THE PARK, BRUSSELS.




V ILLETTE.
BY
CHARLOTTE BRONTE,
(CURRER BELL).
IL L US TRA TED.
M I   A
DOMI' OF ST. PAUL'S.
NEW  YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.








ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE PARK, BRUSSELS.................        Frontispziece.
DOME OF ST. PAUL'S................... Vignette title.
PENSIONNAT DES DEMOISELLES, BRUSSELS... To fae page 6I
GARDEN IN THE RUE FOSSETTE........             "       03
GRANDE PLACE, BRUSSELS.............                  458








CONTsENT.
I.-BRETTON....................................    1
II.-PAULINA.................8...................... 
II. —THE PLAYMATES....................................   1
IV.-AMIss MIARCHMONT..........................    81
V.-TURNING A NEW  LEAF...........................   89
VI.-LONDON.......................................   44
VII.-VILLETTE.......................................   54
VIII.-MAD.kME BECK.................................   65
IX.-ISIDORE.........................................   79
X.-DR. JON.....................................    90
XI.-TIE PORTRESSE'S CABINET.....................    97
XII. —THE  CASKET............................... 103
XIII.-A  SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON........................ 114
XIV.-THE FETE.................................... 124
XV.-THE  LONG VACATION...........................   153
XVI. —AULD LANG SYNE.................................  165
XVII.-LA TERRASSF............................   179
XVIII.-WE QUARREL.................................   188
XIX.-THE  CLEOPATRA................................ 196
XX.-THE  CONCERT..............................  208
XXI.-REACTICN..................................... 228




IVr       ~CONTENTS.
Paa
XXII.-TnE LETTER..............4.....
XXIII.-VASTI........................................  255
XXIV.-MI. DE BASSOMrPIEaRR......................... 268
XXr V. -TIE LITTLE COUNTESS..........................    282
XXVI.-A BURIAL.................................  295
XXVII. —TIE IOTEL CnRCY..............................   11
XXVIII. —TIE WATCIHUARD...........................                         3
XXIX.-MONSIEUR'S FETE............................... 330
XXX. —M. PAUL....................... 82
XXXI.-TI E  DRYAD......................8......... 363
XXXII.-THE FIRST LETTER....8.........................
XXXIII. — M. PAUL KEEPS        PROMISE..................                      882
XXXIV.-MALEVOLA....................................  91
XXXV.-FRATFRNITY....................................    402
XXXVI.-TIHE APPLE OF DISCORD.........................  415
XXXVII.-       SUNSHINE...................E.................. 429
X   XVI I I. —CLOUD................................... 444
XXXIX.-OLD AND NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.................   468
XL.-THE  HAPPY PAIR................................ 479
XLI.-FA;UBOUPG CLOTILDE............................ 485
ILII.-FIN1s a....................................     




VILLE fTEo
CHAPTER I.
BRETTON.
MY godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and
ancient town of Bretton. Her husband's family had been
residents there for generations, and bore, indeed, the name of
their birth-place-Bretton of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a personage
of sufficient importance to leave his name to his neighbornood, I know not.
When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year,
and well I liked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The large peaceful rooms, the well-arranged
furniture, the clear wide windows, the balcony outside, looking
down on a fine antique street, where Sundays and holidays
seemed always to abide —so quiet was its atmosphere, 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; her husband, a physician, having
died while she was yet a young and handsome woman.
She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still
handsome, tall, well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the clearness of health in her
brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pair of fine, cheerful
black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity that she had
A 2




2                      VILLETTE.
not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes Mere
blue, though, even in boyhood, very piercing-and the color
of his long hair such as friends did not venture to specify,
except as the sun shone on it, when they called it golden.
He inherited the lines of his mother's features, however; also
her good teeth, her stature (or the promise of her stature, for
he was not yet full-grown), and, what was better, her health
without flaw, and her spirits of that tone and equality which
are better than a fortune to the possessor.
In the autumn of the year  -   I was staying at Bretton;
my godmother having come in person to claim  me of the
kinsfblk with whom was at that time fixed my permanent
residence.  I believe she then plainly saw  events coming,
whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the faint
suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me
glad to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's
side; not with tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the
gliding of a full river through a plain. My visits to her
resembled the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a
certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on each bank, and
meadows beautified with lilies all the year round."   The
charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little,
that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and
wished rather it had still held aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern.  I
thought at first it was from home, and trembled, expecting I
know not what disastrous communication; to me, however,
no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as
I entered my bed-room, an unexpected change. In addition
to my own French bed in its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and in addition to my
mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood chest.  I
stood still, gazed, and considered.
" Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked.
The answer was obvious.  "A second guest is coming: Mrs.
Bretton expects other visitors."
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued.  A little




BRE TTON                          3
girl. I was told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter
of a friend and distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This
little girl, it was added, had recently lost her mother; though
indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere long 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 a giddy, careless
womnan, who had neglected her child, and disappointed and
disheartened her husband.  So far from  congenial had the
union proved, that separation at last ensued-separation by
mutual consent, not after any legal process. Soon. after this
event, the lady having over-exerted herself at a ball, caught
cold, took a fever, and died after a very brief illness.  Her
husband, naturally a man of very sensitive feelings, and
shocked inexpressibly by too sudden communication of the
news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded but that some
over-severity on his part-some deficiency in patience and
indulgence-had contributed to has-ten her end.  He had
brooded over this idea till his spirits were seriously affected;
the medical men insisted 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 her mamma; as silly
and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was weak
enough to marry.  "For," said she, "Mr. Home is a sensible
man in his way, though not very practical: he is fond ot
science, and lives half his life in a laboratory trying experiments-a thing his butterfly 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 late husband used to say, Mr. Home had derived
this scientific turn from a maternal uncle, a French savant;
for he came, it seems, of mixed French and Scottish origin,
and had connections now living in France, of whom  more
than one wrote de before his name, and called himself noble.
That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet the coach by which our little visitor was expected.
Mrs. Bretton and I sat alone in the drawing-room  waiting
her coming; John Graham Bretton being absent on a visit to
one of his school-fellows who lived in the country. My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed




4                       VILLETTE
It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind
sounded angry and restless.
" Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. " What
weather for her journey! I wish she were safe here."
A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's re-Q
turn.  No sooner was the door opened than I ran down into
the hall, there lay a trunk and some band-boxes, beside them
stood a person like a nurse-girl, and at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his arms.
Is that the child?" 1 asked.
" Yes, miss."
I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep
dt the face, but it was hastily turned from me to Warren's
shoulder.
-' Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren
opened the drawing-room door, " and take off this shawl," continued the speaker, extracting with its minute hand the pin,
and with a sort of fastidious haste doffing the clumsy wrapping.  The creature which now  appeared made a deft attempt to fold the shawl  but the drapery was much too heavy
and large to besustained or wielded by those hands and arms.
"Give it to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and
she can put it 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 you are cold and damp: come and let me warm
you at the fire."
The child advanced promptly.  Relieved of her wrapping,
she appeared exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completelyfashioned little figure, light, slight, and straight.  Seated on
mly godmother's ample lap, she looked a mere doll; her neck,
delicate as wax, her head of silky curls, increased, I thought,
the resemblance.
Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the
child's hands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a
wistful gaze, but soon a smile answered her.  Mrs. Bretton
was not generally a caressing woman: even with her deeply.
-herished son, her manner was rarely sentimental, often the
reverse;; but when this small stranger smiled at her, shu
kissed it, asking — 
W'  hat is my little one's name X'




BRETTON.                           5
M ssy."
"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."  She shook 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.
lle is ill."
Her eyes filled.  She drew her hand from  Mrs. Bretton',
and made a movement to leave her lap; it was at first resist.
ed, but she said" Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."
She was allowed to siip down from the knee, and taking a
foot-stool, she carried it to a corner where the shade was deep,
and there seated herself.  Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a peremptory woman, was
often passive in trifles: she allowed the child her way.  She
said to me, " Take no notice at present."  But I did take 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 of pocket handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll
skirt, and then I heard her weep. Other children in grief
or pain cry aloud, without shame or restraint; but this
being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff testified  to her
emotion. M-rs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quite as
well.. Ere  long, a  voice, issuing  from  the  corner, de.
manded" 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 must ask 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's room," designating me.
Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me,
After some minutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from hoi
corner.




VILLETTE.
"I wish you, ma'am, good night," said she to Mrs. Bretton 
but she passed me mute.
" Good night, Polly," I said.
" No need to say good night, since we sleep in the same
chamber," was the reply with which she vanished from the
drawing-room.  We heard Harriet propose to carry her up
stairs.  "No need," was again her answer-" No need, no
need;" and her small step toiled wearily up the stairs.
On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wida
awake.  She had arranged her pillows so as to support her
little person in a sitting posture; her hands, placed one within
thie other, rested quietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned
calm most unchildlike.  I abstained from speaking to her for
some time, but just before extinguishing 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 she pleased. Listening awhile in the darkness, I was
aware that she still wept-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 wash-stand, with pains and difficulty inclining the
ewer (which she could not lift) so as to pour its contents into
the basin. It was curious to watch her as she washed and
dressed, so. small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she was
little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons
strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she en.
countered with a perseverance good to witness. She folded
tier night-dress, she smoothed the drapery of her couch quite
neatly; withdrawing into a corner, where the sweep of the
white curtain concealed her, she became still. 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 that
she was praying.
Her nurse tapped at the door.  She started up.
"I am dressed, Harriet," said she: " I have dressed my
eclf, but I do not feel neat.  Make me neat I"' Why did you dress yourself, missy?"




BRETTON.                          7
" Hush I speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking the girl'
meaning me, who now lay with my eyes shut).  "I dressed
myself to learn, against the time you leave me."
"Do you want me to go?"
"When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you tc
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 dress you."
"On'no account."
" Why?  She is a very nice young lady.  I hope you mean
to behave prettily 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: the line 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 these people."
" Be a good child, missy."
"I am good, but I ache here;" putting her hand to her
heart, and moaning while she reiterated " Papa! papa!"
I roused myself and started up, to check this scen: while
it was yet within bounds.
"Say good morning to the young lady," dictated Harriet.
She said "good morning," and then followed her nurse
from the room.  Harriet temporarily left that same day, to
go to her own friends, who lived in the neighborhood.
On descending, I found Paulina (the child called herself
Polly, but her 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 bread filled her hand, which lay passive on the table-cloth: she was not eating.
" How we shall conciliate this little creature," said Mis,




8                     VILLETTE.
Bretton to me, " I don't know; she tastes nothing, and, by
her looks, she, as not slept."
I expressed my confidence in the effects of time and kind.
ness.
"If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she
won Id soon settle; but not till then," replied Mrs. Bretton
CHAPTER II
PAULINA.
S)OME days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to
take much of a fancy to anybody in the house.  She was not
exactly naughty or wilful; she was far from disobedient;
but an object less conducive to comfort-to tranquillity even
— than she presented, it was scarcely possible to have before
one's eye.  She moped: no grown person could have performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face of
an adult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes,
ever bore more legibly the signs of home sickness than did her
infant visage. She seemed growing old and unearthly.  I,
Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless of that curse, an overheated and
discursive imagination; but whenever, opening a room-door,
I found her seated in a corner alone, her head in her 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, am d praying like some Catholic or Methodist
enthusiast-some precocious fanatic or: untimely saint-I
scarcely know what thoughts I had; jut they ran risk oi
being hardly more rational and healthy than that child'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 up unuttered; such rare sentences as reached
my ear still bore the burden, "Papa; my dear papa I"  This,
I perceived, was a one-idead nature: betraying that mono




PAULINA.                          9
maniac tendency I have ever thought the most unfortunate
with which man or woman can be cursed.
What might have been the end of this fretting, had it
continued unchecked, can only be conjectured: it received
however, a sudden turn.
One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from  her usual
station in a corner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and,
by way of occupying her attention, told her to watch the
passengers and count how many ladies should go down the
street in a given time.  She had sat listlessly, hardly looling,
and uot counting, when —my eye being fixed on hers —I  itnessed in its irid and pupil a startling transfiguration.  These
sudden, dangerous natures-sensitive as they are called-ofTer
many a curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has secured from participation in their singular vagaries.
The fixed and heavy gaze swum, trembled, then glittered in
fire; the small overcast brow  cleared; the trivial and dejected features lit up; the sad countenance vanished, and
itl its place appeared a sudden eagerness, an intense expectancy.
" It is!" were her words.
Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was
gone from the room. How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably it might 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 she
had an antipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as
I was on the point of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs.
Bretton that the child was run out mad, and ought instantly
to be pursued, I saw her caught up, and rapt at once from my
cool observation, and from the wondering stare of the passengers.  A gentleman had done this good turn, and now, covering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her to the house
whence he had seen her issue.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and
withdraw; but he entered: having tarried a little while below, he came upstairs.
Ills reception immediately explained that he was known to
Mrs. Bretton. She recognized him; she greeted him, and yet
she was fluttered, surprised, takan unawares  Her lock aiil




10                    VVILLETTE.
manner were even expostulatory; and in reply to these, ra.
ther than her words he said —
" I could not help it, madam: I found it impossible to leave
the country 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 her gently on the ground before him.
" How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on
his knee, and gazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was
thankful; but it was a scene of feeling too brimful, and which,
because the cup did not foam up high or furiously overflow,
only oppressed one the more. On all occasions of vehement,
unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain or ridicule comes to
the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have ever felt most
burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its own
will, 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
cheek-bones were marked and prominent.  The character of
his face was quite Scotch; but there was feeling in his eye,
and emotion in his now agitated countenance.  His northern
accent in speaking harmonized with his physiognomy.  Ho
was at once proud-looking and homely-looking.
He laid his hand on the child's uplifted head.  She said"Kiss Polly."
He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry
so that I might get relief and be at ease.  She made wonderfully little noise: she seemed to have got what she wantede11 she wanted, and to be in a trance of content.  Neither in
mien nor features was this creature like her sire, and vet she
was (of his strain: her mind had been filled from his, as the
cup fiom the flagon.
Indisputably Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however
he might secretly feel on some matters.  "Polly," he said,
looking down on his little girl, " go into the hall; you will see
papa's great-coat lying on a chair; put your hand into the
pockets;  you will find a pocket htandkerchief; bring it tc
Ine"




PAULINA.                         11
She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly.  He
was talking to Mrs. Bretton when she came back, ani she
waited with the handkerchief in her hand. It was a picture,
in its way, to see her, with her tiny stature and trim, neat
shape, standing at his knee.  Seeing that he continued to
talk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took his hand,
opened the unresisting fingers, insinuated into them the hand.
kerchief, and closed them upon it one by one. He still seemed
not to see or feel her; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee;
she nestled against him, and though neither looked at or spoke
to the other for an hour following, I suppose both were satisfied.
During tea, the minute thing's movements and behavior
gave, as usual, full occupation to the eye.  First she directed
Warren, as he placed the 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 hei
father.
" Be near me, as if we were at home, papa."
And again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would
stir the sugar and put in the cream  herself; " I always did it
ior you at home, papa: nobody could do it as well, not even
your own self."
Throughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather
absurd they were.  The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of
her hands, and she had to use both in wielding them; the
weight of the silver cream-ewer, the bread and butter plates,
the very cup and saucer tasked her insufficient strength and
dexterity; but she would lift this, hand that, and luckily
contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidly speaking,
I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind like
other parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on
him, and even wonderfully soothed by her offices.
"She is my comfort!" he could not help saying to Mrs.
Bretton.  That lady had her own " comfort" and nonpareil
on a much larger scale, and for the moment, absent; so she
sympathized 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. Iretton had been expecting him




12                      VILLETTE.
through all its hours.   Ve were seated, round the fire, after
tea, when Graham  joined our circle: II should rather say,
broke it up-for, of course, his arrival made a bustle; and
then, as Mr. Graham  was fastingthere was refreshment to
be provided. He and Mri. Home met as old acquaintance
of the little girl he took no notice for a time.
His meal over, and numerous questions from  his mothex
answered, he turned from the table to the hearth.  Opposite
where he had placed himself was seated Mr. Home, and at
his elbow, the child.  When I say child I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term-a term  suggesting any pie
ture rather than that of the demure little person in a mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a
good-sized doll-perched now on a high chair beside a stand,
whereon was her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and
holding in her hands a shred of a handkerchief, which she
was professing to hem, and at which she bored perseveringly
with a needle, that in her fingers seemed almost a skewer,
pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric with a
track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the
perverse weapon-swerving from  her control-inflicted  a
deeper stab than usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed,
womanly.
Graham  was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking
youth of sixteen.  I say faithless-looking, not because he was
really of a very perfidious disposition, but because the epithet
strikes me as proper to 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
faiscination nor of subtlety, (in no bad sense). A spoiled,
whimsical boy he was in those days.
" Mother," he said, after eyeing the little figure before him
in silence for some time, and when the temporary abs.ence of
Mr. Home from  the room  relieved him of the half-laughing
bashfulness, which was all he knew of timidity-" Mother, I
see a young lady in the present society 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 expres
sion of the least ceremonious: Miss Home I should certairly




PAULINA.                         13
nave said, in venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom
I allude."
" Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased.  Don't
flatter yourself that I shall sufle you to make her your butt."
"Miss Home," pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's
remonstrance, " might I have the honor to introduce myself;
since no one else seems willing to render you and me that
service? Your slave, John Graham Bretton."
She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She
deliberately put down thimble, scissors, work; descended
with precaution from her perch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, "How do you do?"
" I have the honor to be in fair health, only in some mnasure fatigued with a hurried journey.  I hope, ma'am, I see
vou well."
"Tor-rer-ably well," was the ambitious reply of the little
woman; and she now essayed to regain her former elevation,
but finding this could not be done without some climbing and
straining-a sacrifice of decorum not to be thought of-and
being utterly disdainful of aid in the presence of a strange
young gentleman, she relinquished the high chair for a low
stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in his chair.
"I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house,
appears to you 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 you a little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma and Mistress Snowe theru
fail to yield me."
I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long
at your mother's."
"Yes, yes; you will stay with me I am sure.  I have a
pony on which you shall ride, and no end of books with piOe
tures to show you."
"Are yotu 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?"




