man--a burgher--an entire stranger, asI deemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certaintradesman--a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette withits books and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for theexcessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of hismanner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitaryself, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil, sometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome littleexchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was anintelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; thethought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature boreaffinity to a part of M. Emanuel's (whom he knew well, and whom I hadoften seen sitting on Miret's counter, turning over the currentmonth's publications); and it was in this affinity I read theexplanation of that conciliatory feeling with which I instinctivelyregarded him. 

Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-foldedshawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making away for me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. Hecarried his disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured me a chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are by no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest instation, the least polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find nothing strange in my being here alone; only a reasonfor extending to me, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficientattention. Having secured me a place and a seat, he withdrew withoutasking a question, without obtruding a remark, without adding asuperfluous word. No wonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take hiscigar and his lounge, and to read his feuilleton in M. Miret's shop--the two must have suited. 

I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance andmy worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of afamiliar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and deBassompierres. Within reach of my hand--had I chosen to extend it--sata figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leavesseemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, beingforest-green. My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leanedforward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. Theywere too near; having been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I felt uneasy at this close vicinage of intimate acquaintance. 

It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, andspeaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said, --"I wonder what mysteady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish wehad brought her, she would have enjoyed it much. "

"So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is apity but we had asked her, " rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, "Ilike to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content. "

Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in theirremembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which haddriven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless andreckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mindto bend over the elders' shoulders, and answer their goodness with thethanks of my eyes. M. De Bassompierre did not well know _me_, butI knew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all itsplain sincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I might have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turnedwith one of his stately firm movements, so different from those, of asharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, ahundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divideits scrutiny--why then did he concentrate all on me--oppressing mewith the whole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he_would_ look, did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn onhis chair, rest his elbow on its back, and study me leisurely? Hecould not see my face, I held it down; surely, he _could_ notrecognise me: I stooped, I turned, I _would_ not be known. Herose, by some means he contrived to approach, in two minutes he wouldhave had my secret: my identity would have been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful hands. There was but one way toevade or to check him. I implied, by a sort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone; after that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle of Lucy incensed: not allthat was grand, or good, or kind in him (and Lucy felt the fullamount) should have kept her quite tame, or absolutely inoffensive andshadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He shook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did he again turn or disturbme by a glance, except indeed for one single instant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole my way--speaking what somehowstilled my heart like "the south-wind quieting the earth. " Graham'sthoughts of me were not entirely those of a frozen indifference, afterall. I believe in that goodly mansion, his heart, he kept one littleplace under the sky-lights where Lucy might have entertainment, if shechose to call. It was not so handsome as the chambers where he lodgedhis male friends; it was not like the hall where he accommodated hisphilanthropy, or the library where he treasured his science, stillless did it resemble the pavilion where his marriage feast wassplendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and equal kindness, heproved to me that he kept one little closet, over the door of whichwas written "Lucy's Room. " I kept a place for him, too--a place ofwhich I never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think itwas like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I carried it foldedin the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold andconstriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse mighthave magnified it into a tabernacle for a host. 

Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity;this dangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched myopportunity, rose, and stole away. He might think, he might evenbelieve that Lucy was contained within that shawl, and sheltered underthat hat; he never could be certain, for he did not see my face. 

Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I nothad enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish forsafety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the schooldormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever coulddistract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night's drama was butbegun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody andturfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidentsunlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding toldme as much. 

Straying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I wasbrought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or toweringsingly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave ita more scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and somewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough tosoothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Herehad chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, lateas was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom ithad not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng. 

Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem, lifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with aseat--a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned toone, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession ofthis site standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circlewas a lady, holding by the hand a little girl. 

When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herselfround on her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flingingherself from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. Theseperverse movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of acharacter fearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appearedthe child's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdownboa, the white bonnet--the whole holiday toilette, in short, was thegala garb of a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, DésiréeBeck--and Désirée Beck it was--she, or an imp in her likeness. 

I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but suchhyperbole would have been premature; discovery was destined to risemore than one degree, ere it reached its climax. 

On whose hand could the amiable Désirée swing thus selfishly, whoseglove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain withimpunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trampleinsolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother?And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet--there, fresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant--there stood Madame Beck. 

Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in hercrib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of thejust, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of theRue Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture "Meess Lucie"otherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our "ébats" inthe fête-blazing park at midnight!

The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quitejustifiable wont. I remembered now I had heard it said among theteachers--though without at the time particularly noticing the gossip--that often, when we thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, shewas gone, full-dressed, to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, orballs. Madame had no sort of taste for a monastic life, and took care--largely, though discreetly--to season her existence with a relish ofthe world. 

Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I was not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M. Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair--a calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance Icould not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts ofcharacter and of countenance, something there still was which recalleda face--mobile, fervent, feeling--a face changeable, now clouded, andnow alight--a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, butwhere my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and inglow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs ofgenius--that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, thething, the spirit, and the secret itself--I could never tell. Yes--this Josef Emanuel--this man of peace--reminded me of his ardentbrother. 

Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. Thisthird person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too wasstooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the mostconspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was PèreSilas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in thepriest's presence at this fête. This was not considered a show ofVanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Churchpatronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests inthe park that night. 

Père Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rusticbench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was--bearing noshape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, andfeatures, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, youcould almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung atrandom on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced onclear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight, nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyesof the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more witch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was indeedno corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon someaggravation in the clamorous petition of Désirée Beck to her mother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly fetchedher a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane. 

There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Père Silas--the wholeconjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did megood. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, ordismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;but, as yet, I was not dead. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

Fascinated as by a basilisk with three heads, I could not leave thisclique; the ground near them seemed to hold my feet. The canopy ofentwined trees held out shadow, the night whispered a pledge ofprotection, and an officious lamp flashed just one beam to show me anobscure, safe seat, and then vanished. Let me now briefly tell thereader all that, during the past dark fortnight, I have been silentlygathering from Rumour, respecting the origin and the object of M. Emanuel's departure. The tale is short, and not new: its alpha isMammon, and its omega Interest. 

If Madame Walravens was hideous as a Hindoo idol, she seemed also topossess, in the estimation of these her votaries, an idol'sconsequence. The fact was, she had been rich--very rich; and though, for the present, without the command of money, she was likely one dayto be rich again. At Basseterre, in Guadaloupe, she possessed a largeestate, received in dowry on her marriage sixty years ago, sequesteredsince her husband's failure; but now, it was supposed, cleared ofclaim, and, if duly looked after by a competent agent of integrity, considered capable of being made, in a few years, largely productive. 

Père Silas took an interest in this prospective improvement for thesake of religion and the church, whereof Magliore Walravens was adevout daughter. Madame Beck, distantly related to the hunchback andknowing her to be without family of her own, had long brooded overcontingencies with a mother's calculating forethought, and, harshlytreated as she was by Madame Walravens, never ceased to court her forinterest's sake. Madame Beck and the priest were thus, for moneyreasons, equally and sincerely interested in the nursing of the WestIndian estate. 

But the distance was great, and the climate hazardous. The competentand upright agent wanted, must be a devoted man. Just such a man hadMadame Walravens retained for twenty years in her service, blightinghis life, and then living on him, like an old fungus; such a man hadPère Silas trained, taught, and bound to him by the ties of gratitude, habit, and belief. Such a man Madame Beck knew, and could in somemeasure influence. "My pupil, " said Père Silas, "if he remains inEurope, runs risk of apostacy, for he has become entangled with aheretic. " Madame Beck made also her private comment, and preferred inher own breast her secret reason for desiring expatriation. The thingshe could not obtain, she desired not another to win: rather would shedestroy it. As to Madame Walravens, she wanted her money and her land, and knew Paul, if he liked, could make the best and faithfulleststeward: so the three self-seekers banded and beset the one unselfish. They reasoned, they appealed, they implored; on his mercy they castthemselves, into his hands they confidingly thrust their interests. They asked but two or three years of devotion--after that, he shouldlive for himself: one of the number, perhaps, wished that in themeantime he might die. 