14                    gVI1LLETTE.
Your face and all about you.  You have long red hair'
"Auburn hair, if you please: mamma calls it auburn, ox
golden, and so do all her friends.  But even with my' lon
red hair,'" (and he waved his mane 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 queerer than is
your ladyship."
"You call me queer?"' Certainly."
tAfter 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 oi
seeing me 2'
"No, indeed."
"You certainly wished to enjoy the pleasure of my society.
You know I was 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 favorite.
preferred before papa soon, I dare say."
She wished Mrs. Bretton and myself good night; she
seemed hesitating whether Graham's deserts entitled him to
the same attention, when he caught her up with one hand.
and with that one hand held her poised aloft above his head.
She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in the glass over the
fire-place. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespect of the
action were too much.
"For shame, Mr. Graham 1" was her indignant cry, " put
rte down!"-and when again on her feet, "I wonder what
you would think of me if I were to treat you in that way,
lifting you with my hanl," (raising that mighty member)
" as Warren lifts the little cat?"
So saying, she departed.




THE PLAYMATES.                         15
CHAPTER III.
ThE PLAYMATES.
MR. lIoJIE stayed two days.  During his visit he could not
be prevailed on to go out: he has sat all day long by the lireside, sometimes silent, sometimes receiving and answering
Mrs. Bretton's chat, which was just of the proper sort for a
man in his morbid mood-not over-sympathetic, yet not too
uncongenial, sensible; and even with a touch of the motherl3
-she was sufficiently his senior to be permitted this touch.
As to Paulina, the child was at once happy and mute, busy
and watchful.  Her father frequently lifted her to his knee;
she would sit there till she felt or tfancied 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 on carpet or stool just at "papa's" feet, the white
work-box and the scarlet-speckled handkerchief came into
play.  This handkerchief it seems was intended as a keep
sake for " papa," and must be finished before his departure;
consequently the demand on the seamstress's industry (she
accomplished about a score of stitches in half an hour) was
stringent.
The evening, by restoring Graham  to the maternal roof
(his days were passed at school), brought us an accession of
animation —a quality not diminished by the nature of the
scenes pretty sure to be enacted between him  and Misi
Paulina.
A distant and haughty demeanor had been the result ol
the indignity put upon her the first evening of his arrival 
her usual answer, when he addressed her, was"I can't attend to you; I have other things to thini
about."  Being implored to state what things: " Business."
Graham would endeavor to seduce her attention by opening his desk and displaying its multifarious contents: seals,
bright sticks of wax, pen-knives, with a miscellany of engrayings-some of them gaily colored-wh' 3h he had amassed




16                      VILLETTE.
from time to time.  Nor was this powerful temptation wholly
unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised from  her work, cast
many a peep towards the writing-table, rich  in scattered
pictures.  An etching of a child playing with a Blenheim
spaniel 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 great eyes and long ears, and the child's
hat and feathers, were irresistible.
"' Nice picture!" was her favorable criticism.
"WVell-you may have it," said Graham.
She seemed to hesitate.  The wish to possess was strong,
)ut to accept would be a compromise of dignity.  No.  She
put it down and turned away.
"You wont 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 the scissors from his mother's work-casket.
"Here goes!"  said he, making  a menacing flourish.' Right through Fido's head, and splitting little Harry'a
nose.
"No! ZNo! 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 betbre
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 trin
Graham  gave it.  She absconded a debtor, darted to heo




THE  PLAYMATES.                        17
father, and took refiug  on his knee   Graham rose in mimic
wrath and followed.  She buried her face in Mr. Homre'
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 a miniature fist, and dealt him payment in small
coin that was not kisses,
Graham-not failing in his way to be as wily as his little
playmate-retreated apparently quite diseomfited; he flung
himself on a sofa, and resting his head cgainst the cushion,
lay like one in pain.  Polly, finding him  silent, presently
peeped at him.  His eyes and face were covered with his
hands.  She turned on her father's knee, and gazed at her
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 for the doctor.  Oh my eye!" (renewed silence
broken only by sighs from Graham).
"If I were to become blind —?" suggested this last.
His chastiser could not bear the suggestion.  She was be
side him directly.
"Let me see your eye: I did not mean to touch it, only
your mouth; and I did not think I hit so very hard."
Silence answered her.  Her features worked, —" I am sor
ry; I am sorry!"
Then succeeded emotion, faltering, weeping.
"Have done trying that child, Graham," said Mrs. Bret
ton.
"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"Ths naughtiest rudest, worst, urntruest person that ever
waas"
B




18                     VILLETTE.
On the morning of Mr. Home's departure, he and his daugiter had some conversation in a window recess Ly themselves;
I heard part of it.
" Could'nt I pack my box and go with you, papa?" she
whispered earnestly.
He shock his head.'Should I be a trouble to you?"
Yes, Polly."
" Because 1 am little?"
"Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong
people that should travel. But don't look sad, my little girl;
it breaks my heart.  Papa will soon come back to his Poily."
"Indeed, indeed, I amnot 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 meet 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.
WVhen the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a
chair with a cry-" Papa 1"
It was low and long; a sort of " WVhy hast thou forsaken
me?"  During an ensuing space of some minutes, I perceived
she endured agony. She went through, in that brief interval
of her infant life, emotions such as some never feel; it was
in her constitution: she would have more of such instants if
she lived.  Nobody spoke.  Mrs. Bretton, being a mother,
shed a tear or two.  Graham, who was writing, lifted up his
eyes and gazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm.
The little creature, thus left unharrassed, did for herself
what none other could do-contended with an intolerable
feeling; and, ere long, in some degree, repressed it. That
day she would accept solace from  none; nor the next day:
she grew more passive afterwards.
On the third evening as she sat on the floor, worn and




THE PLAYMATES.                        19
quiet, Graham, coming in, took her up gently, without a
word.  She did not resist: she rather nestled in his arms, as
if weary.  When he sat down, she laid her head against
him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried her up stairs to
bed.  I was not surprised that, the next morning, the first
thing she demanded was, "Where is Mr. Graham?"
It happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfasttable; he had some exercises to write for that morning's
class, and had requested his mother to send a cup of tea into
the study.  Polly volunteered to carry it; she must be busy
about something, look after somebody.  The cup was entrusted to her: for, if restless, she was also careful.  As the
study was opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across
the passage, my eye followed her.
" What are you doing?" she asked, pausing on the threshcld.
" 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 jailer putting a prisoner's pitcher of water through his cell-door, and
retreated. Presently she returned.
" What will you have besides tea-what to eat?"
" Any thing good. Bring me something particularly nice i
that's a kind little woman."
She came back to Mrs. Bretton.
"Please, ma'am, send your boy something good."'"You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my bo)
have?"
She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table,
and, ere long, came back with a whispered request for some
marmalade, which was not there.  Having got it, however,
(for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair nothing,) Graham was
shortly after heard lauding her to the skies; promising that,
when he had a house of his own, she should be his housekeeper, and perhaps-if she showed any culinary genius-his
cook; and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her,
I found Graham and her breakfasting tete-a-tte —she standing




20                    VILLETTE
at his elbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade,
which she delicately refused to touch; lest, I suppose, it should
appear that she had procured it as much on her own account
as his.  She constantly evinced these.nice perceptions and
delicale instincts.
The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not
hastily dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and
circumstances served rather to cement than loosen it.  Ill-assimilated as the two were in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to each other. As to Paulina,
I observed that her little character never properly came out,
except with young Bretton.  As she got settled, and accus.
tomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs.
Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady's feet all
day long, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with
a pencil on a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or
showing a sin'gle gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. 1
ceased to watch her under such circumstances: she was not
interesting.  But the moment Graham's knock sounded of an
evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head of
the staircase.  Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a
threat.
"You have not wiped your shoes properly in the mat.  I
shall tell your mamma."
" Little busybody! Are you there 2"' Yes-and you can't reach me: I am higher up than you"
(peeping between the rails of the banister; she could not
look over them).
" Polly!"
" My dear boy!" (such was one of her terms for him, adopted
in imitation of his mother).
"I am fit to faint with fatigue," declared Graham, leaning
against the passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. " Dr. Digby"
(the head master) " has quite knocked me up with over-work.
Just come down and help me to carry up my books."
"Ah! you're cunning!"
"Not at all, Polly-it is positive fact.  I'm  as weak as a
rush.  Come down."
"Your eyes are quiet like the cat's, but you'll spring."
"Spring?  Nothing of the kind: it is'nt in me. Ciago
down"




THE PLAYMATES.                        21
"Perhaps I mnay-if you'll promise not to toucll —.-nt tt
slatch 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 from the feeble Graham. Of course her approach always
galvanized him to new and spasmodic life: the game of romps
was sure to be exacted.  Sometimes she would be angry:
sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and we
could hear her say as she led him up-stairs:
" Now, my dear boy, come and take your tea —  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, but with him the most officious, fidgetty little
body possible.  I often wished she would mind herself and
be tranquil; but no-herself was forgotten in him: he could
not be sufficiently well waited on, nor carefully enough looked
after; he was more than the Grand Turk in her estimation.
She would gradually assemble the various plates before him,
and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was
within his reach, she would find out something else:
" Ma'am," she would whisper to Mrs. Bretton,-" perhaps
your son would like a little cake-sweet cake, you knowthere is some in there" (pointing to the side-board cupboard).
Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but
still the request was urged,-" One little piece-only for him
-as he goes to school: girls-such as me and Miss Snowe —
don't need treats, but he would like it."
Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To
do him justice, 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 the evening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was the reward she wanted —not
2 share of the cake.
With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes
as interested him.  One would have thought the child had no
mind or life of her own, but must necessarily line, move, and
have her being in another: now that her father was taken
Cron her, she nestled to Graham, and seemed to feel by his




22                     VILLETTE.
feelings: to exist in his existence.  She learned the namea
of all his school-fellows in a trice; she got by neart their
characters as given from his lips: a single description of an
individual seemed to suffice.  She never forgot, or confused
identities: she would talk with him the whole evening about
people she had never seen, and appear completely to realize
their aspect, manners, and dispositions.  Some she learned to
mimic: an under-master, who was an aversion of young Bretton's, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which she caught up
in a moment from  Graham's representation, and rehearsed
for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved
and forbade.
The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred,
in which her feelings received a severe shock.
One day Graham, on the occasion of his birth-day, had
some friends-lads of his own age-to dine with him.  Paulina took much interest in the coming of these friends; she
had frequently heard of them; they were amongst those of
whom Graham oftenest spoke.  After dinner, the young gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where
they soon became very merry and made a good deal of noise.
Chancing to pass through the hall, I found Paulina sitting
alone on the lowest step of the staircase, her eyes fixed on the
glossy panels of the dining-room door, where the reflection of
the hall-lamp was shining; her little brow in anxious meditation.
"What are you thinking about, Polly?"
" Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear
glass-that I might see through it.  The boys seem  very
cheerful, and I want to go to them: I want to be w;th 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 ag
a playmate, and therefore encouraged the attempt.
She knocked-too faintly at first to be heard, but on a secmnd essay the door unclosed; Grahar:l's head appeared; he
looked in high spirits but impatient.
"What do you want, you little monkey l.'
"To come to you."




THE PLAYMATES.                        23
"' Do you indeed?  As if I would be troubled with you!
Away to mamma and Mistress Snowe, and tell them to put
you to bed."  The auburn head and bright flushed face vanished,-the door shut peremptorily. She was stunned.
" Why does he speak so?  He never spoke so before," she
said in consternation.  " What have I done?"
"Nothing, Polly; but Graham  is busy with his school
friends."
"And he likes them better than me! lHe turns me away
now they are here 1"
I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the
occasion by inculcating some of those maxims of philosophy
whereof I had ever a tolerable stock ready for application.
She stopped me, however, by putting her fingers in her ears
at the first words I uttered, and then lying down on the mat
with her face against the flags; nor could either Warren or
the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie,
therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord.
Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would
have accosted her as usual when his friends were gone, but
she wrenched herself from his hand; her eye quite flashed;
she would not bid him good-night; she would not look in his
face.  The next day he treated her with indifference, and
she grew like a bit of marble.  The day after, he teased her
to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose.
Of course he could not feel real anger on his side: the match
was too unequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing.
"Why was she angry?  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 not lost: I
remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or follow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to
carry a book or some other article to Graham when he was
shut up in his study.
"I shall wait till he comes out," said she, proudly; "I
don't choose to give him  the trouble of rising to open the
door.'
Young Bretton had a favorite pony on which he often rode
out; from the window she always watched his departure and
return. It was her ambition to be permitted to have a ride
round the court-yard'on this ponyy; but far be it from her to




2t                    VILLETTE.
ask such a favor.  One day she descended to the yara to
watch hin  dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the
longing wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye
"Come, Polly, will you have a canter?" asked Graham,
half carelessly. I suppose she thought he was too careless.
"No tharnk you," said she, turning away with the utmost
ecolness.
"You'd better;" Dursued he.  "You will like it, I anm
ureed
" 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
imperfect articulation was the least precocious thing she had
about her), and with this, she walked into the house. Graham
coming in soon after, obseived to his mother,"Mamma, I believe that creature is a changeling: she is a
perfect cabinet of oddities; but I should be dull without her;
she amuses me a great deal more than you or Lucy Snowe "
"Miss Snowe," said Paulina to me (she had now got into
the habit of occasionally chatting with me when we were
alone in our room  at night), "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 of the seven when he is otherwise than on the,ther six?"
" To be sure! Can't you see?  Don't you know?  I find
him the most excellent on a Sunday; then we have him the
whole day, and he is quiet, and, in the evening, so kind."
This observation was not altogether groundless: going to,4hurch, &c., kept Graham  quiet on the Sunday, and the
svening he generally dedicated to a serene, though rather
indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlor fireside. He would
take possession of the couch, and then he would call Polly.
Graham  was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his
delight did not lie in action: he was capable of some intervals
of contemplation; he could take a pleasure too in reading,
nor was his selection of books wholly indiscriminate: there




THE  fLAYMATE3.                       25
were glimmerings of characteristic preference, and even of
instinctive taste, in the choice.  He rarely, it is true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think
of it.
Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion on the
carpet, a conversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible,
though subdued.  I caught a snatch of their tenor now and
th n, and, in truth, some influence better and finer than that
of every day, seemed to soothe Graham 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 singing voice, Graham would take exceptions at the
manner, and proceed to give a lesson in recitation.  She was
quick in learning, apt in imitating; and, besides, her pleasure
was to please Graham: she proved a ready scholar.  To the
hymn would succeed some reading-perhaps a chapter in the
Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child
could read any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when
the subject was such as she could understand and take an
interest in, her expression and emphasis were something
remarkable.  Joseph cast into the pit; the calling of Samuel;
Daniel in the'lion's den;-these were favorite passages: of
the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the pathos.
"Poor Jacob!" she would sometimes say, with quivering
lips.  "How he loved his son Joseph! As much," she once
added-" as much, Graham, as I love you: if you were to
dae (and she re-opened the book, sought the verse, and read),
I should'refuse to be comforted, and go down into the grave
to you mourning.' "
With these words she gathered Graham in her little arms,
drawing his ]ong-tressed head towards her.  The action, I
remember, struck me as strangely rash; exciting the feeling
one might experience on seeing an animal dangerous by
nature, and but half-tamed by art, too heedlessly fondled.
Not that I feared Graham would hurt, or very roughly check
her; but I thought she ran risk of incurring such a careless,
impatient repulse, as would be worse almost to her than a
3 92