No living being ever humbly laid his advantage at M. Emanuel's feet, or confidingly put it into his hands, that he spurned the trust orrepulsed the repository. What might be his private pain or inwardreluctance to leave Europe--what his calculations for his own future--none asked, or knew, or reported. All this was a blank to me. Hisconferences with his confessor I might guess; the part duty andreligion were made to play in the persuasions used, I mightconjecture. He was gone, and had made no sign. There my knowledgeclosed. 

 * * * * *

With my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands, I sat amidstgrouped tree-stems and branching brushwood. Whatever talk passedamongst my neighbours, I might hear, if I would; I was near enough;but for some time, there was scarce motive to attend. They gossipedabout the dresses, the music, the illuminations, the fine night. Ilistened to hear them say, "It is calm weather for _his_ voyage;the _Antigua_" (his ship) "will sail prosperously. " No suchremark fell; neither the _Antigua_, nor her course, nor herpassenger were named. 

Perhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame Walravens morethan it did me; she appeared restless, turning her head now to thisside, now that, looking through the trees, and among the crowd, as ifexpectant of an arrival and impatient of delay. "Où sont-ils? Pourquoine viennent-ils?" I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, asif determined to have an answer to her question--which hitherto noneseemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase--a phrase brief enough, simple enough, but it sent a shock through me--"Messieurs etmesdames, " said she, "où donc est Justine Marie?"

"Justine Marie!" What was this? Justine Marie--the dead nun--where wasshe? Why, in her grave, Madame Walravens--what can you want with her?You shall go to her, but she shall not come to you. 

Thus _I_ should have answered, had the response lain with me, butnobody seemed to be of my mind; nobody seemed surprised, startled, orat a loss. The quietest commonplace answer met the strange, the dead-disturbing, the Witch-of-Endor query of the hunchback. 

"Justine Marie, " said one, "is coming; she is in the kiosk; she willbe here presently. "

Out of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat--chat itstill remained, easy, desultory, familiar gossip. Hint, allusion, comment, went round the circle, but all so broken, so dependent onreferences to persons not named, or circumstances not defined, thatlisten as intently as I would--and I _did_ listen _now_ witha fated interest--I could make out no more than that some scheme wason foot, in which this ghostly Justine Marie--dead or alive--wasconcerned. This family-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for somereason; there seemed question of a marriage, of a fortune--for whom Icould not quite make out-perhaps for Victor Kint, perhaps for JosefEmanuel--both were bachelors. Once I thought the hints and jestsrained upon a young fair-haired foreigner of the party, whom theycalled Heinrich Mühler. Amidst all the badinage, Madame Walravensstill obtruded from time to time, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; herimpatience being diverted only by an implacable surveillance ofDésirée, who could not stir but the old woman menaced her with herstaff. 

"La voilà!" suddenly cried one of the gentlemen, "voilà Justine Mariequi arrive!"

This moment was for me peculiar. I called up to memory the picturednun on the panel; present to my mind was the sad love-story; I saw inthought the vision of the garret, the apparition of the alley, thestrange birth of the berceau; I underwent a presentiment of discovery, a strong conviction of coming disclosure. Ah! when imagination onceruns riot where do we stop? What winter tree so bare and branchless--what way-side, hedge-munching animal so humble, that Fancy, a passingcloud, and a struggling moonbeam, will not clothe it in spirituality, and make of it a phantom?

With solemn force pressed on my heart, the expectation of mysterybreaking up: hitherto I had seen this spectre only through a glassdarkly; now was I to behold it face to face. I leaned forward; Ilooked. 

"She comes!" cried Josef Emanuel. 

The circle opened as if opening to admit a new and welcome member. Atthis instant a torch chanced to be carried past; its blaze aided thepale moon in doing justice to the crisis, in lighting to perfectionthe dénouement pressing on. Surely those near me must have felt somelittle of the anxiety I felt, in degree so unmeted. Of that group thecoolest must have "held his breath for a time!" As for me, my lifestood still. 

It is over. The moment and the nun are come. The crisis and therevelation are passed by. 

The flambeau glares still within a yard, held up in a park-keeper'shand; its long eager tongue of flame almost licks the figure of theExpected--there--where she stands full in my sight. What is she like?What does she wear? How does she look? Who is she?

There are many masks in the park to-night, and as the hour wears late, so strange a feeling of revelry and mystery begins to spread abroad, that scarce would you discredit me, reader, were I to say that she islike the nun of the attic, that she wears black skirts and white head-clothes, that she looks the resurrection of the flesh, and that she isa risen ghost. 

All falsities--all figments! We will not deal in this gear. Let us behonest, and cut, as heretofore, from the homely web of truth. 

_Homely_, though, is an ill-chosen word. What I see is notprecisely homely. A girl of Villette stands there--a girl fresh fromher pensionnat. She is very comely, with the beauty indigenous to thiscountry. She looks well-nourished, fair, and fat of flesh. Her cheeksare round, her eyes good; her hair is abundant. She is handsomelydressed. She is not alone; her escort consists of three persons--twobeing elderly; these she addresses as "Mon Oncle" and "Ma Tante. " Shelaughs, she chats; good-humoured, buxom, and blooming, she looks, atall points, the bourgeoise belle. 

"So much for Justine Marie;" so much for ghosts and mystery: not thatthis last was solved--this girl certainly is not my nun: what I saw inthe garret and garden must have been taller by a span. 

We have looked at the city belle; we have cursorily glanced at therespectable old uncle and aunt. Have we a stray glance to give to thethird member of this company? Can we spare him a moment's notice? Weought to distinguish him so far, reader; he has claims on us; we donot now meet him for the first time. I clasped my hands very hard, andI drew my breath very deep: I held in the cry, I devoured theejaculation, I forbade the start, I spoke and I stirred no more than astone; but I knew what I looked on; through the dimness left in myeyes by many nights' weeping, I knew him. They said he was to sail bythe _Antigua_. Madame Beck said so. She lied, or she had utteredwhat was once truth, and failed to contradict it when it became false. The _Antigua_ was gone, and there stood Paul Emanuel. 

Was I glad? A huge load left me. Was it a fact to warrant joy? I knownot. Ask first what were the circumstances attendant on this respite?How far did this delay concern _me?_ Were there not those whom itmight touch more nearly?

After all, who may this young girl, this Justine Marie, be? Not astranger, reader; she is known to me by sight; she visits at the RueFossette: she is often of Madame Beck's Sunday parties. She is arelation of both the Becks and Walravens; she derives her baptismalname from the sainted nun who would have been her aunt had she lived;her patronymic is Sauveur; she is an heiress and an orphan, and M. Emanuel is her guardian; some say her godfather. 

The family junta wish this heiress to be married to one of their band--which is it? Vital question--which is it?

I felt very glad now, that the drug administered in the sweet draughthad filled me with a possession which made bed and chamberintolerable. I always, through my whole life, liked to penetrate tothe real truth; I like seeking the goddess in her temple, and handlingthe veil, and daring the dread glance. O Titaness among deities! thecovered outline of thine aspect sickens often through its uncertainty, but define to us one trait, show us one lineament, clear in awfulsincerity; we may gasp in untold terror, but with that gasp we drinkin a breath of thy divinity; our heart shakes, and its currents swaylike rivers lifted by earthquake, but we have swallowed strength. Tosee and know the worst is to take from Fear her main advantage. 