2?.                   VILLETTE
blow   On the whole, however, these demons:trations were
borne passively: sometimes even a sort of complacent wonder
at her earnest partiality would smile not unkindly in his eyes.
Once he said:
"You like me almost as well as if you were my little sister,
Polly "
" Oh! I do like you," said she; " I do like you very much "
I was not long allowed the amusement of this study of
character.  She had scarcely been at Bretton two months,
when a letter came from Mr. Home, signifying that he was
now settled amongst his maternal kinsfolk on the Continent;
that, as England was become wholly distasteful to him, he
had no thoughts of returning thither, perhaps, for years; and
that he wished his little girl to join him immediately.
"I wonder how she will take this news?" said Mrs. Bretton, when she had read the letter.  I wondered, too, and 1
took upon myself to communicate it.
Repairing to the drawing-room-in which calm and decorated apartment she was fond of being alone, and where she
could be implicitly trusted, for she fingered nothing, or rather
soiled nothing she fingered-I found her seated, like a little
Odalisque, on a couch, half shaded by the drooping draperies
of the window near.  She seemed happy; all her appliances
for occupation were about her; the white wood work-box, a
shred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribbon, collected for
conversion into doll-millinery.  The doll, duly night-capped
and night-gowned, lay in its cradle; she was rocking it to
sleep, with an air of the most perfect faith in its possession
of sentient and somnolent faculties; her eyes, at the same
time, being engaged 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 begrimed complexion gave it much of an Ethiopian
aspect)-" Candace is asleep now, and I may tell you about
t; only we must both speak low, lest she should wakcn.
This book was given me by Graham; it tells about distant
countries, a long, long way from England, which no travelleI




THE PLAYMATES.                         27
can reach without sailing thousands of miles over the sea. Wild
men live in these countries, Miss Snowe, who wear clothes
different from ours; indeed, some of them wear scarcely any
clothes, for the sake of being cool, you know; for they have
very hot weather.  Here is a picture of thousands gathered
in a desolate place-a plain, spread with sands-round a
man in black,-a good, good Englishman,-a missionary,
who is preaching to them under a palm-tree."  (She showed
little colored cut to that effect.)  "And here are pictures"
she went on) "more stranger" (grarmmar was occasionally
forgotten) "than that.  There is the wonderful Great Wall
of China; here is a Chinese lady, with a foot littler than
mine.  There is the wild horse of Tartary; and here-most
strange of all-is a land of ice and snow, without green
fields, woods, or gardens.  In this land, they found some
mammoth bones: there are no mammoths now.  You don't
know what it was; but I can tell you, because Graham told
me.  A mighty, goblin creature, as high 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 fbrest, it would
not kill me, unless I came quite in its way; when it would
trample me down amongst the bushes, as I might t cad on a
grasshopper in a hay-field 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 with Graham.  We intend going to
Switzerland, and climbing Mount Blanc; and some day we
shall sail over to South America, and walk to the top of Kim
-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
those unexpected turns of temper peculiar to her:
" Where is the good of talking in that silly way?" said
she.  "Why do you mention papa?  What is pap  to you?
I. was just beginning to be happy, and not think about him
so much; and there it will be all to do over again!".Her lip trembled.  I hastened to disclose the fact of a
etter having been received, and to mention the directions




28                     VILLETTE
given that she and Harriet should immediately rejoin thil
dear papa.  "Now, Polly, are you not glad?" I added.
She made no answer. She dropped her book, and ceased te
rock her doll; she gazed at me with gravity and earnestness.
"Shall you not like to go to papa?"
"Of course," she said at last in that trenchant manner she
usually employed in speaking to me; and which was quite
different from that she used with Mrs. Bretton, and different
again from the one dedicated to Graham.  I wished to ascertain more of what she thought; but no: she would converse
no more.  Hastening to Mrs. Bretton, she questioned her,
and received the confirmation of my news. The weight and
importance of these tidings kept her perfectly serious the
whole day.  In the evening, at the moment Graham's entrance was heard below, I found her at my side.  She began
to arrange a locket-ribbon about my neck, she displaced and
replaced the comb in my hair; while thus busied, Graham
entered.
"Tell him  by-and-by," she whispered; "tell him  I am
going."
In the course of tea-time I made the desired communication.  Graham, it chanced, was at that time greatly preoccupied about some school-prize, for which he was competing.
The news lad to be told twice before it took proper hold of
his attention; and even then he dwelt on it but momently.
"Polly going?  What a pity! Dear little Mousie, I shall
be sorry to lose her: she must come to us again, mamma."
And hastily swallowing his tea, he took a candle and a
small table to himself and his books, and was soon buried in
study.
"Little Mousie" crept to his side, and lay down on the
carpet at his feet, her face to the floor; mute and motionless
she kept that post and position till bed-time.  Once I saw
Graham-wholly unconscious of her proximity-push her
with his restless foot.  She receded an inch or two.  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 I certainly went with an unquiet anticipation that i




THE  PLAYMATES.                        29
should find that child in no peaceful sleep. The forewarning
of my instinct was but fulfilled, when I discovered her, all
told and vigilant, perched like a white bird, on the outside
of the bed.  I scarcely knew how to accost her; she was not
to be managed like another child.  She, however, accosted
me.  As I closed the door, and put the light on the:iressingtable, she turned to me with these words:
"I cannot-cannot sleep; and in this way I cannotrcznnot live!"
T 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, I well knew that if she had heard Mrs. Bretton's foot
approach, she would have nestled quiet as a mouse under the
bedclothes.  While lavishing her eccentricities regardlessly
before me-for whom she professed scarcely the semblance oi
affection —she never showed my godmother one glimpse o)
her inner self: for her, she was nothing but a do ile, somewhat quaint little maiden.  I examined her; her cheek was
crimson; her dilated eye was both troubled and glowving, and
painfully restless; in this state it was obvious she must not
be left till morning. I guessed how the case stood.
" Would you like to bid Graham  good-night again?" I
asked.  " He is not gone to his room yet."
She at once stretched out her little arms to be lifted. Folding a shawl round her, I carried her back to the dc  wingroom.  Graham was just coming out.
"She cannot sleep without seeing and speaking to yoG  once
more," I said. " She does not like the thought of leaving you."
"I've spoilt her," said he, taking her fiom  me with good
humor, and kissing her little hot face and burning lips.
"Polly, you care for me more than for papa, now-"
"I do care for you, but you care nothing for me," was ber
whisper.
She was assured to the contrary, again kissed, restored ta
me, and I carried her away; but, alas! not soothed.
When I thought she could listen to me I said"Paulina, you should not grieve that Graham  does'1
tare for you so much as you care for him.  It must be so-'
Her lifted and questioning eyes asked why




30                      VILLETTE.
" Because he is a ooy and you are a girl; he is sixtetn and
you are only six; his nature is strong and gay, and ycurs is
otherwise."
" But I love him so much; he should love me a little."
" He does.  He is fond of you,  You are his favorite."
" Am I Graham's favorite?"
" 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
ao him, or else he will feel you to be troublesome, and then
it is all ov ~r."
"All over!" she echoed softly, "then I'll be good.  I'll
try to be good, Lucy Snowe."
I put her to bed.
"Will he forgive me this one time?" she asked, as 1 u1n
dressed 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-see him again, after I leave England?"
I returned an encouraging response.  The candle being
extinguished, a still half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep,
when the little white shape once more lifted itself in the
crib, and the small voice asked,-" Do you like Graham, Miss
Snowe?"
" Like him!k 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
taring for him so 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 any
body perfect; and as to likes and dislikes, we should b
friendly to all, and worship 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 her elfish hand on her elfish breast), " when you think




MISS  MARCIiMONT.                       31
youu shall have to leave Graham; for your home is no,
here?"
" Surely, Polly," said I, " you should not feel so much pain
when you are very soon going to rejoin your father.  Have
you forgotten him?  Do you 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, wish
ing, yet scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was
a most strange, capricious, little creature, and especially
whimsical with me.  She came, however, instantly, like a
small ghost gliding over the carpet.  I took her in.  She
was chill; I warmed her in my arms.  She trembled nervously; I soothed her.  Thus tranquillized and cherished she
at last slumbered.
" A very unique child," thought I, as I viewed her sleeping
countenance by the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and
softly wiped her glittering eyelids and her wet cheeks with
my handkerchief.  "How will she get through this world, or
battle with this life? How will she bear the shocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, which books, 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 MARCIlMONT.
ON quitting Bretton, which I did a few weeks after Paulina's departure-little thinking then I was never again to
visit it: never more to tread its calm  old streets-I betook
myself home, having been absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course glad to return to the bosom of
my kindred.  Well! the amiable conjecture does no harm,




339                    VILLETTE.
and may therefore be safely left uncontradicted.  Far. from
saying nay, indeed, I will permit the reader to picture me, for.he next eight years, as a bark slumbering through halcyon
weather, in a harbor still as glass-the steersman stretched on
the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried,
if you will, in a long prayer. A great many women and girls
are supposed to pass their lives something in that fashion 
why not I with the rest?
Picture me then idle, basking, plump, and happy, stretched
on a cushioned deck, warmed with constant sunshine, rocked
by breezes indolently soft.  However, it cannot be concealed
that, in that case, I must somehow have fallen overboard, or
that there must have been a wreck at last.  I too well re
member a time —a long time, of cold, of danger, of contention.
To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush
and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and that
not of one hour nor 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 heavy tempest lay on us; -all hope
that we should be saved was taken away.  In fine, 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 lost sight.  Impediments, raised by others,
had, years ago, come in the way of our intercourse, and cut it
off.  Besides, time had brought changes for her too: the
handsome property of which she was left guardian for her
son, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock
undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original amount.  Graham, I learned from incidental rumors, had
adopted a profession; both he and his mother were gone from
Bretton, and were understood to be now in London.  Thus,
there remained no possibility of dependence on others: to myself alone could I look. I know not that I.was of a self-reliant or
active nature; but self-reliance and exertion were forced upon
me by circumstances, as they are upon thousands besides; and
when Miss Marchmont, a maiden lady of our neighborhood,
sent for me, I obeyed her behest, in the hope that she niight
assign me some task I could undertake.
Miss Marchmont was a woman of fortune, and lived in a




MISS MARCHIMONT.                        33
handsone residence; but she was a rheumatic cripple, impo
tent, foot and hand, and had been so for twenty years.  She
always sat up-stairs: her drawing-room  adjoined her bedroom.  I had often heard of Miss Marchmont, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of being very eccentric), but
till now had never seen her. I found her a furrowed, grayhaired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long affliction,
irritable also, and perhaps exacting.  It seemed that a maid,
or rather companion, who had waited on her for some years,
was about to be married; and she, hearing of my bereaved
lot, had sent for me, with the idea that T might supply this
person's place.  She made the proposal to me after tea, as she
and I sat alone by the fire-side.' it will not be an easy life,' she said, candidly, "for I require a good deal of attention, and you will be much confined;
yet, perhaps, contrasted with the existence you have lately
led it may appear tolerable."
I reflected. Of course it ought to appear toleiable, I aigued inwardly; but somehow, by some strange fatality, it
would not.  To live here, 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 myself to r-ealze
evils, I think I was too prosaic to idealize, and consequently to
exaggerate them.
" My doubt is whether I should have strength enough for
the undertaking," I observed.
"That is my own scruple," said she; for you look a " worn.
out creature."
So I did.  I saw  myself in the glass, in my mourningdress, a faded, hollow-eyed vision.  Yet I little thought of
the wan spectacle. The blight, I believed, was chiefly exter.
nal: I still felt life at life's sources.
"What else have you in view-anything l"
"Nothing clear as yet: but I may find something."
So you imagine: perhaps you are right.  Try your own
method, then; and if it does not succeed, test mine.'Ire
chance I have offered shall be left open to you for three
months."
This was kind.  I told her so, and expressed my gratitur s




4                      V ILLEiT E.
While I was speaking, a paroxysm of pain came on.  I rtrn*
istered to her; made the necessary applications, according te
her directions, and, by the time she was relieved, a sort of
intimacy was already formed between us.  I, for my part,
had learned fromn the manner in which she bore this attack,
that she was a firm, patient woman (patient under physical
pain, though sometimes perhaps excitable under long mental
eanler); and she; from the good-will with which I succored
her, discovered that she could influence my sympathies (such
as tthey were). She sent for me the next day; for five or six
successive days she claimed my company.  Closer acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities, opened,
at the same time, a view of a character I could respect.
Stei n and even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on
her and sit beside her with that calm which always blesses us
when we are sensible that our manners, presence, contact,
please and soothe 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 her daughter, than a
harsh mistress lecturing a dependent: lecture, indeed, she
could not, though she could occasionally storm. Moreover, a
vein of reason ever ran through her passion: she was logical
even when fierce.  Ere long a growing sense of attachment
began to present the thought of staying with her as companion
in quite a new  light; in another 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, my suffering-her relief, my hopeher anger, my punishment-her regard, my reward.  I forgot
that there were fields, woods, rivers, seas, an ever-changing
sky, outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick-chamber; 1
was almost content to forget it. All within me became narrowed to my lot.  Tame and still by habit, disciplined by
destiny, I demanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite
needed no more than the tiny messes served for the invalid.
In addition she gave me the originality of her character to
study. the steadiness of her virtues, I will add, the power of
her passions, to admire, the truth of her feelings to trust.  All
these things she had, and for these things I clung to her.




MISS MARCHMONT                          35
For these things I would have crawled on with her foi
twenty years, if for twenty years longer her life of endurance
had been protracted.  But another decree was written.  Ii
seemed I must be stimulated into action.  I must be goaded,
driven, stung, forced to energy.  My little morsel of human
affection, which 1 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 contented conscience.  I had wanted to compromise with Fate
to escape occasional great agonies by submitting to a whole
life of privation and small pains.  Fate would not so be
pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth
and cowardly indolence.
One February night-I remember it well-there came a
voice near Miss Marchmont'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 Marchnont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing.  The wind was
wailing at the windows: it had wailed all day, but as night
deepened, it took a new  tone-an  accent keen, piercing,
almost articulate to the ear; a plaint, piteous and disconsolate to the nerves, trilled in every gust.
" Oh, hush! hush!" I said in my disturbed mind, dropping
my work, and making a vain effort to stop my ears against
that subtle, searching cry.  I had heard that very voice ere
this, and compulsory observation had forced on me a theory
as to what it boded.  Three times in the course of my life,
events had taught me that these strange accents in the storm
-this restless, hopeless cry-denote a coming state of the
atmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed,
were often heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, longlamenting east wind.  Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of
the Banshee.  I fancied, too, I had noticed-but was not
philosopher enough to know  whether there was any connection between the circumstances-that we often at the same
time hoar of disturbed volcanic action in distant parts of the
world; of rivers suddenly rushing above their banks; and of
strange high tides flowing furiously in on low sea-coasts. " Our
globe," I had said to nyself; " seems at such periods torn and
disordered; the feeble amongst us wither in her distempered
tre ith, rushing hot from steaming volcanoes."




36                     VILLETIL
I listened, and trembled; Miss Mlarchlmont slept
About midnight, the storm in one half-hour fell to a deat
calm.  The fire, which had been burning dead, glowed up
vividly. I felt the air change, and become keen. Raising
blind and curtain, I looked out, and saw in the stars the keen
sparkle of a sharp frost.
Turning away, the object that met my eyes was Misa
Marchmont awake, lifting her head from the pillow, and regarding me with unusual earnestness.
" 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.  I feel 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 to enjoy health?  IL
would be a miracle!"
" And these are not the days of miracles," I thought to my
self, and wondered to hear her talk so. -She went on direct
ing her conversation to the past, and seeming to recall it;
incidents, scenes, and personages 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 my heart, in warm  and beautiful life,
realities-not mere empty ideas-but what were once realities, and that I long have thought decayed, dissolved, mixed
ia with grave-mould.  I possess just now  the hours, the
thoughts, the hopes of my youth.  I renew the love of my
life-its only love-almost its only affection; for I am  not a
particularly good woman: I am not amiable.  Yet I have
had my feelings, strong and concentrated; and these feelings
had their object; which, in its single self; was dear to me, as
to the majority of men and women, are all the unnumbered
points on which they dissipate their regard.  WThile I loved,
and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What
a glorious year I can recall-how bright it comes back to
~lme!  What a living spring  what a warm, glad summerwiiat soft moonlight, silvering the autumn evenings-what
strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and frost-hoarfields
of that year's winter! Through that year my heart lived
with Frank's heart.  0 my noble Frank-my faithfil Frank
— my good Frank! so much better than myself-his standaro




M ISS MARCHMONT                        37
in all things so much higher! This I can now see and sayif few women have suffered as I did in his loss, few have en
ioyed what I did in his love.  It was a far better kind of
love than common; I had no doubts abcM.t it or him: it was
such a love as honored, protected, and elevated, no less than
it gladdened her to whom  it was given.  Let me now ask,
iust at this moment, when my mind is so strangely clear,-let
me 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 cannottannot see the reason; yet at this hour I can say with sin
cerity, what I never tried to say before-Inscrutable God,
Thy will be done! And at this moment I can believe that
death will restore me to Frank.  I never believed it till
now."
" He is dead, then?" I inquired in a low voice.
"My dear girl," she said, "one happy Christmas Eve I
dressed and decorated 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 see that moment-I see the
snow-twilight stealing through the window over which the
curtain was not dropped, for I designed to watch him ride up
the white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me,
playing on my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own
young figure in a glass.  I see the moon of a calm winter
night, float full, clear and cold, over the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my grounds.  I wait, with some
impatience in my pulse, but no doubt in my breast.  The
flames had died in the fire, but it was a bright mass yet; the
moon was mounting high, but she was still visible ifom the
lattice; the clock neared ten; he rarely tarried later than this,
but once or twice he had been delayed so long.
" Would he for once fail me?  No-not even for once;
and now he was coming —and coming fast-to atone for lost
time.'Frank! you furious rider,' I said inwardly, listening
gladly, yet anxiously, to his approaching gallop,'you shall be
rebuked for this: I will tell you it is 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 I think
tears were in my eyes, my s;ght was so confused.  I saw the




38                    V ILLE T T E.
horse; I heard it stamp —I saw  at least a mass; 1 heard a
glamor.  Was it a horse? or what heavy, dragging thing
was it, crossing, strangely dark, the lawn?  How could 1
name that thing in the moonlight before 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 it: Frank, as I thought.
"  What is the matter?' I demanded.  Thomas, my own
servant, answered by saying sharply,'Go into the house,
madam.'  And then calling to another servant, who came
hurrying from the kitchen as if summoned by some instinct,
"Ruth, take misses into the house directly.' But I was kneeling down in the snow, beside something that lay there —
something that I had seen dragged along the ground-something that sighed, that groaned on my breast, as I lifted and
drew it to me.  He was not dead; he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be ordered about
and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not only
to be my own mistress, but the mistress of others. They had
begun by trying to treat me like a child, as they always do
with people struck by God's hand; but I gave place to none
except the surgeon; and when he had done what he could,
I took my dying Frank to myself. He had strength to fold
me in his arms; he had power to speak my name; he heard
me as I prayed over him very softly; he felt me as I tenderly
and fondly comforted him.
"'Miaria,' he said,'I am  dying in Paradise.' He spent
his last breath in faithful words for me. When the dawn of
Christmas morning broke, my Frank was with God.
"And that," she went on, happened thirty years ago. I
have suffered since. 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 been a wo-struck and
selfish woman."
" You have done much good," I said; for she was noted
fcr her liberal alnsgiving.
"I have not withheld money, you mean, where it could
assuage affliction.  What of that?  It cost me no effort or
panfg to give.. But I think from this day I am about to enter




TURNING  A NEW  LEAF.                     39
a better frame of mind, to prepare myself for reunion with
Frank.  You see I still think of Frank more than of God;
and unless it be counted that in thus loving the creature so
much, so long, and so exclusively, I have not at least blasphemed the Creator, small is my chance of salvation. What do
you think, Lucy, of these things? Be my chaplain and tell me."
This question I could not answer: I had no words.  It
seemed as if she thought I had answered it.
" Very right, my child.  We should acknowledge God
merciful, but not always for us comprehensible.  We should
accept our own lot whatever it 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 endeavor to do
something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you
when I am  dead.  My head aches now  with talking too
much; still I am happy. Go to bed. The clock strikes two.
How late you sit up; or rather how late I, in my selfishness,
keep you up.  But go now; have no more anxiety for me:
I feel I shall rest well."
She composed herself as if to slumber.  I, too, retired to
my crib in a closet within her room. The night passed in
quietness; quietly her doom must at last have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she was found without
life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her previous
excitement of spirits and change of mood had been the prelude of a fit; one stroke sufficed to sever the thread of an ex
intence so long fretted by affliction.
CHAPTER  V.
TURNING A NEW  LEAF.
MY mistress being dead, and I once more alone, I had tv
took out for a 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 the contrary, thin, haggard, and hollow-eyed;
Jike a sitter-up at night, like an over-wrought servant, or a




40                     VILLETTE.
placeless person in debt.  In debt, however, I was not; t03
quite poor; for though Miss Marchmont had not had tune 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 narrow temples, who, indeed, I heard long afterwards, turned out a thorough miser: a direct contrast to his
generous kinswoman, and a foil to her memory, blessed tn
this day by the poor and needy.  The possessor, then, of fifteen pounds; of health though worn not broken, and of a
spirit in similar condition; I might still, in comparison with
many people, be regarded as occupying an enviable position.
An embarrassing one it was, however, at the same time; as
I felt with some acuteness on a certain day, of which the
corresponding one in the next week was to see my departure
from my present abode, while with another I was not provided.
In this dilemma I went, as a last and sole resource, to see
and consult an old servant of our family; once my nurse,
now housekeeper at a grand mansion not far from  Miss
Marchmont's.  I spent some hours with her; she comforted,
but knew not how to advise me.  Still all inward darkness,
I left her about twilight; a walk of two miles lay before me;
it was a clear, frosty night.  In spite of my solitude, my
poverty, and my perplexity, my heart, nourished and nerved
with the vigor of a youth that had not yet counted twentythree summers, beat light and not feebly. Not feebly, I am
sure, or I should have trembled in that lonely walk, which
lay through still fields, and passed neither village nor farm
house, nor cottage; I should have quailed in the absence of
moonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only I traced the
dim path; I should have quailed still more in the unwonted
presence of that which to-night shone in the north, a moving
mystery-the Aurora Borealis.  But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through my fears.  Some new
power it seemed to bring.  I drew in energy with the keen,
low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thought was sent
to my mind; my mind was made strong to receive it.
"Leave this wilderness," it was said to me, " ani go out
thinee. 
"' Where?" was the query.




TURNING  A NEW LEA3]                    41
I had not very far to look: gazing from this country parish
in the flat, rich middle of England-I mentally saw within
reach what I had never yet beheld with my bodily eyes; I
saw London.
The next day I returned to the hall, and asking once more
to see the housekeeper, I communicated to her my plan.
Mrs. Barrett was a grave, judicious woman, though she
knew little more of the world than myself; but grave and
judicious as she was, she did not charge me with being out
of my senses: and, indeed, I had a staid manner of my own
which ere now had been as good to me as cloak and hood of
hodden gray; since under its favor I had been enabled to
achieve with impunity, and even approbation, deeds that if
attempted with an excited and unsettled air, would in some
minds have stamped me as a dreamer and a zealot.
The housekeeper was slowly propounding some difficulties,
while she prepared orange-rind for marmalade, when a child
ran past the window and came bcunding into the room. It
was a pretty child, and as it danced, laughing, up to mefbr we were not strangers (nor; indeed, was its mother-a
young married daughter of the house-a stranger)-I took
it on my knee.  Different as were our social positions now,
this child's mother and I had been schoolfellows, when I was
a girl of ten and she a young lady of sixteen; and I remembered her-good-looking, but dull-in a lower class than
mine.
I was admiring the boy's handsome dark eyes, when the
mother, young Mrs. Leigh, entered.  What a beautiful and
kind-looking woman was the good-natured and comely, but
unintellectual girl become! Wifehood and maternity had
changed her thus, as I have since seen them change others
even less promising than she.  Me she had forgotten.  I
was changed too; though not, I fear, for the better.  I made
no attempt to recall myself to her memory: why should T 
She came for her son to accompany her in a walk, and be
hind her followed a nurse carrying an infant.  I only men.
tion the incident because, in addressing the nurse, Mrs. Leigh
spoke French (very bad French, by the way, and with an
incorrigibly bad accent, again forcibly reminding me of our
school-days); and I found the woman was a foreigner.  The
little boy clattered volubly in French too.  When the whole
C




42                      VILLETTE.
party were wit ldrawn, Mrs. Barrett remarked that her young
lady hlad brought that foreign nurse home with her two years
ago, onl her return from  a Continental excursion; that she
was treated almost as well as a governess, and had nothing
to do but walk out with the baby and chatter French with
Master Charles; " and," added Mrs. Barrett, " she says there
are many Englishwomen in foreign families as well placed a?
she."
I stored up this piece of casual information, as Girefil
housewives store seemingly worthless shreds and fragments
for which their prescient minds anticipate a possible use some
day.  Before I left my old friend, she gave me the address of
a respectable old-fashioned inn in the city, which, she said,
my uncles used to frequent in former days
In going to London, I ran less risk and evinced less enterprise than the reader may think.  In fact, the distance was
only fifty miles.  My means would suffice both to take me
there, to keep me a few days, and also to bring me back if I
found no inducement to stay.  I regarded it as a brief holiday, permitted for once to work-weary faculties, rather than
as an adventure of life and death.  There is nothing like
taking all you do at a moderate estimate; it keeps mind and
body tranquil; whereas grandiloquent notions are apt to hurry
both into lever.
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, lies now, at last white, under a white cap, like
Enow beneath snow.)  About nine o'clock of a wet February
night I reached London.
My reader, I know, is one who would not thank me for an
elaborate reproduction of poetic first impressions; and it is
well, inasmuch as I 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 of which the vastness andl
the strangeness tried to the utmost any powers of clear thought
and steady self:possession with which, in the absence of moru
brilliant faculties, Nature might have gifted me.
When I left the coach, the strange speeeh of the cabnmel
and others waiting round, seemed to me odd as a toreiga
tongue.  I had never before heard  the English language
chopped up in that way. However, I managed to understand




TURrNING  A NEW  LIEAF.                   43
and to b  understood, so far as to get mysef and trunk eafel1
conveyed;o tie old inn whereof I had the address.  How
difficult, how oppressive, how  puzzling seemed my flight I
In London for the first time; at an inn for the first time;
tired with travelling; confused with darkness; palsied with
cold, unfurnished with either experience or advice to tell me
how to act, and yet-to act obliged.
Into the hands of Common-sense I confided the matter.
Common-sense, however, was as chilled and bewildered as all
my other faculties, and it was only under the spur of an inexorable necessity that she spasmodically executed her trust
Thus urged, she paid the porter: considering the crisis, I did
not blame her too much that she was hugely cheated; she
asked the waiter for a room; she timorously called for the
chambermaid; what is far more, she bore, without being
wholly overcome, a highly supercilious style of demeanor from
that young lady, when she appeared.
I recollect this same chambermaid was a pattern of town
prettiness and smartness.  So trim  her waist, her cap, her
dress-I wondered how  they had all been manufactured
Her speech had an accent which in its mincing glibnesa
seemed to rebuke mine as by.authority; her spruce attire
flaunted an easy scorn at my plain country garb.
"Well, it can't be helped," I thought, " and then the scene
is new, and the circumstances; I shall gain good."
Maintaining a very quiet manner towards this arrogant
little maid, and subsequently observing the same towards the
parsonic-looking, black-coated, white-neckelothed waiter, I got
civility from them ere long. I believe at first they thought I was
a servant; but in a little while they changed their minds, and
hovered in a doubtful state between patronage and politeness.
I kept up well till I had partaken of some refreshment,
warmed myself by a fire, and was fairly shut into my own
room; but, as I sat down by the bed and rested my head and
arms on the pillow, a terrible oppression overcame me.  Al
at once my position rose on me like a ghost. Anomalous
desolate, almost blank of hope, it stood.  What was I doing
here alone in great London?  What should I do on the mor.
row?  What prospects had I in life?  What friends had I
on earth?  Whence did I come?  Whither should I go 9
What should I do?




44                     VILLE ~TE
] wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing
teals.  A dark interval of most bitter thought followed this
burst; but I did not regret the step taken, nor wish to retract
it. A strong, vague persuasion, that it was better to go for'
ward than backward, and that I could go forward-that a
way, however narrow and difficult, would in time open, predominated over other feelings: its influence hushed them so
tar, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil to be able to
say my prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished
my candle and lain down, when a deep, low, mighty tone
swung through the night.  At first I knew it not; but it was
uttered twelve times, and at the twelfth colossal hum  and
trembling knell, I said; "I lie in the shadow of St. Paul's"
CHAPTER VI
LONDON
TIE next day was the first of March, and when I awoke,
rose, and opened my curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling
through fog.  Above my head, above the house-tops, co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a solemn, orbed mass,
dark-blue and dim-THE DOME.  While I looked, my innei
self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings halt
loose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who had never yet truly
lived, were at last about to taste life: in that morning my
soul grew as fast as Jonah'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 1
feel around me.  W5ho but a coward would pass his whole
life in hamlets, and for ever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?"
Being dressed, I went down, not travel-worn and exhausted,
but tidy and; refreshed. When the waiter came in with my
breakfast, I managed to accost him sedately, yet cheecfiully;
we had ten minutes' discourse, in the course of which we be
Tame  usefully known to each other




LOiNDON.                        45
He was a gray-haired, elderly man; and, it seermed, had
lived in his present place twenty years. Having ascertained
this, I was sure he must remember my two uncles, Charles
and Wilmot, who, fifteen years ago, were frequent visitors
here.  I mentioned their names; he recalled them perfectly,
and with respect.  Having intimated my connexion, my position in his eyes was henceforth clear, and on a right footing.
I.e said I was like my Uncle Charles: I suppose he spoke
truth, because Mrs. Barrett was accustomed to say the same
thing. A ready and obliging courtesy now replaced his for
mer uncomfortably doubtful manner: henceforth I need no
longer be at a loss for a civil answer to a 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 as one sees in provincial towns: here was
nothing formidable; I felt sure I 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 I found myself in Patornoster-row
-classic ground this.  1 entered a bookseller's shop, kept by
one Jones; I bought a little book-a piece of extravagance I
could ill afford; but I thought I would one day give or 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 the happiest, of beings.
Prodigious was the amount of life I lived that morning.
Finding myself before St. Paul's, I went in; I mounted to
the dome: I saw  thence London, with its river, and its
bridges, and its churches; I saw antique Westminster, and
the green Temple Gardens, with sun upon them, and; a glad,
Dlue 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 still ecstacy of freedom  and enjoyment; and I got —
know not how —  got into the heart of city life.  I saw and
felt London at last: I got into the Strand; I went up Cornhill; I mixed with the life passing along; I dared 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 1
ove the city far better.  The city seems so much more in




4G                     VILLETTE.
earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things
sights and sounds.  The city is getting its livinr-the West
cud but enjoying its pleasure.  At the West-end you may be
amused, but inthe city you are deeply excited.
Faint, at last, and hungry (it was years since I had fell
such healthy hunger), I returned, about two o'clock, to my
dark, old, and quiet inn.  I Fined on two dishes-a plain
oint, and vegetables; both seemed excellent (how  much
better than the small, dainty messes Miss Marchmont's cook
used to send up to my kind, dead mistress and me, and to the
discussion of which we could not bring half' an appetite between us).  Delightfully tired, I lay down on three chairs for
an hour (the room did not boast of a sofa).  I slept, then I
woke and thought for two hours.
My state of mind, and all accompanying circumstances,
were just now such as most to favor the adoption of a new,
resolute, and daring-perhaps desperate-line of action.  I
had nothing to lose..Unutterable loathing of a desolate existence past forbade return. If I failed in what I now designed to undertake, who, save myself, would suffer? If I
died far away from-home; I was going to say, but I had no
home —from England, then, who would weep?
I might suffer; I was inured to suffering; death itself had
not, I thought, those terrors for me which it has for the softly
reared.  I had, 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.
information respecting the sailing vessels for a certain continental port, Bone-Marine.  No time, I found, was to be lost:
that very night I must take my berth.  I might, indeed.
have waited till the morning before going on board, but would
not run the risk of being too late.
"Better take your berth at once, ma'am," counselled the
waiter.  I agreed with him, and having discharged my bill,
and acknowledged my friend's services at a rate which I now
know was princely, and which in his eyes must have seemed
absurd-and indeed, while pocketing the cash, he sniled a
faint smile which intimated his opinion of the donor's savoirfaire-he preceeded to call a coach.  To the driver he aiSa
recommended me, giving at the same time an injunction




LONDON.                         47
about taking me, I think, to the wharf, and not leaving me
to the watermen; which that finctionary promised to observe,
but failed in keeping 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 a throng of watermen.
This was an uncomfortable crisis. It was a dark night
The coachman instantly drove off as soon as he had got his
fare; the watermen commenced a struggle for me and my
trunk.  Their oaths I hear at this moment; they shook my
philosophy more than did the night, or the isolation, or the
strangeness of the scene.  One laid hands on my trunk.  I
looked on and waited patiently; but when another laid hands
on me, I spoke up, shook off his touch, stepped at once into a
boat, desired austerely that the trunk should be placed beside
me —" Just there," —which was instantly done; for the owner
of the boat I had chosen became now an ally: I was rowed of:
Black was the river as a torrent of ink: lights glanced on
it from the piles of building round, ships rocked on its bosom.
T'hey rowed me up to several vessels; I read by lantern-light
their names painted in great, white letters on a dark ground.
"The Ocean," "The Phoenix," "The Consort," "The Dolphin," were passed in turns; but " The Vivid" was my ship,
and it seemed she lay further down.
Down the sable flood we glided; I thought of the Styx,
and of Charon rowing some solitary soul to the Land of Shades.
Amidst the strange scene, with a chilly wind blowing in my
face, and midnight clouds dropping rain above my head; with
two rude rowers for my companions, whose insane oaths still
tortured my ear, I asked myself if I was wretched or terrified.
I was neither.  Often in my life have I been far more so under comparatively safe circumstances. " How is this?" said 1.
" Methinks I am animated and alert, instead of being depressed
and apprehensive?"  I could not tell how it was.
"THE VIVID" started out, white and glaring, from the black
night at last.  "Here you are!" said the waterman, and he
instantly demanded six shillings.
"You ask too much," I said.  He drew off from the vessel
and swore he would not embark me till I paid it. A young
man, the steward as I found afterwards, was looking over the
ship's side; he grinned a smile in anticipation of the coming
eoutest; to disappoint him, I paid the money.  Three times




48                     VI LLETTE.
that afternoon I had given crowns where I should have gi Ven
shillings; but I consoled myself with the reflection,' It is
the price of experience."
"They've cheated you!" said the steward exultingly, when
I got on board.  I answered phlegmatically that " I knew it,"
and went below.
A stout, handsome, and showy woman was in the ladies'
cabin; I asked to be shown my berth; she looked hard at
me, muttered something about its being unusual for passengers to come on board at that hour, and seemed 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 of victory was won: my homeless, anchorless,
unsupported mind had again leisure for a brief repose: till the
"Vivid" arrived in harbor, no further action would be required of me, but then.... Oh! I could not look forward.
Harrassed, 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 cabin continually: they disputed, they quarrelled, they made it up again twenty times in the course of
the night.  She professed to be writing a letter 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,
and bore special reference to one " Charlotte," a younger sister, who, from the beating of the epistle, seemed to be on the
brink of perpetrating a romantic and imprudent match; loud
was the protest of the elder la'y against the distasteful union.
The dutiful son laughed his mother's correspondence to scorn.
She defended it, and raved at him. They were a strange pair.
She might be thirty-nine or forty, and was buxom and bloom.
ing as a girl of twenty.  Hard, loud, vain and vulgar, her
mind and body alike seemed brazen and imperishable.  1
should think, from her childhood, she must have lived in public stations; and in her youth might very likely have been a
ba.r-maid.