The Walravens' party, augmented in numbers, now became very gay. Thegentlemen fetched refreshments from the kiosk, all sat down on theturf under the trees; they drank healths and sentiments; they laughed, they jested. M. Emanuel underwent some raillery, half good-humoured, half, I thought, malicious, especially on Madame Beck's part. I soongathered that his voyage had been temporarily deferred of his ownwill, without the concurrence, even against the advice, of hisfriends; he had let the _Antigua_ go, and had taken his berth inthe _Paul et Virginie_, appointed to sail a fortnight later. Itwas his reason for this resolve which they teased him to assign, andwhich he would only vaguely indicate as "the settlement of a littlepiece of business which he had set his heart upon. " What _was_this business? Nobody knew. Yes, there was one who seemed partly, atleast, in his confidence; a meaning look passed between him andJustine Marie. "La petite va m'aider--n'est-ce pas?" said he. Theanswer was prompt enough, God knows?

"Mais oui, je vous aiderai de tout mon coeur. Vous ferez de moi toutce que vous voudrez, mon parrain. "

And this dear "parrain" took her hand and lifted it to his gratefullips. Upon which demonstration, I saw the light-complexioned youngTeuton, Heinrich Mühler, grow restless, as if he did not like it. Heeven grumbled a few words, whereat M. Emanuel actually laughed in hisface, and with the ruthless triumph of the assured conqueror, he drewhis ward nearer to him. 

M. Emanuel was indeed very joyous that night. He seemed not one whitsubdued by the change of scene and action impending. He was the truelife of the party; a little despotic, perhaps, determined to be chiefin mirth, as well as in labour, yet from moment to moment provingindisputably his right of leadership. His was the wittiest word, thepleasantest anecdote, the frankest laugh. Restlessly active, after hismanner, he multiplied himself to wait on all; but oh! I saw which washis favourite. I saw at whose feet he lay on the turf, I saw whom hefolded carefully from the night air, whom he tended, watched, andcherished as the apple of his eye. 

Still, hint and raillery flew thick, and still I gathered that whileM. Paul should be absent, working for others, these others, not quiteungrateful, would guard for him the treasure he left in Europe. Lethim bring them an Indian fortune: they would give him in return ayoung bride and a rich inheritance. As for the saintly consecration, the vow of constancy, that was forgotten: the blooming and charmingPresent prevailed over the Past; and, at length, his nun was indeedburied. 

Thus it must be. The revelation was indeed come. Presentiment had notbeen mistaken in her impulse: there is a kind of presentiment whichnever _is_ mistaken; it was I who had for a moment miscalculated;not seeing the true bearing of the oracle, I had thought she mutteredof vision when, in truth, her prediction touched reality. 

I might have paused longer upon what I saw; I might have deliberatedere I drew inferences. Some, perhaps, would have held the premisesdoubtful, the proofs insufficient; some slow sceptics would haveincredulously examined ere they conclusively accepted the project of amarriage between a poor and unselfish man of forty, and his wealthyward of eighteen; but far from me such shifts and palliatives, farfrom me such temporary evasion of the actual, such coward fleeing fromthe dread, the swift-footed, the all-overtaking Fact, such feeblesuspense of submission to her the sole sovereign, such paltering andfaltering resistance to the Power whose errand is to march conqueringand to conquer, such traitor defection from the TRUTH. 

No. I hastened to accept the whole plan. I extended my grasp and tookit all in. I gathered it to me with a sort of rage of haste, andfolded it round me, as the soldier struck on the field folds hiscolours about his breast. I invoked Conviction to nail upon me thecertainty, abhorred while embraced, to fix it with the strongestspikes her strongest strokes could drive; and when the iron hadentered well my soul, I stood up, as I thought, renovated. 

In my infatuation, I said, "Truth, you are a good mistress to yourfaithful servants! While a Lie pressed me, how I suffered! Even whenthe Falsehood was still sweet, still flattering to the fancy, and warmto the feelings, it wasted me with hourly torment. The persuasion thataffection was won could not be divorced from the dread that, byanother turn of the wheel, it might be lost. Truth stripped awayFalsehood, and Flattery, and Expectancy, and here I stand--free!"

Nothing remained now but to take my freedom to my chamber, to carry itwith me to my bed and see what I could make of it. The play was notyet, indeed, quite played out. I might have waited and watched longerthat love-scene under the trees, that sylvan courtship. Had there beennothing of love in the demonstration, my Fancy in this hour was sogenerous, so creative, she could have modelled for it the most salientlineaments, and given it the deepest life and highest colour ofpassion. But I _would_ not look; I had fixed my resolve, but Iwould not violate my nature. And then--something tore me so cruellyunder my shawl, something so dug into my side, a vulture so strong inbeak and talon, I must be alone to grapple with it. I think I neverfelt jealousy till now. This was not like enduring the endearments ofDr. John and Paulina, against which while I sealed my eyes and myears, while I withdrew thence my thoughts, my sense of harmony stillacknowledged in it a charm. This was an outrage. The love born ofbeauty was not mine; I had nothing in common with it: I could not dareto meddle with it, but another love, venturing diffidently into lifeafter long acquaintance, furnace-tried by pain, stamped by constancy, consolidated by affection's pure and durable alloy, submitted byintellect to intellect's own tests, and finally wrought up, by his ownprocess, to his own unflawed completeness, this Love that laughed atPassion, his fast frenzies and his hot and hurried extinction, in_this_ Love I had a vested interest; and whatever tended eitherto its culture or its destruction, I could not view impassibly. 

I turned from the group of trees and the "merrie companie" in itsshade. Midnight was long past; the concert was over, the crowds werethinning. I followed the ebb. Leaving the radiant park and well-litHaute-Ville (still well lit, this it seems was to be a "nuit blanche"in Villette), I sought the dim lower quarter. 

Dim I should not say, for the beauty of moonlight--forgotten in thepark--here once more flowed in upon perception. High she rode, andcalm and stainlessly she shone. The music and the mirth of the fête, the fire and bright hues of those lamps had out-done and out-shone herfor an hour, but now, again, her glory and her silence triumphed. Therival lamps were dying: she held her course like a white fate. Drum, trumpet, bugle, had uttered their clangour, and were forgotten; withpencil-ray she wrote on heaven and on earth records for archiveseverlasting. She and those stars seemed to me at once the types andwitnesses of truth all regnant. The night-sky lit her reign: like itsslow-wheeling progress, advanced her victory--that onward movementwhich has been, and is, and will be from eternity to eternity. 

These oil-twinkling streets are very still: I like them for theirlowliness and peace. Homeward-bound burghers pass me now and then, butthese companies are pedestrians, make little noise, and are soon gone. So well do I love Villette under her present aspect, not willinglywould I re-enter under a roof, but that I am bent on pursuing mystrange adventure to a successful close, and quietly regaining my bedin the great dormitory, before Madame Beck comes home. 

Only one street lies between me and the Rue Fossette; as I enter it, for the first time, the sound of a carriage tears up the deep peace ofthis quarter. It comes this way--comes very fast. How loud sounds itsrattle on the paved path! The street is narrow, and I keep carefullyto the causeway. The carriage thunders past, but what do I see, orfancy I see, as it rushes by? Surely something white fluttered fromthat window--surely a hand waved a handkerchief. Was that signal meantfor me? Am I known? Who could recognise me? That is not M. DeBassompierre's carriage, nor Mrs. Bretton's; and besides, neither theHôtel Crécy nor the château of La Terrasse lies in that direction. Well, I have no time for conjecture; I must hurry home. 