LONDON.                          49
Towards morning ner discourse ran on a new theme: "' ne
Watsons," a certain expected family-party of passengers,
Known to her, it appeared, and by her much esteemed on account of the handsome profit realized in their fees.  She said,
" it was as good as a little fortune to 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 stewrdess to the " Watsons," and great was the bustle made in
their honor. They were four in number, two males and two
females.  Besides them, there was but one other passengera young lady, whom  a gentlemanly, though languid-looking
man escorted.  The two groups offered a marked contrast.
The Watsons were doubtless rich people, for they had the
confidence of conscious wealth in their bearing; the womenyouthful both of them, and one perfectly handsome, as far as
physical beauty went-were dressed richly, gaily, and ab.
surdly out of character for the circumstances.  Their bon'
nets with bright flowers, their velvet cloaks and silk dresses
seemed better suited for park or promenade than.for a damp
packet-deck.  The men were of low stature, plain, fat, and
vulgar; the oldest, plainest, greasiest, broadest, I soon found
was the husband-the bride-groom  I suppose, for she was
very young-of the beautiful girl.  Deep was my amazement
at this discovery; and deeper still when I perceived that, instead of being desperately wretched in such a union, she was
gay even to giddiness.  "Her laughter," I reflected, "must
be the mere frenzy of despair." And even while this thought
was crossing rry mind, as I stood leaning quiet and solitary
against the ship's side, she came tripping up to me, an utter
stranger, with a camp stool in her hand, and smiling a smile
of which the levity puzzled and startled me, though it showed
a perfect set of perfect teeth, she offered me the accommodation of this piece of furniture. I declined it, of course
with all the courtesy I could put into my manner; she danced
off heedless and lightsome.  She must have been good-natured; but what had made her marry that individual, who
was at least as much like an oil-barrel as a man?
The other lady-passenger, with the gentleman-coinpanion,
was quite a girl, pretty and fair; her simple print dress, untTirnrmed straw  bonnet, and large shawl, gracefllly worn,
C 3




50                    VILLETTE.
formed a costume plain to quakerisrn; yet, for her, becoining
enough.  Before the gentleman quitted her, I observed him
throwing a glance of scrutiny over all the passengers, as if to
ascertain in what company his charge would be left. WVith
a most dissatisfied air did his eye turn from the ladies with
the gay flowers: he looked at me, and then he spoke to his
daughter, niece, or whatever she was; she also glanced in my
direction, and slightly curled her short, pretty lip  It might
be myself, or it might be my homely mourning-habit that
elicited this mark of contempt; more likely, both. A bell
rang; her father (I afterwards knew that it was her father)
kissed her and returned to land. The packet sailed.
Foreigners say that it is only English girls who can thus
be trusted to travel alone, and deep is their wonder at the
daring confidence of English parents and guardians.  As for
the "jeunes Miss," by some their intrepidity is pronounced
masculine and " inconvenant," others regard them as the passive victims of an educational and theological system which
wantonly dispenses with proper "surveillance."   Whether
this particular young lady was of the sort that can the most
safely be left unwatched, I do not know: or rather did not
then know; but it soon appeared that the dignity of solitude
was not to her taste.  She paced the deck once or twice backwards and forwards; she looked with a little sour air of disdain at the flaunting silks and velvets, and the bears which
thereon danced attendance, and eventually she 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 to
undergo the test of experience: I had never made one.
" Oh how charming!" cried she. " I quite envy you the
novelty: first impressions, you know, are so pleasant. Now I
have made so many, i quite forget the first: I am quite blasce
about the sea and all that."
[ could not help smiling.
"Why do you laugh at me?" she inquired, with a frank
testiness that pleased me better than her other talk.
" Because you are so young to be blasee about anything."
"I am seventeen" (a little piqued'.
" You hardly look sixteen.  Do yea like travelling alone?"
"Bah! I care nothing about it.  I have crossed the Chaan




'L ON'D ON.                     51.nel ten times, alone; but then I take care never to be long
alone: I always make friends."
"You will scarcely make many friends this voyage, I think"
(glancing at the Watson-group, who were now laughing and
making a great deal of noise on deck).
"Not of those odious men and women," said she: " such
people should be steerage passengers.   Are you going to
school?"
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"I have not the least idea-beyond, at least, the port of
Bouernarine."
She stared, then carelessly ran on:
" I am going to school. Oh, the number of foreign schools
I have been at 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 dance beautifully,-and French and
G erman of course I know, to speak; but I can't read or write
them very well.  Do you know they wanted me to translate
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 god-papa, who pays all my
school-bills-had thrown away all his money.  And then, in
matters of information-in history, geography, arithmetic, and
so on, I am quite a baby; and I write English so badlysuch spelling and grammar, they tell me. Into the bargain
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:
don't well 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 handsome  students.
Every nice girl in our school had an admirer; they knew
our hours for walking out, and almost always passed us on
the promenade:' Schones Madchen,' we used to hear them
say. I was excessively happy at Bonn!"'And where are you now 2" I inquired.' Oh! at-chose," said she.
Now Miss Ginevra Fanshawe (such was this young per.
son's name) only substituted this word "chose" in temporary
oblivion of the real name.  It was a habit she had: " chose




52                    VILLETTE.
carme in at every turn in her conversation —the convenient
substitute fbr any missing word in any language she might
chance at the time to be speaking.  French girls often do the
like; from  them  she had caught the custom.  " Chose,"
however, I found, in this instance, stood for Villette —the
great capital of the great kingdom of Labassecour.
" Do you like Villette?" I asked.
"Pretty well. The natives, you know, are intensely stupiu
nd 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 mattresses or the professeurs, or the eleves,
and send lessons au diable; (one daren't say that in English,
you know, but it sounds quite right in French,) and thus I get
on charmingly...You are laughing at me again V"
" No-I am only smiling at my own thoughts."
"WThat are they?" (without waiting for an answer)"Now do tell me where you are going."
"Where Fate may lead me. My business is to earn a
living where I can find it."
" To earn!" (in consternation) "are you poor then?"
" As poor as Job."
(After a pause) "Balh! how unpleasant!  But I know
what it is to be poor: they are poor enough at home-papa
and mamma, and all of them.  Papa is called Captain Fanshawe; he is an officer on half-pay, but well-descended, and
some of our connections are great enough; but my uncle and
god-papa De Bassompierre, who lives in France, is the only
one that helps us: he educates us girls.:I have five sisters
and three brothers.  By-and-by we are to marry-rather
elderly gentlemen, I suppose, with cash: papa and mamma
manage that.  My sister Augusta is married now to a man
much older-looking than papa.  Augusta is very beautiful —
not in my style-but dark; her husband, Mr. Davies, had
the yellow fever in India, and he is still the color of a guinea;
but then he is rich, and Augusta has her carriage and estab.
ishment, and we all think she has done perfectly well. Now
this is better than'earning r  living,' as you say.  By-theway, are you clever?"




LONDON                           53
" No-not at all."
"You can play, sing, speak three or feir languages t
"By no means,"
"Still I think you are clever" (a pause and a yt,-}' Shall you be sea-sick?"
"Shall you?"
"Oh, immensely! as soon as ever we get in sight of thi
sea: I begin, indeed, to feel it already.  I shall go below
and won't I order about that fat, odious stewardess.  lieu
reusement je sais faire alier mon monde." Down she went.
It was not long before the other passengers followed her 
throughout the afternoon I remained on deck alone.  When I
recall the tranquil, and even happy mood in which I passed
those hours, and remember at the same time, the position in
which I was placed: its hazardous-some would 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; so long, especially, as Liberty lends us her wings,
and Hope guides us by her star.
I was not sick till long after we passed Margate, and deep
was the pleasure I drank in with the sea-breeze; divine the
delight I drew from the heaving channel-waves, from the sea.
birds on their ridges, from  the white sails on their dark dis.
tance, firom the quiet yet beclouded sky, overhanging all.  In
my reverie, methought I saw the continent of Europe, like a
wide-dream land, far away.  Sunshine lay on it, making the
long coast one line of gold; tiniest tracery of clustered town
and snow-gleaming tower, of woods deep-massed, of heights
ierrated, of smooth pasturage and veiny stream, embossed the
netal-bright prospect.  For back-ground, spread a sky, solemn
and dark-blue, and-grand with imperial promise, soft with
tints of enchantment-strode from north to south a God-bent
bow, an arch of hope.
Cancel the whole of that, if you please, reader — or rather
let it stand, and draw thence a moral —an alliterative text
hand copy



54                     VILLETTE.
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 selfish
ness during the whole time of our mutual distress. Nothing
could exceed her impatience and fretfulness.  The Watsons,
who were very sick too, and on whom the stewardess attended
with shameless partiality, were stoics compared with her.
Many a time since have I noticed, in persons of'Ginevra Fanshawe's light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style of
beauty, an entire incapacity to endure: they seem to sour in
adversity, like small-beer in thunder: the man who takes
such a woman for his wife, ought to be prepared to guarantee
her an existence all sunshine.  Indignant at last with her
teazing peevishness, I curtly requested her "to hold her
tongue."  The rebuff did her good, and it was observable
that she liked me no worse for it.
As dark night drew on, the sea roughened: larger waves
swayed strong against the vessel's side.  It was strange to reflect that blackness and water were round us, and to feel the
ship ploughing straight on her pathless way, despite noise,
billow, and rising gale.  Articles of furniture began to fali
about, and it became needful to lash them to their places;
the passengers grew sicker than ever; Miss Fanshawe declared 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;
my difficulties —my stringent difficulties - recommenced
When I went on deck the cold air and black scowl of the night
seemed to rebuke me for my presumption in being where I
was: the lights of the foreign sea-port town, glimmering round
the foreign harbor, met me like unnumbered threatening eyes.
Friends came on board to welcome the Watsons; a whole
family of friends surrounded and bore away Miss Fanshawe;
I -       but I dared not for one moment dwell on a comparison
of positions.
Yet where should I go? I must go somewhere. Necessity
dare not be nice.  As t gave the stewardess her fee-and she




VIL LETTE. 5H
semed surprised at receiving a coin of more value than, fiom
such a quarter, her coarse calculations had probably reckoned
on —-I said:
" Be kind enough to direct me to some quiet, respectable
inn, where I can go for the night."
She net only gave me the required direction, but called a
commissionaire, and bid him  take charge of me, and-not
ray trunk, for that was gone to the custom-house.
I followed this man along a rudely-paved street, lit now
by a fitful gleam 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 a shilling; but this also he declined, speaking rather sharply, in a language to me unknown.
A waiter, coming forward into the lamp-lit inn-passage, reminded me, in broken English, that my money was foreign
money, not current here. I gave him a sovereign to change.
This little matter settled, I asked for a bed-room; supper I
Could not take: I was still sea-sick and unnerved, and trembling all over.  How deeply glad I was when the door of a
very small chamber at length closed on me and my exhaustion.  Again I might rest: though the cloud of doubt would
be as thick to-morrow  as ever; the necessity for exertion
more urgent, the peril (of destitution) nearer, the conflict
(for existence) more severe.
CHAPTER  VII.
VILLETTE.
I AWOKE next morning with courage revived and spirits
refreshed: physical debility no longer enervated my judgment; my mind felt prompt and clear.
Just as I finished dressing, a tap came to the door; I said,
"Come in," expecting the chambermaid, whereas a rough
aan walked in and said"Gif me your keys, MeesF
"Why  " I asked




56                    VIL LE T TE.
" 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 last night, viz., that this inn was, in fact, a large
hotel; and as I slowly descended the broad staircase, halting
on each step (for I was in wonderfully little haste to get
down), I gazed at the high ceiling above me, at the painted
walls around, at the wide windows which filled the house
with light, at the veined marble I trode (for the steps were
all of marble, though uncarpeted and not very clean), and
contrasting all this with the dimensions of the closet assigned
to me as a chamber, with the extreme modesty of its appointments, I fell into a philosophising mood.
Much I marveled at the sagacity evinced by waiters and
chambermaids in proportioning the accommodation to the
guest.  How could inn-servants and ship-stewardesses everywhere tell at a glance that I, for instance, was an individual
of no social significance and little burdened by cash?  They
did know it, evidently: I saw quite well that they all, in a
moment's calculation, estimated me at about the' same fractional value. The fact seemed to me curious and pregnant:
I would not disguise from myself what it indicated, yet managed to keep up my spirits pretty well under its pressure.
Having at last landed in a great hall, full of sky-light glare,
I made my way somehow to what proved to be the coffeeroom.  It cannot be denied that on entering this room  I
trembled  somewhat; felt uncertain, solitary, wretched;
wished to Heaven I knew whether I was doing right oi
wrong; felt convinced it was the last, but could not help
myself. Acting in the spirit and with the calm of a fatalist,
I sat down at a small table, to which a waiter presently
brought me some breakfast; and I partook of that meal in
a frame of mind not greatly calculated to favor digestion.
There were many other people breakfasting at other tables il
the room; I should have felt rather more 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
T was doing anything strange; one or two gentlemen glanced




VILLET TE.                       57
at me occasionally, but none stared obtrusively: I suppose if
there was anything eccentric in the business, they accounted
for it by this word " Anglaise!"
Breakfast over, I must again move-in what direction I
"Go to Villette," said an inward voice; prompted doubtless
Dy the recollection of this slight sentence uttered carelessly
and at random by Miks Fanshawe, as she bid me good-bye:
" I wish you would come to Madame Beck's; she has some
marmots whom you might look after: she wants an English'ouvernante, or was wanting one two months ago.:'
Who Madame Beck was, where she lived, I knew not; 1
had asked, but the question passed unheard; Miss Fanshawe,
hurried away by her friends, left it unanswered. I presumed
Villette to be her residence-to Villette I would go. The
distance was forty miles.  I knew I was catching at straws;
but in the wide and weltering deep where I found myself, I
would have caught at cobwebs.  Having inquired about the
means of traveling to Villette, and secured a seat in the diligence, I departed on the strength of this outline-this shadow
o, a project.  Before you pronounce on the rashness of the
proceeding, reader, look back to the point whence I started;
consider the desert I had left, note how little I perilled: mine
was the game where the player cannot lose and may win.
Of an artistic temperament, I deny that I amr; yet I must
possess something of the artist's faculty of making the most
of present pleasure: that is to say, when it is of the kind to
my taste; I enjoyed that day, though we traveled slowly,
though it was cold, though it rained. Somewhat bare, flat,
and treeless was the route along which our journey lay; and
slimy canals crept, like half-torpid green snakes, beside the
road; and formal pollard willows edged level fields, tilled
like kitchen-garden beds.  The sky too was monotonously
gray; the atmosphere was stagnant and humid; yet amidst
all these deadening influences, my fancy budded fresh and my
heart basked in sunshine.  These feelings, however, were
well kept in check by the secret but ceaseless consciousness
of anxiety lying in wait on enjoyment, like a tiger crouched
in a jangle.  The breathing of that beast of prey was in my
ear always; his fierce heart panted close against mine; he
never stirred in his lair but I felt him: I knew he waited
onlr for sun-down to bound ravenous from his ambush




5,8                     ILLETTE.
I had hoped we might reach Villette ere night sat in, and
thit thus I might escape the deeper embarrassment which
obscurity seems to throw round a first arrival at an unknown
bourne; but, what with our slow progress and long stoppages
— what with a thick fog and small, dense rain-darkness that
might almost be felt, had settled on the city by the time we
gained its suburbs.
I know we passed through a gate where soldiers were stationed —so much I could see by lamplight; then, having left
behind us the miry Chaussee, we rattled over a pavement of
strangely rough and flinty surface.  At a bureau, the dili
gence stopped, and the passengers alighted. My first business
was to get my trunk: a small matter enough, but important
to me. Understanding that it was best not to be importunate
or over-eager about luggage, but to wait and watch quietly
the delivery of other boxes till I saw my own, and then
promptly claim and secure it, I stood apart; my eye fixed on
that part of the vehicle in which I had seen my little port
manteau safely stowed, and upon which 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 had tied on the direction card with a piece of green ribbon, that I might know it
at a glance: not a fringe or fragment of green was perceptible.
Every package was removed: every tin-case and brown paper
parcel; the oil-cloth cover was lifted; I saw with distinct
vision that iiot an umbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box
remained.
And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocketbook enclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where
were they?
I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could
say nothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of speaking
French: and it was French, and French only, the whole
world seemed now gabbling round me.  What should I do?
Approaching the conductor, I just laid my hand on his arm,
pointed to a trunk, then to the diligence-roof, and tried to
express a question with my eyes.- le misunderstood me,
seized the trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the
vehicle.' Let that alone-will you?" said a voice in good English*




VILLETTE.                         59
then, in correction, " Qu'est-ce que vous faites done?  Cette
inalle est'a moi,"
But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my
heart; T turned:
"Sir," said I, appealing to the stranger, without in my dis.
tirss noticing what he was like, "I cannot speak French.
Miay I entreat you to ask this man what he has done with
my trunk?"
Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face
it was to which my eyes were raised and on which tho. were
fixed, I felt in its expression half-surprise at my appeal and
half-doubt of the wisdom of interference.
" 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 or terrifying," What sort of a trunk was yours?"
I described it, including in my description the green ribbon
And forthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt,
through all the storm of French which followed, that he had
raked him fore and aft.  Presently he returned to me.
" The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he
removed your trunk after you saw it put on, and has left it
behind at Boue-Marine with other parcels; he has promised,
however, to forward it to-morrow; the day after, therefore.
you will find it safe at this bureau."
" Thank you," said I: but my heart sank.
Meantime what should I do?  Perhaps this English genileman saw the failure of courage in my face; he inquired
kindly:
" Have you any friends 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 more fully 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 I knew: nature had made him
good enough for a prince, I thought.  His face was very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but not over
bearing. I was turning away in the deep consciousness of all
absence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he.
"'Was all your money in your trunk?" he asked, stopping
mEe.




GO                       VILLETTE.
How thankful was I to be able to answer with truth, —
" No.  I have enough in my purse" (for I had near twenty
francs) " to keep me at a quiet inn till the day after to-morrow; but I am  quite a stranger in VLlette, and don't know
the streets and the inns."
" I can give you the address of such an inn as you want,'
said he; " and it is not far off: with my direction you will
easily find it."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words an)
gave to me.  I did think him  kind; and as to distrusting
him, or his advice, or his address, I should almost as soon have
thought of distrusting the Bible. There was goodness in his
countenance, and honor in his bright eyes.
"Your shortest way will he to follow the boulevard, and
cross the park,' he continued; but it is too la'6 and too dark
for a woman to go through the park alone; I will step with
you thus far."
He moved on, and I followed him, throu,h the darkness
and small soaking rain. The boulevard wab all deserted, its
path miry, the water dripping from its tree.,; the park was
black as midnight.  In the double gloom of trees and fog, I
could not see my guide; I could only follow his tread.  Not
the least fear had I; I believe I would have followed that
frank tread, through continual night, to the world's end.
" Now," said he, when the park was traversed, " you will
go along this broad street till you come to steps; two lamps
will show you where they are: these steps you will descend:
a narrower street lies below; following that, at the bottom
you will find your inn. They speak English there, so your
difficulties are now pretty well over.  Good night."
"Good-night, sir," said I: "accept my sincerest thanks."
And we parted.
The remembrance of his countenance, which I am  sure
wore a light not unbenignant to the friendless-the sound in
my ear of his voice, which spoke a nature chivalric to the
needy and feeble, as well as the youthful and fair-were a
s rt of cordial to me long after.  He was a true young
English gentleman.
On I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and
square, with the grandest houses round, and amidst them the
huge outline of more than one overbearing pile ~ which might








It''                                        Ii  N......
PENSIONNAT DE DEMOISELLES.




VILLETTE.                         61
rDe palace or churchl-    could not tell.  Just as I passed a
portico, two moustachioed men came suddenly from behili tih
pillars; they were smoking cigars, their dress implied pre.
tensions to the rank of gentlemen, but, poor things! they were
very plebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, and, fast as
I walked, they kept pace with me a long way.  At last I
met a sert of patrol, and my dreaded hunters were turned
from the pursuit; but they had driven me beyond my reckoning: when I could collect my faculties, I no longer knew
where I was; the staircase I must long since have passed;
puzzled, out of breath, all my pulses throbbing in inevita.
ble agitation, I knew not where to turn.  It was terrible to
think of again encountering those bearded, sneering simpletons; yet the ground must be retraced, and the steps sought out
I came at last to an old and worn flight, and, taking it for
granted that this must be the one indicated, I descended them.
The street into which they led was indeed narrow, but it contained no inn. On I wandered. In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-paved street, 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 inn at last. I hastened on: my
knees now trembled under me: I was getting quite exhausted.
No inn was this.  A  brass-plate embellished the great
Porte-cochere; "Pensionnat de Demoiselles" was the inscription; and beneath, a name, " Madame Beck."
I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my
mind in a moment.  Yet I planned nothing, and considered
nothing: I had no time.  Providence said, "Stop here; this
is your inn."  Fate took me in her strong hand; mastered
my will; directed my actions: I rung the door-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 their shapes, and the glitter of wet on their
angles.  I rang again.  They opened at last.  A bonne in a
smart cap stood before rie.
" May I see Madame Beck?" I inquirel.
I believe if I had spoken French she would not have
admitted me; but, as I spoke English, she concluded I was a
fbreign teacher come on business connected with the Pensionnat, and, even at that late hour, she let me in, without a word
of reluctance or a moment of hesitation.




62                    VILLETTE.
The next moment I sat in  a  cold, glittering salon
with  porcelain  stove  unlit, and  gilded  ornaments,. and
polished floor.  A pendule on the mantel-piece struck nine
oclock.
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 the door-a great white folding-door,
with gilt mouldings: I watched to see 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, so unexpected was the sound; so certain had I been
of solitude.
No ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect;
merely a motherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a
wrapping-gown, and a clean, trim night-cap.
I said I was English, and immediately, without further
prelude, we fell to a most remarkable conversation.  Madame
Beck (for Madame Beck it was-she had entered by a little
door behind me, and, being shod with the shoes of silence, I
had heard neither her entrance nor approach)-Madame
Beck had exhausted her command of insular speech when she
said "You ayre Engliss," and she now proceeded to work
away volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She
partly understood me, but as I did not at all understand herthough we made together an awful clamor (anything like
madame's gift of utterance I had not hitherto heard or irnagined)-we achieved little progress.  She rang, ere long, for
aid; which arrived in the shape of a "maitresse," who had
been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed
a perfect adept in the English language.  A bluff little personage this maitresse was-Labassecourienne from top to toe:
and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However,
I told her a plain tale, which she translated. I told her how
I had left my own country, intent on extending my knowl
edge, and gaining my bread; how I was ready to turn my
hand to any useful thing, provided it.was not wrong or degrading: how I would be a child's-nurse or a lady's-maid, and
would not refuse even housework adapted to my strength.
aIadame heard this; and, questioning her countenance, ]
almost thought the tale won her ear:




ViLLETTE.                         63
" l n'y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d'cntreprises,"
said she: " sont-elles done intrepides ces femmes la!"
She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at menot pityingly, not with interest: never a gleam of sympathy,
or a shade of compassion, crossed her countenance during the
interview. I felt she was not one to be led an inch by her
feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed, consulting her
iudgment and studying my narrative.  A bell rang.
" Voila pour la priere du soir!" said she, and rose. Through
her interpreter, she desired me to depart now, and come back
on the morrow; but this did not suit me: I could not bear to
return to the perils of darkness and the street.  WTith energy,
yet with a collected and controlled manner, I said, addressing
herself personally, and not the maitresse:' Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing my setvices, your interests will be served and not injured: you will
find me one who will wish to give, in her labor, a full equivalent for her wages; and if you hire me, it will be better that
I should stay here this night: having no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing the language 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.  She mused.  At that moment a man's step was
heard in the vestibule, hastily proceeding to the outer door
(I shall go on with this part of my tale as if I had understood
all that passed; for though it was then scarce intelligible to:Te, I heard it translated afterwards).
" Who goes out now?" demanded Madame Beck, listening
(o the tread.
" M. Paul," replied the teacher.  " He came this evening
to give a reading 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. Ie entered: a small, dark and spare man, in spectacles.
" Mon cousin," began madame, "I want your opinion. WVe
know your skill in physiognomy; use it now.  Read that
countenance."
D




GC'1      ~      VILLETTE.
The little ilan fixed on me his spectacles.  A  resclute
compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to
say that he meant to see 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 tale full 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 last came,
was as indefinite as what had gone before it.
"Engage her.  If good predominates in that nature, the
action will bring its own reward; if evil-eh bien! ma
cousine, ce sera toujours une bonne esuvre." And with a
bow and a " bon soir," this vague arbiter of my destiny van.
ished.  And madame did engage me that very night-by
God's blessing I was spared the necessity of passing forth
again into the lonesome, dreary, hostile street.




MADAME BECK.                         65
CHAPTER  VIII.
MADAME BECK.
BEING delivered into the charge of the maltresse, I was
leci through a long, narrow passage into a foreign kitchen,
very clean but very strange.  It seemed to contain no means
of cooking-neither fireplace nor oven; I did not understand
that the great black furnace which filled one corner, was an,efficient substitute for these.  Surely pride was not beginning
its whispers in my heart; yet I felt a senlse of relief when:
instead of being left in the kitchen, as I half-anticipated, I
was led forward to a small inner room termed a " cabinet.'
A cook in a jacket, a short petticoat and sabots, brought my
supper: to wit,-some meat, nature unknown, served in an
odd and acid, but pleasant sauce; some chopped potatoes,
-nade savory with, I know not what: vinegar and sufd? r, I
think; a tartine, or slice of bread and butter, and a;.' ed
pear.  Being hungry, I ate, and was grateful.
After the "Priere du Soir," madame herself came to r.nave
another look at me.  She desired me to follow her up-srLirs.
Through a series of the queerest little dormitories-whirh, I
heard afterwards, had once been nuns' cells: for the preirises
were in part of ancient date-and through the oratory-a
long, low, gloomy room, where a crucifix hung, pale, against
the wall, and two tapers kept dim vigils-she conducted me
to an apartment where three children were asleep in three
tiny beds. A heated stove made the air of this room oppressive; and, to mend matters, it was scented with an odor
rather strong than delicate: a perfume, indeed, altogetner
surprising and unexpected under the circumstances, being like
the combination of smoke with some spirituous essence-a
smell, in short, of whiskey.
Beside a table, on which flared the remnant of a canale
guttering to waste in the socket, a coarse woman, hetero.
geneously clad in a broad-striped showy silk dress and a stufi
apron, sat in a chair fast asleep.  To complete the picture,
and leave no doubt as to the state of matters, a bottle and aE
empty glass stood at the sleeping beauty's elbow.




66                   VILLETTE.
Madame contemplated this remarkable tableau with greal
calm; she neither smiled nor scowled: no impress of anger
disgust, or surprise, ruffled the equality of her grave aspect 
she did not even wake the woman.  Serenely pointing to a
fourth bed, she intimated that it was to be mine; then, having extinguished the candle and substituted for it a night.
lamp, she glided through an inner door, which she left ajar:
the entrance to her own chamber, a large, well-furnished
apartment; as was discernible through the aperture.
My devotions that night were all thanksgiving: strangely
had I been led since morning-unexpectedly had I been pro.
vided for. Scarcely could I believe that not forty-eight hours
had elapsed since I left London under no other guardianship
than that which protects the passenger-bird-with no prospect but the dubious cloud-tracery of hope.
I was a light sleeper; in the dead of night I suddenly
awoke. All was hushed, but a white figure stood in the room
— Madame in her night-dress.  Moving without perceptible
sound, she visited the three children in the three beds; she
approached me; I feigned sleep, and she studied me long. A
tnall pantomime ensued, curious enough. I dare say she sat
-1 quarter of an hour on the edge of my bed, gazing at my
face.  She then drew nearer, bent close over me; slightly
raised my cap, and turned back the border so as to expose my
nair; she looked at my hand lying on the bed-clothes.  This
done, she turned to the chair where my clothes lay: it was
at the foot of the bed. Hearing her touch and lift them, I
opened my eyes with precaution, for I own I felt curious to
see how far her taste for research would lead her. It led her
a good way: every article did she inspect.  I divined her
motive for this proceeding, viz., the wish to form from the
garments a judgment respecting the wearer, her station,
means, neatness, &c. The end was not bad, but the means
were hardly fair or justifiable.  In my dress was a pocket;
she fairly turned it inside out: she counted the money in my
purse; she opened a little memorandum-book, coolly perused
its contents, and took from between the leaves a small plaited
lock of Miss Marchmont's gray hair.  To a bunch of three
keys, being those of my trunk, desk, and work-box, she accorded special attention: with these, indeed, she withdrew a
moment to her own room.  I softly rose in my bed and fol



MADAME BECI.                        C7,lwCed  her with my eye: these keys, reader, wer- not L[oughl
back till they had left on the toilet of the adjoining room the
impress of their wards in wax.  All being thus done decently
and in order, my property was returned to its place, my
clothes were carefully refolded.  Of what nature were the
conclusions deduced from this scrutiny?  Were they favora.
ble or otherwise?  Vain question.  Madame's face of stone
(for of stone in its present night-aspect it looked: it had been
human, and, as I said before, motherly, in the salon) betraym
no response.
Her duty done-I felt that in her eyes this business was L
uuty-she rose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved towards her
own chamber; at the door she turned, fixing her eye on the
heroine of the bottle, who still slept and loudly snored.  Mrs.
Svini (I presume this was Mrs. Svini, Anglice or Hibernice.
Sween! )-Mrs. Sweeny's doom was in Madame Beck's eyean immutable purpose that eye spoke: madame's visitations
for shortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this
was very un-English: truly I was in a foreign land.
The morrow made me further acquainted with Mrs. Sweeny.
It seems she had introduced herself to her present employer
as an English lady in reduced circumstances: a native, indeed, of Middlesex, professing to speak the English tongue
with the purest metropolitan accent.  Madame —reliant on
her- own infallible expedients for finding out the truth in time
-had a singular intrepidity in hiring service ofi-hand (as indeed seemed abundantly proved in my own case.)  She received Mirs. Sweeny as nursery-governess to her three children.
I need hardly explain to the reader that this lady was in effect
a native of Ireland; her station I do not pretend to fix: she
boldly declared that she had " had the bringing-up of the son
and daughter of a marquis."  I think, myself, she might possibly have been hanger-on. nurse, fosterer, or washer-woman, in
some Irish family: she spoke a smothered brogue, curiously
overlaid with mincing cockney inflections.  By some means
sr other she had acquired, and now held in possession, a ward-'obe of rather suspicious splendor-gowns of stiff and costly
filk, 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, the spell by
Which she struck a certain awe through the household, quell