Gaining the Rue Fossette, reaching the pensionnat, all there wasstill; no fiacre had yet arrived with Madame and Désirée. I had leftthe great door ajar; should I find it thus? Perhaps the wind or someother accident may have thrown it to with sufficient force to startthe spring-bolt? In that case, hopeless became admission; my adventuremust issue in catastrophe. I lightly pushed the heavy leaf; would ityield?

Yes. As soundless, as unresisting, as if some propitious genius hadwaited on a sesame-charm, in the vestibule within. Entering with batedbreath, quietly making all fast, shoelessly mounting the staircase, Isought the dormitory, and reached my couch. 

 * * * * *

Ay! I reached it, and once more drew a free inspiration. The nextmoment, I almost shrieked--almost, but not quite, thank Heaven!

Throughout the dormitory, throughout the house, there reigned at thishour the stillness of death. All slept, and in such hush, it seemedthat none dreamed. Stretched on the nineteen beds lay nineteen forms, at full-length and motionless. On mine--the twentieth couch--nothing_ought_ to have lain: I had left it void, and void should havefound it. What, then; do I see between the half-drawn curtains? Whatdark, usurping shape, supine, long, and strange? Is it a robber whohas made his way through the open street-door, and lies there in wait?It looks very black, I think it looks--not human. Can it be awandering dog that has come in from the street and crept and nestledhither? Will it spring, will it leap out if I approach? Approach Imust. Courage! One step!--

My head reeled, for by the faint night-lamp, I saw stretched on my bedthe old phantom--the NUN. 

A cry at this moment might have ruined me. Be the spectacle what itmight, I could afford neither consternation, scream, nor swoon. Besides, I was not overcome. Tempered by late incidents, my nervesdisdained hysteria. Warm from illuminations, and music, and throngingthousands, thoroughly lashed up by a new scourge, I defied spectra. Ina moment, without exclamation, I had rushed on the haunted couch;nothing leaped out, or sprung, or stirred; all the movement was mine, so was all the life, the reality, the substance, the force; as myinstinct felt. I tore her up--the incubus! I held her on high--thegoblin! I shook her loose--the mystery! And down she fell--down allaround me--down in shreds and fragments--and I trode upon her. 

Here again--behold the branchless tree, the unstabled Rosinante; thefilm of cloud, the flicker of moonshine. The long nun proved a longbolster dressed in a long black stole, and artfully invested with awhite veil. The garments in very truth, strange as it may seem, weregenuine nun's garments, and by some hand they had been disposed with aview to illusion. Whence came these vestments? Who contrived thisartifice? These questions still remained. To the head-bandage waspinned a slip of paper: it bore in pencil these mocking words--

"The nun of the attic bequeaths to Lucy Snowe her wardrobe. She willbe seen in the Rue Fossette no more. "

And what and who was she that had haunted me? She, I had actually seenthree times. Not a woman of my acquaintance had the stature of thatghost. She was not of a female height. Not to any man I knew could themachination, for a moment, be attributed. 

Still mystified beyond expression, but as thoroughly, as suddenly, relieved from all sense of the spectral and unearthly; scorning alsoto wear out my brain with the fret of a trivial though insolubleriddle, I just bundled together stole, veil, and bandages, thrust thembeneath my pillow, lay down, listened till I heard the wheels ofMadame's home-returning fiacre, then turned, and worn out by manynights' vigils, conquered, too, perhaps, by the now reacting narcotic, I deeply slept. 

CHAPTER XL. 

THE HAPPY PAIR. 

The day succeeding this remarkable Midsummer night, proved no commonday. I do not mean that it brought signs in heaven above, or portentson the earth beneath; nor do I allude to meteorological phenomena, tostorm, flood, or whirlwind. On the contrary: the sun rose jocund, witha July face. Morning decked her beauty with rubies, and so filled herlap with roses, that they fell from her in showers, making her pathblush: the Hours woke fresh as nymphs, and emptying on the early hillstheir dew-vials, they stepped out dismantled of vapour: shadowless, azure, and glorious, they led the sun's steeds on a burning andunclouded course. 

In short, it was as fine a day as the finest summer could boast; but Idoubt whether I was not the sole inhabitant of the Rue Fossette, whocared or remembered to note this pleasant fact. Another thought busiedall other heads; a thought, indeed, which had its share in mymeditations; but this master consideration, not possessing for me soentire a novelty, so overwhelming a suddenness, especially so dense amystery, as it offered to the majority of my co-speculators thereon, left me somewhat more open than the rest to any collateral observationor impression. 

Still, while walking in the garden, feeling the sunshine, and markingthe blooming and growing plants, I pondered the same subject the wholehouse discussed. 

What subject?

Merely this. When matins came to be said, there was a place vacant inthe first rank of boarders. When breakfast was served, there remaineda coffee-cup unclaimed. When the housemaid made the beds, she found inone, a bolster laid lengthwise, clad in a cap and night-gown; and whenGinevra Fanshawe's music-mistress came early, as usual, to give themorning lesson, that accomplished and promising young person, herpupil, failed utterly to be forthcoming. 

High and low was Miss Fanshawe sought; through length and breadth wasthe house ransacked; vainly; not a trace, not an indication, not somuch as a scrap of a billet rewarded the search; the nymph wasvanished, engulfed in the past night, like a shooting star swallowedup by darkness. 

Deep was the dismay of surveillante teachers, deeper the horror of thedefaulting directress. Never had I seen Madame Beck so pale or soappalled. Here was a blow struck at her tender part, her weak side;here was damage done to her interest. How, too, had the untoward eventhappened? By what outlet had the fugitive taken wing? Not a casementwas found unfastened, not a pane of glass broken; all the doors werebolted secure. Never to this day has Madame Beck obtained satisfactionon this point, nor indeed has anybody else concerned, save andexcepting one, Lucy Snowe, who could not forget how, to facilitate acertain enterprise, a certain great door had been drawn softly to itslintel, closed, indeed, but neither bolted nor secure. The thunderingcarriage-and-pair encountered were now likewise recalled, as well asthat puzzling signal, the waved handkerchief. 

From these premises, and one or two others, inaccessible to any butmyself, I could draw but one inference. It was a case of elopement. Morally certain on this head, and seeing Madame Beck's profoundembarrassment, I at last communicated my conviction. Having alluded toM. De Hamal's suit, I found, as I expected, that Madame Beck wasperfectly au fait to that affair. She had long since discussed it withMrs. Cholmondeley, and laid her own responsibility in the business onthat lady's shoulders. To Mrs. Cholmondeley and M. De Bassompierre shenow had recourse. 

We found that the Hôtel Crécy was already alive to what had happened. Ginevra had written to her cousin Paulina, vaguely signifying hymenealintentions; communications had been received from the family of deHamal; M. De Bassompierre was on the track of the fugitives. Heovertook them too late. 

In the course of the week, the post brought me a note. I may as welltranscribe it; it contains explanation on more than one point:--

'DEAR OLD TIM "(short for Timon), --" I am off you see--gone like ashot. Alfred and I intended to be married in this way almost from thefirst; we never meant to be spliced in the humdrum way of otherpeople; Alfred has too much spirit for that, and so have I--Dieumerci! Do you know, Alfred, who used to call you 'the dragon, ' hasseen so much of you during the last few months, that he begins to feelquite friendly towards you. He hopes you won't miss him now that hehas gone; he begs to apologize for any little trouble he may havegiven you. He is afraid he rather inconvenienced you once when he cameupon you in the grenier, just as you were reading a letter seeminglyof the most special interest; but he could not resist the temptationto give you a start, you appeared so wonderfully taken up with yourcorrespondent. En revanche, he says you once frightened him by rushingin for a dress or a shawl, or some other chiffon, at the moment whenhe had struck a light, and was going to take a quiet whiff of hiscigar, while waiting for me. 