68                     VILLET IE.
ing the otherwise scorr.fully disposed teachers and servants
and, so long as her broad shoulders wore the folds of that ma
jestic drapery, even influencing madame herself-a real Ixn
dian shawl-"un veritable Cachmire," as Madame Beck
said, with mixed reverence and amaze. I feel quite sure that
without this " Cachmire " she would not have kept her footing in the pensionnat for two days: by virtue of it, and it
only, she maintained the same a month.
But when Mrs. Sweeny knew that I was come to fill hei
shoes, then it was that she declared herself-then did she rise
on Madame Beck in her full power-then come down on me
with her concentrated weight.  Madame bore this revelation
and visitation so well, so stoically, that I for very shame could
not support it otherwise than with composure. For one little
moment Madame Beck absented herself from the room; ten
minutes after, an agent of the police stood in the midst of us
Mrs. Sweeny and her effects were removed. Madame's brow
had not been ruffled during the scene-her lips had not
dropped one sharply accented word.
This brisk little affair of the dismissal was all settled before
breakfast: order to march given, policeman called, mutineer
expelled, " chambre d'enfans" fumigated and cleansed, windows thrown open, and every trace of the accomplished Mrs.
Sweeny-even to the fine essence and spiritual fragrance
which gave token so subtle and so fatal of the head and front
of her offending-was annihilated from the Rue Fossette: all
this, I say, was done between the moment of Madame Beck's
issuing like Aurora from her chamber, and that in which she
coolly sat down to pour out her first cup of coffee.
About noon, I was summoned to dress madame.  (It appeared my place was to be a hybrid between governante and
lady's-maid.) Till noon, she haunted the house in her wrapping-gown, and soundless slippers. How would the lady-chief
af an English school approve this custom?
The dressing of her hair puzzled me; she had plenty of it,
auburn, unmixed with gray; though she was forty years old
Seeing my embarrassment, she said, " You have not been a
femme de charnbre in your own country?"  And taking the
brush fiom my hand and setting me aside, not ungently or disrespectfully, she arranged it herself.  In performing other
ofices of the toilet, she half-directed. half-aided me, without




MADAME  BECK.                        C9
the least display of temper or impatience   N  B. that was
the first and last time I was required to dr(ss her.  Hence
forth, on Rosine, the portress, devolved that duty.
WThen attired, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a
figure rather short and stout, yet still graceful in its own peculiar way: that is, with the grace resulting from proportion
of parts.  Her complexion was fresh and sanguine, not to{:
rubicund; her eye, blue and serene; her dark silk dress fitted
her as a French sempstress alone can make a dress 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 means such as are usually seon in conjunction
with a complexion of such blended freshness and repose: their
outline was stern; her forehead was-high but narrow; it expressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nol
did her peaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is
kindled in the heart or the softness which flows thence. Her
mouth was hard: it could be a little grim; her lips were
thin. For sensibility and genius, with all their tenderness
and temerity, I felt somehow that madame would be the right
sort of Minos in petticoats.
In the long run, I found that she was something else in petticoats too.  Her name was Modeste Maria Beck, nee Kint:
it ought to have been Ignacia.  She was a charitable woman,
Ind did a great deal of good.  There never was a mistress
whose rule was milder.  I was told that she never once remonstrated with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny, despite hei tipsiness, disorder, and general neglect; yet Mrs. Sweeny had to
go, the moment her departure became convenient. I was told,
too, that neither master nor teachers were found fault with in
that establishment; yet both masters and teachers were often
changed: they vanished and others filled their places, none
could well explain how.
The establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat:
the externes or day-pupils exceoled one hundred in number;
the boarders were about a scor3.  Madame must have possessed high administrative powers: she ruled all these, together with four teachers, eight masters, six servants, and three
children, managing at the same time to perfection the pupil'S
parents and friends; and that without apparent effort; with




70                     VILLETTE.
out bustle, fatigue, fever, or any symptom  of undue excite
ment: occupied she always was-busy, rarely.  It is true that
madame had her own system  for managing and regulating
this mass of machinery; and a very pretty system it was:
the reader has seen a specimen of it, in that small affair of
turning my pocket inside out, and reading my private memoranda. "Surveillance,"" espionage,"-these were her watchwords.
Still, madame knew what honesty was, and liked it-that
is, when it did not obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of
aer will and interest. She had a respect for " Angleterre";
and as to " les Anglaises," she would have the women of no
other country about her own children, if she could help it.
Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and coun
ter-plotting, spying and receiving the reports of spies all day,
she would come up to my room-a trace of real weariness on
her brow-and she would sit down and listen while the chil
dren said their little prayers to me in English: the Lord's
Prayer, and the hymn beginning " Gentle Jesus," 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 gained
enough French to be able to understand, and even answer her)
about England and Englishwomen, and the reasons for what
she was pleased to term their superior intelligence, and more
real and reliable probity. Very good sense she often showed;
very sound opinions she often broached: she seemed to know
that keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind ignoraice,
and under a surveillance that left them no moment and no
corner for retirement, was not the best way to make them
grow up honest and modest women; but she averred that
ruinoas consequences would ensue if any other method were
tried with continental children-they were so accustomed to
constraint, that relaxation, however guarded, would be misunderstood and fatally presumed on: she was sick, she would
declare, of the means she had to use, but use them she must;
and after discoursing, often with dignity and delicacy, to me,
she would move away on her "souliers de silence," and glide
ghost-like through the house, watching and spying everywhere,
peering through every key-hole, listening behind every doorl
After all, madame's system was not bad —let me do he?
justice.  Nothing could be better than all her arrangemenlt




MADAME BECS.                           1
for the physical well-being of her scholars.  No minds wer
overtasked; the lessons were well distributed and made in,
comparably easy to the learner; there was a liberty of
amusement, and a provision for exercise which kept the girls
healthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor
puny faces were anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette.
She never grudged a holiday; she allowed plenty of time lib
sleeping, dressing, washing, eating; her method in all these
matters was easy, liberal, salutary, and rational: many arn
austere English school-mistress would do vastly well to imitate
it —and I believe many would be glad to do so, if exactiin
English parents would let them.
As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had hei
staff of spies; she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she
used, and while she would not scruple to handle the dirtiest
for a dirty occasion-flinging this sort from  her like refuse
rind, after the orange has been duly squeezed-I have knows
lier fastidious in seeking pure metal for clean uses; and wher
once a bloodless and rustless instrument was found, she was
careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool.  Yet,
wo be to the man or woman who relied on her one inch
bsyond the point where it was her interest to be trustworthy
interest was the master-key of madame's nature-the mvain
spring of her motives-the alpha and omega of her life.  I
have seen herfeelings appealed to, and I have smiled in half:
pity, half-scorn at the appellants.  None ever gained her ear
thresagh that channel, or swayed her purpose by that means.
On t e contrary, to attempt to touch her heart was the surest
way to rouse her antipathy, and to make of her a secret foe.
It proved to her that she had no heart to be touched: it reminded her where she was impotent and dea(.  Never was
the distinction between charity and mercy better exemplified
than in her.  While devoid of sympathy, she had a suffi-,iency of rational benevolence: she would give in the readiest
manner to people she had never seen —rater, however, to
classes than to individuals.  " Pour les pauvres," she opened
her purse freely-against the pooor mzan, as a rule, she kepi.t closed.  In philanthropic schemes, for the benefit of society
at large, she took a cheerful part; no private sorrow touches
hter: no force or mass of suffering concentrated in one hear
had. power to pierce hers.  Not the agony in Gethsemane
I) 2




7'2                    VIILLETTE.
not the death on Calvary, could have wrung from her eyes
one tear.
I say again, madame was a very great and a very capable
woman.  That school offered for her powers too limited a
",here; she ought to have swayed a nation: she should have
ieen the leader of a turbulent legislative assembly.  Nobody
7ould have brow-beaten her, none irritated her nerves, exhausted her patience, or over-reached her astuteness.  In her
own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a
first minister and a superintendent of police.'Wise, firm,
faithless; secret, crafty, passionless; watchful and inscrutable,
acute and insensate-withal perfectly decorous-what more
could be desired?
The sensible reader will not suppose that I gained all the
knowledge here 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 and flourishing educational establishment.
Here was a great house, full of healthy, lively girls, all welldressed and many of them  handsome, gaining knowledge by
a marvellously easy method, without painful exertion or useless waste of spirits; not, perhaps, making very rapid progress
in anything; taking it easy, but still always employed, and
never oppressed.  Here was a corps of teachers and masters
more stringently tasked, as all the real head-labor was to be
ilone by them, in order to save the pupils, yet having their
duties so arranged that they relieved each other in quick succession whenever the work was severe; here, in short, was a
Fbreign school; of which the life, movement, and variety made
it a complete and most charming contrast to many English
institutions of the same kind.
Behind the house was a large garden, and, in summer, the
pupils almost lived out of doors amongst the rose-bushes and
the fruit-trees.  Under the vast and vine-draped berceau,
madame would take her seat on summer afternoons, and send
for the clas-es, in turns, to sit round her and sew and read.
Meantime, masters came and went, delivering short and lively
lectures, rather than lessons, and the pupils made notes of
their instructions, or did not make them-just as inclination
prompted; secure that, in case of neglect, they could copy the
notes of their ccmpanions.  Besides the regular monthlyjou^^
{de sortie, the Catholic fete-days brought a succession of ].oli



MADAME  BECK.                        73
days all the yeai round; and sometimes on a bright summex
morning, or soft summer evening, the boarders were taken
out for a long walk into the country, regaled with gaufres
and vin blanc, and new milk and pain his, 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 to be called down fiom my watchtower of the nursery, whence I had hitherto made my observations, and was to be compelled into closer intercourse with
this little world of the Rue Fossette.
I was one day sitting up-stairs, as usual, hearing the children their English lessons, and at the same time turning a sill
dress for madame, when she came sauntering into the room
with that absorbed air and brow of hard thought she sometimes wore, and which made her look so little genial.  Dropping into a seat opposite mine, she remained some minutes silent. Desiree, the eldest girl, was reading to me some little essay
of Mrs. Barbauld's, and I was making her translate currently
fiom English to French as she proceeded, by way of ascertaining that she comprehended what she read: madame listened.
Presently, without preface or prelude, she said, almost in the
tone of one 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 I took a pin from the cushion, I found myself an
object of study; she held 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 she esteemed herself
congnizant of much that I was; but from that day, for the
space of about a fortnight, she tried me by new tests.  She
listened at the nursery door when I was shut in with the
children; she followed me at a cautious distance when I
walked out with them, stealing within ear-shot whenever the




71                      VILLETTE.
trees of a park or boulevard afforded a sufficient screie; a
strict preliminary process having thus being 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, the English master, had failed to come
at his hour, she feared he was ill; the pupils were waiting in
class; there was no one to give a lesson; should I, for once,
object to giving a short dictation exercise, just that the pupils
inight not have it to say they had missed their English lesson?
" In classe, madame?" I asked.' Yes, in classe: in the second division."' Where there are sixty pupils," said I; for I knew the
number, and with my usual base habit of cowardice, I shrunk
into my sloth, like a snail into its shell, andalleged incapacity
and impracticability as a pretext to escape action. If left to
myself, I should infallibly have let this chance slip.  Inadventurous, unstirred by impulses of practical ambition, I was
capable of sitting twenty years teaching infants the hornbook
turning silk dresses, and making children's frocks.  Not that
tr, contentment dignified this infatuated resignation: my
-work had neither charm for my taste, nor hold on my interest;
but it seemed to me a great thing to be without heavy anxiety,
and relieved fiom  intimate trial; the negation of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to
know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives-the life of thought
and that of reality; and, provided the former was nourished
with a sufficiency of the strange necromantic joys of fancy,
the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily
bread, hourly work, and a roof of shelter.
" Come," said madame, as I stooped more busily than eves
over the cutting out of a child's pinafore, " leave that work."
"But Fifine wants it, madame."
"Fifine must want it, then, for I want youz."
And as Madame Beck did really want and was resolved to
have me-as she had long been dissatisfied w:;th the English
master, with his shortcomings in punctuality, and his careless
method of tuition —as, too, she did not lack resolution or pracm
ti:al activity, whether I lacked them  or not-she, without
more ado, made me relinquish thimble and needle; my hand
was laken into hers, and I was conducted down stairs. When




MADAME BECK.   7:
we reached the carre, a large square hall between the dwelling-house and the pensionnat, she paused, dropped my hand,
faced, and scrutinized me. I was flushed, and tremulous from
head to foot; tell it not in G. ath, I believe I was crying.  In
fact, the difficulties before me were far from  being wholly
imaginary; some of them  were real enough, and not the
least substantial lay in my want of 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 moment at
night, to as late an hour as the rule of the house would allow
candle-light, but I was far from  yet being able to trust mly
powers of correct oral expression.
"Dites done," said madame sternly, "vous sentez-vous
reellement trop faible?"
I might have said " Yes," and gone back to nursery obscurity, and there, perhaps, mouldered for the rest of my life;
but, looking up at madame, I saw in her countenance a something that made me think twice ere I decided.  At that
instant, she did not wear a woman's aspect, but rather a
man's.  Power of a particular kind strongly limned itself in
all her traits, and that power was not my kind of power:
neither sympathy, nor congeniality, nor submission, were the
emotions it awakened.  I stood-not soothed, nor won, nor
overwhelmed.   It seemed  as if a challenge of strength
between opposing gifts was given, and I suddenly felt all the
dishonor of my diffidence-all the pusillanimity of my slackness to aspire.
" Will you," said she, "go backward or forward?" indicating with her hand, first, the small door of communication
with the dwelling-house, and then the great double portals of
the classes or school-rooms.
"En avant," I said.
"But," pursued she, cooling as I warmed, and continuing
the hard look, from  the very antipathy to which I drew
strength and determination, " can you face the classes, or are
you over-excited?"
She sneered slightly in saying this-nervous excitability
was not much to madame's taste.
"       I am no more excited than this stone," I said, tapping the
fag with my toe: "or than you," I added, returning her look,




76                     VILLETTE.
"Bon! But let me tell you these are not quiet, decorous
English girls you are going to encounter. Ce sone des Labassecouriennes, rondes, franches, brusques, et tant soit pea
rebelles."
I said: "I know; and I know, too, that though I have
studied French hard since I came here, yet I still speak it
with far too much hesitation-too little accuracy to be able
to command their respect: I shall make blunders that will
lay me open to the scorn of the most ignorant.  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 re
belled against and persecuted Miss Turner"-a poor, friendless English teacher, whom  madame had employed, and
lightly discarded; and to whose piteous history I was no
stranger.
" C'est vrai," said she, coolly.  " Miss Turner had no more
command over them than a servant from  the kitchen would
have had.  She was weak and wavering; 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 school-rooa
door.
"You will not expect aid from me, or from any one," said
madame.  " That would at once set you down as incompetent for your office."
I opened the door, let her pass with courtesy, and followed
her.  There were three school-rooms, all large.  That dedicated to the second division, where I was to figure, was considerably the largest, and accommodated an assemblage more
numerous, more turbulent, and infinitely more unmanageable
than the other two. In after days, when I knew the ground
better, I used to think sometimes (if such a comparison may
be permitted), that the quiet, polished, tame first division 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 than girls-quite young women; 1 knew that some of
them were of noble family (as nobility goes in Labassecour),
and I was well convinced that not one amongst them  was
ignorant of my position in madame's household. As I mounted




MADAME  BECK.                         71
the estrade (. low platform, raised a step above the flooring),
where stood the teacher's chair and desk, I beheld opposite to
me a row of eyes and brows that threatened stormy weather
-eyes full of an insolent light, and brows hard and unblushing as marble. The continental " female" is quite a different
being to the insular "female" of the same age and class: I
never saw such eyes and brows in England.  Madame Beck
introduced me in one cool phrase, sailed from the room, and
left me alone in my glory.
I shall never forget that first lesson, nor all the undercurrent of life and character it opened up to me. Then first
did I begin rightly to see the wide difference that lies between
the novelist's and poet's ideal "jeune fille," and the said
"jeune fille" as she really is.
It seems that three titled belles in the first row had sat
down predetermined that a bonne c'enfants should not give
them lessons in English. They knew they had succeeded in
expelling obnoxious teachers before now; they knew that
madame would at any time throw overboard a professeur or
ma.itresse who became unpopular with the school-that she
never assisted a weak official to retain his place-that if he
had not strength to fight, or tact to win his way-down he
went: looking at "Miss Snowe," they promised themselves
an easy victory.
Mesdemoiselles Blanche, Virginie, and Angelique opened
the campaign by a series of titterings and whisperings; these
soon swelled into murmurs and short laughs, which the
remoter benches caught up and echoed more loudly.  Thit
growing revolt of sixty against one, soon became oppressive
enough; my command of French being so limited, and exercised under such cruel constraint.
Could I but have spoken in my own tongue, I felt as if I
might have gained a hearing; for, in the first place, though
I knew I looked a poor creature, and in many respects actually
was so, yet nature had given mne a voice that could make
itself heard, if lifted in excitement or deepened by emotion.
In the second place, while I had no flow, only a hesitating
trickle of language, in ordinary circumstances, yet-under
stimulus such as was now rife through the mutinous mass-I
could, in English, have rolled out readily phrases stigmatizing
their proceedings as such proceedings deserved to be stigma,




78                      VILLETTE.
tizedt; and then with  some sarcasm, flavored with  coi,
temptuous bitterness, for the ringleaders, and relieved with
easy banter for the weaker, but less knavish followers, it
seemed to me that one might possibly get ccmmand over this
wild herd and bring them into training, at least.  All I could
now do was to walk up to Blanche —Mademoiselle de Melcy,
a young baroulnethe eldest, tallest, handsomest, and most
vicious-stand before her desk, take fromr under her hand her
exercise-book, remount the estrade, deliberately read the composition, which I found very stupid, 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 undiminished energy. I looked at her attertively.  She
had a pale face, hair like night, broad strong eyebrows, decided features, and a dark, mutinous, sinister eye: I noted
that she sat close by a little door, which door, I wvas well
aware, opened into a small closet where books were kept.
She was standing up for the purpose of conducting her clamor
with freer energies.  I measured her stature and calculated
her strength.  She seemed both tall and wiry; but, so the
conflict were brief and the attack unexpected, 1 thought I
might manage her.
Advancing up the room, looking as cool and careless as 1
possibly could, in short, ayaczt'air de rien; I slightly pushed
the door and found it was ajar.  In an instant, and with
sharpness, I had turned on her.  In another instant she occupied the closet, the door was shut and' the key in my pocket.
It so happened that this girl, Dolores by name and a Cataonian by race, was the sort of character at once dreaded and
hated by all her associates: 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 from desk to desk: thenwhen I had gravely and tranquilly returned to the estrade
courteously requested silence, and commenced a dictation  as
it nothing at all had happened-the pens traveled peacefully
over the pages, aind the remainder of the lesson passed iii
order and industry.
"C'est bien," said  s'Iadarne Beck, when I came out of
class, hot and a little exhausted.  (Ca ira."