"Do you begin to comprehend by this time that M. Le Comte de Hamal wasthe nun of the attic, and that he came to see your humble servant? Iwill tell you how he managed it. You know he has the entrée of theAthénée, where two or three of his nephews, the sons of his eldestsister, Madame de Melcy, are students. You know the court of theAthénée is on the other side of the high wall bounding your walk, theallée défendue. Alfred can climb as well as he can dance or fence: hisamusement was to make the escalade of our pensionnat by mounting, first the wall; then--by the aid of that high tree overspreading thegrand berceau, and resting some of its boughs on the roof of the lowerbuildings of our premises--he managed to scale the first classe andthe grand salle. One night, by the way, he fell out of this tree, toredown some of the branches, nearly broke his own neck, and after all, in running away, got a terrible fright, and was nearly caught by twopeople, Madame Beck and M. Emanuel, he thinks, walking in the alley. From the grande salle the ascent is not difficult to the highest blockof building, finishing in the great garret. The skylight, you know, is, day and night, left half open for air; by the skylight he entered. Nearly a year ago I chanced to tell him our legend of the nun; thatsuggested his romantic idea of the spectral disguise, which I thinkyou must allow he has very cleverly carried out. 

"But for the nun's black gown and white veil, he would have beencaught again and again both by you and that tiger-Jesuit, M. Paul. Hethinks you both capital ghost-seers, and very brave. What I wonder atis, rather your secretiveness than your courage. How could you endurethe visitations of that long spectre, time after time, without cryingout, telling everybody, and rousing the whole house and neighbourhood?

"Oh, and how did you like the nun as a bed-fellow? _I_ dressedher up: didn't I do it well? Did you shriek when you saw her: I shouldhave gone mad; but then you have such nerves!--real iron and bend-leather! I believe you feel nothing. You haven't the samesensitiveness that a person of my constitution has. You seem to meinsensible both to pain and fear and grief. You are a real oldDiogenes. 

"Well, dear grandmother! and are you not mightily angry at mymoonlight flitting and run away match? I assure you it is excellentfun, and I did it partly to spite that minx, Paulina, and that bear, Dr. John: to show them that, with all their airs, I could get marriedas well as they. M. De Bassompierre was at first in a strange fumewith Alfred; he threatened a prosecution for 'détournement de mineur, 'and I know not what; he was so abominably in earnest, that I foundmyself forced to do a little bit of the melodramatic--go down on myknees, sob, cry, drench three pocket-handkerchiefs. Of course, 'mononcle' soon gave in; indeed, where was the use of making a fuss? I ammarried, and that's all about it. He still says our marriage is notlegal, because I am not of age, forsooth! As if that made anydifference! I am just as much married as if I were a hundred. However, we are to be married again, and I am to have a trousseau, and Mrs. Cholmondeley is going to superintend it; and there are some hopes thatM. De Bassompierre will give me a decent portion, which will be veryconvenient, as dear Alfred has nothing but his nobility, native andhereditary, and his pay. I only wish uncle would do thingsunconditionally, in a generous, gentleman-like fashion; he is sodisagreeable as to make the dowry depend on Alfred's giving hiswritten promise that he will never touch cards or dice from the day itis paid down. They accuse my angel of a tendency to play: I don't knowanything about that, but I _do_ know he is a dear, adorablecreature. 

"I cannot sufficiently extol the genius with which de Hamal managedour flight. How clever in him to select the night of the fête, whenMadame (for he knows her habits), as he said, would infallibly beabsent at the concert in the park. I suppose _you_ must have gonewith her. I watched you rise and leave the dormitory about eleveno'clock. How you returned alone, and on foot, I cannot conjecture. That surely was _you_ we met in the narrow old Rue St. Jean? Didyou see me wave my handkerchief from the carriage window?

"Adieu! Rejoice in my good luck: congratulate me on my supremehappiness, and believe me, dear cynic and misanthrope, yours, in thebest of health and spirits, GINEVRA LAURA DE HAMAL, née FANSHAWE. 

"P. S. --Remember, I am a countess now. Papa, mamma, and the girls athome, will be delighted to hear that. 'My daughter the Countess!' 'Mysister the Countess!' Bravo! Sounds rather better than Mrs. JohnBretton, hein?"

 * * * * *

In winding up Mistress Fanshawe's memoirs, the reader will no doubtexpect to hear that she came finally to bitter expiation of heryouthful levities. Of course, a large share of suffering lies inreserve for her future. 

A few words will embody my farther knowledge respecting her. 

I saw her towards the close of her honeymoon. She called on MadameBeck, and sent for me into the salon. She rushed into my armslaughing. She looked very blooming and beautiful: her curls werelonger, her cheeks rosier than ever: her white bonnet and her Flandersveil, her orange-flowers and her bride's dress, became her mightily. 

"I have got my portion!" she cried at once; (Ginevra ever stuck to thesubstantial; I always thought there was a good trading element in hercomposition, much as she scorned the "bourgeoise;") "and uncle deBassompierre is quite reconciled. I don't mind his calling Alfred a'nincompoop'--that's only his coarse Scotch breeding; and I believePaulina envies me, and Dr. John is wild with jealousy--fit to blow hisbrains out--and I'm so happy! I really think I've hardly anything leftto wish for--unless it be a carriage and an hotel, and, oh! I--mustintroduce you to 'mon mari. ' Alfred, come here!"

And Alfred appeared from the inner salon, where he was talking toMadame Beck, receiving the blended felicitations and reprimands ofthat lady. I was presented under my various names: the Dragon, Diogenes, and Timon. The young Colonel was very polite. He made me aprettily-turned, neatly-worded apology, about the ghost-visits, &c. , concluding with saying that "the best excuse for all his iniquitiesstood there!" pointing to his bride. 

And then the bride sent him back to Madame Beck, and she took me toherself, and proceeded literally to suffocate me with her unrestrainedspirits, her girlish, giddy, wild nonsense. She showed her ringexultingly; she called herself Madame la Comtesse de Hamal, and askedhow it sounded, a score of times. I said very little. I gave her onlythe crust and rind of my nature. No matter she expected of me nothingbetter--she knew me too well to look for compliments--my dry gibespleased her well enough and the more impassible and prosaic my mien, the more merrily she laughed. 

Soon after his marriage, M. De Hamal was persuaded to leave the armyas the surest way of weaning him from certain unprofitable associatesand habits; a post of attaché was procured for him, and he and hisyoung wife went abroad. I thought she would forget me now, but she didnot. For many years, she kept up a capricious, fitful sort ofcorrespondence. During the first year or two, it was only of herselfand Alfred she wrote; then, Alfred faded in the background; herselfand a certain, new comer prevailed; one Alfred Fanshawe deBassompierre de Hamal began to reign in his father's stead. There weregreat boastings about this personage, extravagant amplifications uponmiracles of precocity, mixed with vehement objurgations against thephlegmatic incredulity with which I received them. I didn't know "whatit was to be a mother;" "unfeeling thing that I was, the sensibilitiesof the maternal heart were Greek and Hebrew to me, " and so on. In duecourse of nature this young gentleman took his degrees in teething, measles, hooping-cough: that was a terrible time for me--the mamma'sletters became a perfect shout of affliction; never woman was so putupon by calamity: never human being stood in such need of sympathy. Iwas frightened at first, and wrote back pathetically; but I soon foundout there was more cry than wool in the business, and relapsed into mynatural cruel insensibility. As to the youthful sufferer, he weatheredeach storm like a hero. Five times was that youth "in articulomortis, " and five times did he miraculously revive. 

In the course of years there arose ominous murmurings against Alfredthe First; M. De Bassompierre had to be appealed to, debts had to bepaid, some of them of that dismal and dingy order called "debts ofhonour;" ignoble plaints and difficulties became frequent. Under everycloud, no matter what its nature, Ginevra, as of old, called outlustily for sympathy and aid. She had no notion of meeting anydistress single-handed. In some shape, from some quarter or other, shewas pretty sure to obtain her will, and so she got on--fighting thebattle of life by proxy, and, on the whole, suffering as little as anyhuman being I have ever known. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

FAUBOURG CLOTILDE. 

Must I, ere I close, render some account of that Freedom andRenovation which I won on the fête-night? Must I tell how I and thetwo stalwart companions I brought home from the illuminated park borethe test of intimate acquaintance?

I tried them the very next day. They had boasted their strength loudlywhen they reclaimed me from love and its bondage, but upon mydemanding deeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, someexperience of a relieved life--Freedom excused himself, as for thepresent impoverished and disabled to assist; and Renovation neverspoke; he had died in the night suddenly. 

I had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that conjecturemight have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain the oppressivehour by reminders of the distorting and discolouring magic ofjealousy. After a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought backcaptive to the old rack of suspense, tied down and strained anew. 

Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does hepurpose to come? Will this day--will the next hour bring him? or mustI again assay that corroding pain of long attent--that rude agony ofrupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at onceuprooting hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does theviolence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes herbarrier!

It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boardersand teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a longwalk into the country to take their goûter, or afternoon meal, at somefarm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained erethe _Paul et Virginie_ must sail, and I was clinging to my lastchance, as the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft orcable. 

There was some joiners' work to do in the first classe, some bench ordesk to repair; holidays were often turned to account for theperformance of these operations, which could not be executed when therooms were filled with pupils. As I sat solitary, purposing to adjournto the garden and leave the coast clear, but too listless to fulfil myown intent, I heard the workmen coming. 

Foreign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I believe itwould take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive a nail. While tyingon my bonnet, which had hitherto hung by its ribbons from my idlehand, I vaguely and momentarily wondered to hear the step of but one"ouvrier. " I noted, too--as captives in dungeons find sometimes drearyleisure to note the merest trifles--that this man wore shoes, and notsabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter, coming toinspect before he sent his journeymen. I threw round me my scarf. Headvanced; he opened the door; my back was towards it; I felt a littlethrill--a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed. Iturned, I stood in the supposed master-artisan's presence: lookingtowards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyesprinted upon my brain the picture of M. Paul. 

Hundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven bring to thesuppliant no fulfilment. Once haply in life, one golden gift fallsprone in the lap--one boon full and bright, perfect from Fruition'smint. 

M. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed to travel--asurtout, guarded with velvet; I thought him prepared for instantdeparture, and yet I had understood that two days were yet to runbefore the ship sailed. He looked well and cheerful. He looked kindand benign: he came in with eagerness; he was close to me in onesecond; he was all amity. It might be his bridegroom mood which thusbrightened him. Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sunshine withcloud. If this were my last moment with him, I would not waste it inforced, unnatural distance. I loved him well--too well not to smiteout of my path even Jealousy herself, when she would have obstructed akind farewell. A cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from hiseyes, would do me good, for all the span of life that remained to me;it would be comfort in the last strait of loneliness; I would take it--Iwould taste the elixir, and pride should not spill the cup. 

The interview would be short, of course: he would say to me just whathe had said to each of the assembled pupils; he would take and hold myhand two minutes; he would touch my cheek with his lips for the first, last, only time--and then--no more. Then, indeed, the final parting, then the wide separation, the great gulf I could not pass to go tohim--across which, haply, he would not glance, to remember me. 

He took my hand in one of his, with the other he put back my bonnet;he looked into my face, his luminous smile went out, his lipsexpressed something almost like the wordless language of a mother whofinds a child greatly and unexpectedly changed, broken with illness, or worn out by want. A check supervened. 

"Paul, Paul!" said a woman's hurried voice behind, "Paul, come intothe salon; I have yet a great many things to say to you--conversationfor the whole day--and so has Victor; and Josef is here. Come Paul, come to your friends. "

Madame Beck, brought to the spot by vigilance or an inscrutableinstinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself between me and M. Emanuel. 

"Come, Paul!" she reiterated, her eye grazing me with its hard raylike a steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman. I thought hereceded; I thought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now to feel what defied suppression, I cried--

"My heart will break!"

What I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of anotherfountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, thewhisper, "Trust me!" lifted a load, opened an outlet. With many a deepsob, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yetwith relief--I wept. 

"Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and itwill pass, " said the calm Madame Beck. 

To be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like beingleft to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply, harshly, and briefly--"Laissez-moi!" in the grim sound I felt a musicstrange, strong, but life-giving. 

"Laissez-moi!" he repeated, his nostrils opening, and his facialmuscles all quivering as he spoke. 

"But this will never do, " said Madame, with sternness. More sternlyrejoined her kinsman--

"Sortez d'ici!"

"I will send for Père Silas: on the spot I will send for him, " shethreatened pertinaciously. 

"Femme!" cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in hishighest and most excited key, "Femme! sortez à l'instant!"

He was roused, and I loved him in his wrath with a passion beyond whatI had yet felt. 

"What you do is wrong, " pursued Madame; "it is an act characteristicof men of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive, injudicious, inconsistent--a proceeding vexatious, and not estimablein the view of persons of steadier and more resolute character. "

"You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me, " said he, "butyou shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste, " he continued lessfiercely, "be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face, and relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends;in spite of your taunts, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Ofsacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by whatI see; it _must_ have and give solace. _Leave me!_"

This time, in the "_leave me_" there was an intonation so bitterand so imperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could forone moment delay obedience; but she stood firm; she gazed upon himdauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed as stone. She wasopening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul's face a quickrising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement;it did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave hishand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from theroom; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second. 

The flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told meto wipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from timeto time a stilling, solacing word. Ere long I sat beside him once moremyself--re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate; not friendless, not hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death. 

"It made you very sad then to lose your friend?" said he. 

"It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur, " I said. "All these weary daysI have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with thepossibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart withoutsaying farewell!"

"Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck--that you do not know me?Must I show and teach you my character? You _will_ have proofthat I can be a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will notlie still in mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proof is ready. I come to justify myself. "

"Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listennow. "

"Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distanceinto the town. I came on purpose to fetch you. "

Without questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or offering thesemblance of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet: I was ready. 

The route he took was by the boulevards: he several times made me sitdown on the seats stationed under the lime-trees; he did not ask if Iwas tired, but looked, and drew his own conclusions. 

"All these weary days, " said he, repeating my words, with a gentle, kindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips, and of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled, as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might _write_his language, I _spoke_ and always should speak it imperfectlyand hesitatingly. "'All these weary days' I have not for one hourforgotten you. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselvesthe sole faithful of God's creatures. On a very fervent and livingtruth to myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from anyquarter; but----look at me. ", I lifted my happy eyes: they _were_ happy now, or they would havebeen no interpreters of my heart. 

"Well, " said he, after some seconds' scrutiny, "there is no denyingthat signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the recordpainful?"

"Severely painful, " I said, with truth. "Withdraw her hand, Monsieur;I can bear its inscribing force no more. "

"Elle est toute pâle, " said he, speaking to himself; "cette figure-làme fait mal. "

"Ah! I am not pleasant to look at----?"

I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I neverremember the time when I had not a haunting dread of what might be thedegree of my outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the momentwith special force. 

A great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet eyes grewsuffused and glistening under their deep Spanish lashes: he startedup; "Let us walk on. "

"Do I displease your eyes _much_?" I took courage to urge: thepoint had its vital import for me. 

He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer whichsilenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knewwhat I was for _him_; and what I might be for the rest of theworld, I ceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stresson an opinion about appearance? I fear it might be; I fear it was; butin that case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own greatfear of displeasing--a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul. 

Whither we rambled, I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemedshort; the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of hisvoyage--he thought of staying away three years. On his return fromGuadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clearcourse; and what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence?he asked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to beindependent and keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped theidea?

"Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable meto put it in practice. "

"He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I shouldmiss him there too much--I should feel desolate--I should grow sad--?"

This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure. 

"Still, " said he, speaking low, "there is another objection to yourpresent residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it wouldnot be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission ofletters; and in the Rue Fossette--in short, our Catholic discipline incertain matters--though justifiable and expedient--might possibly, under peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication--perhapsabuse. "

"But if you write, " said I, "I _must_ have your letters; and I_will_ have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall notkeep them from me. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind ofdiscipline: Monsieur, I _will not_. "

"Doucement--doucement, " rejoined he; "we will contrive a plan; we haveour resources: soyez tranquille. "

So speaking, he paused. 

We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle ofa clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. Itwas before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul hadhalted. 

"I call here, " said he. 

He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened andentered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. Noservant appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshlyand tastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vinestrained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass. Silence reigned in this dwelling. 

Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon--verytiny, but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged likea blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered itscentre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth;there was a little couch, a little chiffonnière, the half-open, crimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain on the shelves; there wasa French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; therecess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand, bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowingin bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, andupon it a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. Thelattice of this room was open; the outer air breathing through, gavefreshness, the sweet violets lent fragrance. 

"Pretty, pretty place!" said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased. 

"Must we sit down here and wait?" I asked in a whisper, half awed bythe deep pervading hush. 

"We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell, " hereplied. 

"Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?" I inquired. 

"Yes, I dare, " said he, quietly. 

He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove andoven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A smallcupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware. 

"There is a coffee service of china in the salon, " said M. Paul, as Ilooked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, thecups and jugs to match. 

Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpseof two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more ledbelow, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door thanhad yet been opened. 

Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of thisdoor. He opened, put me in before him. 

"Voici!" he cried. 

I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, thoughbare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boardswere carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with an alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher'schair and table; behind them a tableau, On the walls hung two maps; inthe windows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was aminiature classe--complete, neat, pleasant. 

"It is a school then?" said I. "Who keeps it? I never heard of anestablishment in this faubourg. "

"Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses fordistribution in behalf of a friend of mine?" asked he, taking from hissurtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them intomy hand. I looked, I read--printed in fair characters:--

"Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe. "

 * * * * *

And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?

Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall tomemory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, andamazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered andwhirling, dim as a wheel fast spun. 

I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutessucceeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the experience of myearliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is theconsciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and overagain:--

"Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Didyou get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Isthere another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something. "

But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look, his attitude, are visible to me now. 

"How is it? I must know all--_all_, " I cried. 

The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, andI had fastened thereon, oblivious of all else. 

"Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days, " said he. "Poor old Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging aboutthree mortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker to charwoman. Lucy and Lucy's cot, the sole thoughts in hishead!"

I hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on hiscuff, and then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was hisforesight, his goodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, thatoverpowered me by their proved reality. It was the assurance of hissleepless interest which broke on me like a light from heaven; it washis--I will dare to say it--his fond, tender look, which now shook meindescribably. In the midst of all I forced myself to look at thepractical. 

"The trouble!" I cried, "and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?"

"Plenty of money!" said he heartily. "The disposal of my largeteaching connection put me in possession of a handsome sum with partof it I determined to give myself the richest treat that I _have_known or _shall_ know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hourday and night lately. I would not come near you, because I would notforestall it. Reserve is neither my virtue nor my vice. If I had putmyself into your power, and you had begun with your questions of lookand lip--Where have you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? Whatis your mystery?--my solitary first and last secret would presentlyhave unravelled itself in your lap. Now, " he pursued, "you shall livehere and have a school; you shall employ yourself while I am away; youshall think of me sometimes; you shall mind your health and happinessfor my sake, and when I come back--"

There he left a blank. 

I promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard andwillingly. "I will be your faithful steward, " I said; "I trust at yourcoming the account will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are_too_ good!"

In such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: theycould not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice, dissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gentlyraised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; Ipressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me hadbeen that hand's bounty; to offer homage was both a joy and a duty. 

 * * * * *

The afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shadedthe quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afootsince morning, he needed refreshment; he said I should offer himchocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out andordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the smallguéridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window underthe screening vines. With what shy joy i accepted my part as hostess, arranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest. 

This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourgwere round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, andfresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses, looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled underher smile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray ofpure love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and apale statue leaned over the play of waters. 

M. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated that it mixedharmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the musical sigh, inwhich light breeze, fountain and foliage intoned their lulling vesper:

Happy hour--stay one moment! droop those plumes, rest those wings;incline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy lightlinger; leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheerto that time which needs a ray in retrospect!

Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of freshsummer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formedthe whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and Itook a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whetherhis friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done--whether they had seen my house?

"Mon amie, " said he, "none knows what I have done save you and myself:the pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. Tospeak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement ofenjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides" (smiling)"I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I _could_ keep a secret. How often has she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve andneedful caution! How many times has she saucily insinuated that all myaffairs are the secret of Polichinelle!"

This was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhapson any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted, dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always hadit. 

Continuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was mylandlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me theseparticulars in writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things. 

The house was not M. Paul's--that I guessed: he was hardly the man tobecome a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absenceof the saving faculty; he could get, but not keep; he needed atreasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the Basse-Ville--a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding: "afriend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most respectful regardfor you. " And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was noneother than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in the park. Itseems M. Miret was, in his station, rich, as well as much respected, and possessed several houses in this faubourg; the rent was moderate, scarce half of what it would have been for a house of equal sizenearer the centre of Villette. 

"And then, " observed M. Paul, "should fortune not favour you, though Ithink she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in goodhands; M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year's rent youhave already in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, andherself. But now, what will you do for pupils?"

"I must distribute my prospectuses. "

"Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday. Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, theDemoiselles Miret? They are at your service. "

"Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It wouldbecome me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset tonumber aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they nevercome. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret's daughters. "

"Besides these, " pursued he, "another pupil offers, who will comedaily to take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will payhandsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur. "

What is in a name?--what in three words? Till this moment I hadlistened with living joy--I had answered with gleeful quickness; aname froze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not behidden, and indeed I scarce tried to hide it. 

"What now?" said M. Paul. 

"Nothing. "

"Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyesfade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell mewhat. "

I had nothing to tell. 

He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continuedsilent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated withperseverance, he waited with patience. 

"Justine Marie is a good girl, " said he, "docile and amiable; notquick--but you will like her. "

"I think not. I think she must not come here. "

Such was my speech. 

"Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there_is_ something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on PaulCarlos; tell him the grief. "

His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towardshim. 

"Do you know Marie Justine?" said he again. 

The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It didnot prostrate--no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heatthrough my veins--recalling an hour of quick pain, many days andnights of heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closelyas he had long twined his life in mine--far as had progressed, andnear as was achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation--the verysuggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard onlywith a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainfulresolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek couldhide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry. 

"I want to tell you something, " I said: "I want to tell you all. "

"Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who isyour friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!"

I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast Inarrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went backto the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught--why itwas given--its goading effect--how it had torn rest from under myhead, shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of avivid yet solemn fancy--a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near a deep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, themasques, the music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells sounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed, all Ihad recognised, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself:how I listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, in brief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither, truthful, literal, ardent, bitter. 

Still as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited me to proceed hespurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had halfdone, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercingglance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calmnor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his ownsystem of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think Ideserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I meritedseverity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious andunreasonable, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled, betraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty, I knew not till nowthat my nature had such a mood: he gathered me near his heart. I wasfull of faults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmostmutiny, he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressedmy ear:--

"Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first onearth. "

We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight--such moonlight asfell on Eden--shining through the shades of the Great Garden, andhaply gilding a path glorious for a step divine--a Presence nameless. Once in their lives some men and women go back to these first freshdays of our great Sire and Mother--taste that grand morning's dew--bathe in its sunrise. 

In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur hadalways been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter--how, with M. Paul's consent, she had been affianced for months to oneHeinrich Mühler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to bemarried in the course of a year. Some of M. Emanuel's relations andconnections would, indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, witha view to securing her fortune in the family; but to himself thescheme was repugnant, and the idea totally inadmissible. 

We reached Madame Beck's door. Jean Baptiste's clock tolled nine. Atthis hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at myside bent before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered mydestiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed. How different the look--how far otherwise the fate!

He deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have spread over me itsbeam like a banner. Once--unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh andstrange; the low stature, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, themanner, displeased me. Now, penetrated with his influence, and livingby his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness byheart--I preferred him before all humanity. 

We parted: he gave me his pledge, and then his farewell. We parted:the next day--he sailed. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

FINIS. 

Man cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines avain thing. Those years of absence! How had I sickened over theiranticipation! The woe they must bring seemed certain as death. I knewthe nature of their course: I never had doubt how it would harrow asit went. The juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load. Seeinghim draw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed soil--I, theprostrate votary--felt beforehand the annihilating craunch. 

Strange to say--strange, yet true, and owning many parallels in life'sexperience--that anticipatory craunch proved all--yes--nearly_all_ the torture. The great Juggernaut, in his great chariot, drew on lofty, loud, and sullen. He passed quietly, like a shadowsweeping the sky, at noon. Nothing but a chilling dimness was seen orfelt. I looked up. Chariot and demon charioteer were gone by; thevotary still lived. 

M. Emanuel was away three years. Reader, they were the three happiestyears of my life. Do you scout the paradox? Listen. I commenced myschool; I worked--I worked hard. I deemed myself the steward of hisproperty, and determined, God willing, to render a good account. Pupils came--burghers at first--a higher class ere long. About themiddle of the second year an unexpected chance threw into my hands anadditional hundred pounds: one day I received from England a lettercontaining that sum. It came from Mr. Marchmont, the cousin and heirof my dear and dead mistress. He was just recovering from a dangerousillness; the money was a peace-offering to his conscience, reproachinghim in the matter of, I know not what, papers or memoranda found afterhis kinswoman's death--naming or recommending Lucy Snowe. Mrs. Barretthad given him my address. How far his conscience had been sinnedagainst, I never inquired. I asked no questions, but took the cash andmade it useful. 

With this hundred pounds I ventured to take the house adjoining mine. I would not leave that which M. Paul had chosen, in which he had left, and where he expected again to find me. My externat became apensionnat; that also prospered. 

The secret of my success did not lie so much in myself, in anyendowment, any power of mine, as in a new state of circumstances, awonderfully changed life, a relieved heart. The spring which moved myenergies lay far away beyond seas, in an Indian isle. At parting, Ihad been left a legacy; such a thought for the present, such a hopefor the future, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, anenterprising, a patient and a brave course--I _could_ not flag. Few things shook me now; few things had importance to vex, intimidate, or depress me: most things pleased--mere trifles had a charm. 

Do not think that this genial flame sustained itself, or lived whollyon a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A generous providersupplied bounteous fuel. I was spared all chill, all stint; I was notsuffered to fear penury; I was not tried with suspense. By everyvessel he wrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in full-handed, full-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did notabridge, because he cared not to abridge. He sat down, he took pen andpaper, because he loved Lucy and had much to say to her; because hewas faithful and thoughtful, because he was tender and true. There wasno sham and no cheat, and no hollow unreal in him. Apology neverdropped her slippery oil on his lips--never proffered, by his pen, hercoward feints and paltry nullities: he would give neither a stone, noran excuse--neither a scorpion; nor a disappointment; his letters werereal food that nourished, living water that refreshed. 

And was I grateful? God knows! I believe that scarce a living being soremembered, so sustained, dealt with in kind so constant, honourableand noble, could be otherwise than grateful to the death. 

Adherent to his own religion (in him was not the stuff of which ismade the facile apostate), he freely left me my pure faith. He did nottease nor tempt. He said:--

"Remain a Protestant. My little English Puritan, I love Protestantismin you. I own its severe charm. There is something in its ritual Icannot receive myself, but it is the sole creed for 'Lucy. '"

All Rome could not put into him bigotry, nor the Propaganda itselfmake him a real Jesuit. He was born honest, and not false--artless, and not cunning--a freeman, and not a slave. His tenderness hadrendered him ductile in a priest's hands, his affection, hisdevotedness, his sincere pious enthusiasm blinded his kind eyessometimes, made him abandon justice to himself to do the work ofcraft, and serve the ends of selfishness; but these are faults so rareto find, so costly to their owner to indulge, we scarce know whetherthey will not one day be reckoned amongst the jewels. 

 * * * * *

And now the three years are past: M. Emanuel's return is fixed. It isAutumn; he is to be with me ere the mists of November come. My schoolflourishes, my house is ready: I have made him a little library, filled its shelves with the books he left in my care: I havecultivated out of love for him (I was naturally no florist) the plantshe preferred, and some of them are yet in bloom. I thought I loved himwhen he went away; I love him now in another degree: he is more myown. 

The sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow sere;but---he is coming. 

Frosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; thewind takes its autumn moan; but--he is coming. 

The skies hang full and dark--a wrack sails from the west; the cloudscast themselves into strange forms--arches and broad radiations; thererise resplendent mornings--glorious, royal, purple as monarch in hisstate; the heavens are one flame; so wild are they, they rival battleat its thickest--so bloody, they shame Victory in her pride. I knowsome signs of the sky; I have noted them ever since childhood. Godwatch that sail! Oh! guard it!

The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee--"keening" at everywindow! It will rise--it will swell--it shrieks out long: wander as Imay through the house this night, I cannot lull the blast. Theadvancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchershear and fear a wild south-west storm. That storm roared frenzied, forseven days. It did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks:it did not lull till the deeps had gorged their full of sustenance. Not till the destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfectwork, would he fold the wings whose waft was thunder--the tremor ofwhose plumes was storm. 

Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waitingshores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered--not utteredtill; when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sunreturned, his light was night to some!

Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs toconceive the delight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, therapture of rescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, thefruition of return. Let them picture union and a happy succeedinglife. 

Madame Beck prospered all the days of her life; so did Père Silas;Madame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth year before she died. Farewell. 

THE END.