ISIDORE.                        79
She had been listening and peeping through a spy-hole the
whole time.
From that day I ceased to be nursery-governess, and became English teacher.  Madame raised my salary; but she
got thrice the work out of me she had extracted from  Mr
Wilson, at half the expense.
CHAPTER IX.
ISIDORE.
M'r time was now well and profitably filled up.  What
with teaching others and studying closely myself, I had hardly
a spare moment.  It was pleasant.  I felt I was getting on'
not lying the stagnant prey of mould and rust, but polishing
my faculties and whetting them to a keen edge with constant
use. Experience of a certain kind lay before me, on no narrow scale.  Villette is a cosmopolitan city, and in this school
were girls of almost every European nation, and likewise of
very varied rank in life.  Equality is much practised in Labassecour; though not republican in form, it is nearly so in
substance, and at the desks of Madame Beck's establishment
the young countess and the young bourgeoise sat side by side:
nor could you always by outward indications decide which
was noble and which plebeian, except that, indeed, the lattei
hlad often franker and more courteous manners, while the for
mner bore away the bell for a delicately balanced combination
of insolence and deceit. In. the former there was often quick
French blood mixed with their marsh-phlegm: I regret to say
that the effect of this vivacious fluid chiefly appeared in the
oilier glibness with which flattery and fiction ran from the
tongue, and in a manner lighter and livelier, but quite hcartless and insincere.
To do all parties justice, the honest aboriginal Labassecouriennes had an hypocrisy of their own too; but it was of a
coarse order, such as could deceive few. Whenever a lie was
necessary for their occasions, they brought it out writh a care.




80                     VILLETIE.
less ease and breadth altogether untroubled by the rebuke of
conscience.  Not a soul in Madame Beck's house, from the
scullion to the directress herself, but was above being ashamed
of a lie; they thought nothing of it: to invent might not be
precisely a virtue, but it was the most venial of faults. " J'ai
nenti plusieurs fois" formed an item  of every girl's and
woman's nmonthly confession: the priest heard unshocked
and absolved unreluctant. If they had missed going'to mass
or read a chapter of a novel, that was another thing: these
were crimes whereof rebuke and penance were the unfailing
meed.
While yet but half-conscious of this state of things, and
unlearned in its results, I got on in my new sphere very well.
After the first few difficult lessons, given amidst peril and on
the edge of a moral volcano, that rumbled under my feet and
sent sparks and hot fumes into my eyes, the eruptive spirit
seemed to subside, as far as I was concerned.  My mind was
a good deal bent on success; I could not bear the thought of
being baffled by mere undisciplined disaffection and wanton
indocility, in this first attempt to get on in life.  Many hours
of the night I used to lie awake, thinking what plan I had
best adopt to get a reliable hold on these mutineers, to bring
this stiff-necked tribe under permanent influence. In the first
place, I saw plainly that aid in no shape was to be expected
from Madame: her righteous plan was to maintain an unbroken popularity with the pupils, at any and every cost of jus.
tice or comfort to the teachers. For a teacher to seek hei
alliance in any crisis of insubordination was equivalent to
securing her own expulsion.  In intercourse with her pupils.
Madame only took to herself what was pleasant, amiable.
and recommendatory; rigidly requiring of her lieutenants
sufficiency for every annoying crisis, where to act with adequate promptitude was to be unpopular.  Thus, I must look
only to myself.
Imprinlis-it was clear as the day that this swinish multi.
tude were not to be driven by force. They were to be hui:io:;ed, borne with very patiently: a courteous though sedate man
tler impressed them; a very rare flash of raillery did good.
Severe or continuous mental application they could not, oi
would not, bear: heavy demand on the memory, the reason,
the attention, they rejerted point-blank.  Where a-i English




ISIDORE                           81
girl of not mote than average capacity and docility, would
quietly take a theme and bind herself to the task of comprehension and mastery, a Labassecourienne would laugh in youi
face, and throw it back to you with tile phrase,-" Dieu que
c'est difficile! Je n'en veux pas.  Cela m'ennuie trop."
A teacher who understood her business would take it back
at once, without hesitation, contest or expostulation-proceea
with even exaggerated care to smoothe every difficulty, to reduce it to the level of their understandings, return it to them
thus modified, and lay on the lash of sarcasm with unsparing
hand. They would feel the sting, perhaps wince a little undel
it, but they bore no malice against 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, their incapacity, ignorance, and sloth. They
would riot for three additional lines to a lesson; but I nevei
knew them rebel against a wound given to their self-respect
the little they had of that quality was trained to be crushed.
and it rather liked the pressure of a firm heel, than otherwise
By degrees, as I acquired fluency and freedom in their language, and could make such application of its more nervous
idioms as suited their case, the elder and more intelligent girls
began rather to like me, in their way: I noticed that when
ever a pupil had been roused to feel in her soul the stirring
of worthy emulation, or the quickening of honest shame, from
that date she was won.  If I could but once make their
(usually large) ears burn under their thick, glossy hair, all was
comparatively well. By-and-by bouquets began to be laid on
my desk in the morning: by way of acknowledgment for this
little foreign attention, I used sometimes to walk with a select
few during recreation.  In the course of conversation it beiel
once or twice that I made an unpremeditated attempt to rectify some of their singularly distorted notions of principle
especially I expressed my ideas of the evil and baseness of a
lie.  In an unguarded moment, I chanced to say that, of the
two errors, I considered falsehood worse than an occasional
lapse in church-attendance.  The poor girls were tutored tc
report in Catholic ears whatever the Protestant teacher said.
An edifying consequence ensued.  Something-an unseen, an
indefinite, a nameless something-stole between myself and
these my best pupils  the bouquets continued to be offired,




82                     VILLETTE.
tut conversation thenceforth became impracticable.  As I
paced the alleys or sat in the berceau, a girl never came to
my right hand but a teacher, as if by magic, appeared at my
left.  Also, wonderful to relate, Madame's shoes of silence
brought her continually to my back, as quick, noiseless, and
unexpected, as some wandering zephyr.
The opinion of my Catholic acquaintance concerning my
spiritual prospects was somewhat naively expressed to me on
one occasion.  A pensionnaire, to whom I had rendered some
little service, exclaimed one day as she sat beside me:
" Mademoiselle, what a pity you are a Protestant!"
"Why, Isabelle?"
" Parceque, quand vous serez morte-vous brullerez tout de
suite dans l'Enfir."
" Croyez-vous?"
" Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait; et
d'ailleurs le pretre me l'a dit."
Isab[lle was an odd, blunt little creature.  She added,;otto voce:
"Pour assurer votre salut la-haut, on ferait bien de vous
bruiler toute vive ici-bas."
i laughed, as, indeed, it was impossible to do otherwise.
Has the reader forgotten Miss Ginevra Fanshawe?  If su,
I must be allowed to re-introduce that young lady as A thriving pupil of Madame Beck's, for such she was.  On her arrival in the Rue Fossette, two or three days after my sudden
settlement there, she encountered me with very little surprise.
She must have had good blood in her veins, for never was any
duchess more perfectly, radically, unafiectedly  zonchalanzt
than she: a weak, transient amaze was all she knew of the
sensation of wonder.  Most of her other faculties seemed to
be in the same flimsy condition: her liking and disliking, her
love and hate, were mere cobweb and gossamer; but she had
one thing about her that seemed strong and durable enough,
and that was-her selfishness.
She was not proud; and-bonne d enfmnts as I was —sll
would forthwith have made of me a sort of friend and confidn. t  She teased ne with a thousand vapid complaints about




IS IDORE.                       83
school-quarrels and household economy; the cookery was not
to her taste-the people about her, teachers and pupils, she
held to be despicable, because they were foreigners.  I bore
with her abuse of the Friday's salt-fish and hard eggs-with
her invective against the soup, the bread, the coffee-with
some patience for a time; but at last, wearied by iteration, I
turned crusty and put her to rights-a thing I ought to have'lone in the very beginning, fbr a salutary setting down alwayq
Agreed with her,
Mluch longer had I to endure her demands on me in the
way of work.  Her wardrobe, so far as concerned articles of
external wear, was well and elegantly supplied; but there
were other habiliments not so carefully provided: what she
had, needed frequent repair.  She hated needle-drudgery herself; and she would bring her hose, &c., to me in heaps, to be
mended.  A compliance of some weeks threatening to result
in the establishment of an intolerable bore-I at last dis-.
tinctly told her she must make up her mind to mend her own
garments.  She cried on receiving this information, and accused me of having ceased to be her friend; but I held by
my decision, and let the hysterics pass as they could.
Notwithstanding these foibles, and various others needless
to mention-but by no means of a refined or elevating character-how  pretty she was!  How  charming she looked,
when she came down on a sunny Sunday morning, welldressed and well-humored, robed in pale lilac silk, and with
her fair long curls reposing on her white shoulders, Sunday
was a holiday which she always passed with friends resident
in town; and amongst these friends she speedily gave me to
understand was one who would fain become something more.
By glimpses and hints it was shown me, and by the general
buoyancy of her look and manner it was ere long proved that
ardent admiration-perhaps genuine love-was at her command.  She called her suitor "Isidore'': this, however, she
intimated, was 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 been bragging about the vehemence of "Isidore's" attachment, I asked if she loved him in
return.
"Comme cela," said she:' he Is handsome, and he!over
me to distraction, so that I am well amused.  Ca auffit."




84                    VILLETTE.
Finding that she carried the thing on longer than, from
her very fickle tastes, I had anticipated, I oi e day took it upon
me to make serious 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.
"WVithout being certain that you, will be permitted to
MLarry him?"' Oh how dowdyish you are! I don't want to be married.
I am too young."
"But if he loves you as much as you say, and yet it comes
to nothing in 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, a ce
qu'or dit.  Mrs. Cholmondeley considers him  extremely
clever: she says he will push his way by his talents; all I
know is, that he does little more than sigh in 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 to favor me with a personal description; but
she could not describe: she had neither words, nor the power
of putting them together so as to make graphic phrases. She
even seemed not properly to have noticed him: nothing of
his looks, of the changes in his countenance, had touched her
heart or dwelt in her memory-that he was "beau, mais
plutot bel homme, que joli garcon," was all she could assert.
My patience would often have failed, and my interest flagged,
in listening to her, but for one thing. All the hints she
dropped, all the details she gave, went unconsciously to prove,
to my thinking, that 3I. Isidore's homage was offered with
great delicacy and respect. I informed her very plainly that
I believed him  much too good for her, and intimated with
equal plainness my impression that she was but a vain coquette.  She laughed, shook her curls from  her eyes, and
danced away as if I had paid her a compliment.




ISIDORE.                         3
Miss Ginevra's school-studies were little better thah  lrninal; there were but three things she practised in earnest,
viz., music, singing, and dancing; also embroidering the fine
cambric handkerchiefs, which she could not afford to buy
ready-worked: such mere trifles as lessons in history, geography, grammar, and arithmetic, she left undone, or got 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 certain period, which would not be extended whether she
made progress or not, allowed her great license in this particular. Mrs. Cholmondeley-her chaperon-a gay, fashionable
lady, invited her whenever she had company at her own
house, and sometimes took her to evening parties at the houses
of her acquaintance. Ginevra perfectly approved this mode
of procedure-it had but one inconvenience: she was obliged
to be well dressed, and she had not money to buy variety of
dresses.  All her thoughts turned  on this difficulty; her
whole soul was occupied with expedients for effecting its solution. It was wonderful to witness the activity of her otherwise indolent mind on this point, and to see the much-daring
intrepidity to which she was spurred by a sense of necessity,
and the wish to shine.
She begged boldly of Mrs. Cholmondeley-boldly, I say:
not, with an air of reluctant shame, but in this strain:"My darling Mrs. C., I have nothing in the world fit to
wear for your party next week; you must give me a bookmuslin dress, and then a ceintzere b6us celeste: do-there's
an angel! will you?"
The " darling Mrs. C." yielded at first; but finding that
applications increased as they were complied with, she was
soon obliged, like all Miss Fanshawe's friends, to oppose resistance to encroachment.  After a while I heard no more of
Mrs. Cholmondeley's presents; but still, visiting went on, and
the absolutely necessary dresses continued to be supplied; also
many little expensive etceterc-gloves, bouquets, even trinkets. These things, contrary to her custom, and even nature
-for she was not secretive-were most sedulously kept out
of sight for a time; but one evening, when she was going to
a large party, for which particular care and elegance of costume were demanded, she could not resist coming to my
ehamber to show herself in all her splendor.




86                     VILLETTE.
Beautiful slvi looked: so young, so fresh, and with a deli
cacy of skin and flexibility of shape altogether English, and
not found in the list of continental female charms.  Her dress
was new, costly, and perfect.  I saw  at a glance that it
lacked none of those finishing details which cost so much,
and give to the general effect such an air of tasteful completeness.
I viewed her from top to toe.  She turned airily round that
I might survey her on all sides.  Conscious of her charms, she
was in her best humor: her rather small blue eyes sparkled
gleefully; she was going to bestow on me a kiss, in her schoolgirl fashion of showing her delight: but I said, "Steady!
Let us be steady, and know what we are about, and find the
meaning of our magnificence"-and so put her off 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, I don't understand yours."
" But how do I look "
" You look well dressed."
She thought the praise not warm enough, and proceeded to
direct attention to the various decorative points of her attire.
"Look at this paqrure," said she.  "The brooch, the earrings, the bracelets: not one in the school has such a set —ot
madame herself."
"I see them  all."  (Pause.)  "Did M. de Bassompierres
give you those jewels?"
" My uncle knows nothing about them."
" Were they presents fiom Mrs. Cholmondeley?"
"Not they, indeed.  Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy
creature; she never gives me anything now."
I did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned
abruptly away.
" Now, old Crusty-old Diogenes" (these were her familiar terms for me when we disagreed), " what is the matter
1now?"
" 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
fo it-that is, not for the jewels, nor the gloves, no" the bout




ISIDORE.                        87
quet  My dress is cert ainly not paid for, but uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in the bill: he never notices items, but just
looks at the total; and he is so 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 you you are very handsome in that bal'attire; but, in smy eyes, you will never look so pretty as you
(lid in the gingham gown and plain straw 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 to come flourishing and fluttering into my chamber —
a mere jay in borrowed plumes.  I have not the least respect
for your feathers, Miss Fanshawe; and especially the peacock's eyes, you call a paru're; very pretty things, if you had
bought them with money which was your own, and which
you could well spare, but not at all pretty under present circumstances."
" On est l pour Mademoiselle Fanshawe!" was announced
by the portress, and away she slipped.
This semi-mystery of the parure was not solved till two or
three days afterwards, when she came to make a voluntary
confession.
" You need not be sulky with me," she began, " in the idea
that I am running somebody, papa or M. de Bassompierre.
deeply into debt.  I assure you nothing remains unpaid for,
but the few dresses I have lately had: all the rest is settled."
"There," I thought, "lies the mystery, considering they
were not given you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own
means are limited to a few shillings, of which I know you to
be excessively careful."
"Ecoutez!" she went on, drawing near and speaking in her
most confidential and coaxing tone; for my "sulkiness" xas
inconvenient to her: she liked me to be in a talking and
listening mood, even if I only talked to chide, and listened to
rail.  "Ecoutez, chere grogneuse!  I will tell you all how
and about it; and you will then see, not only how right the
whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the first place,
I must go out.  Para himself said that he wished me to seA
E




88                     VILLETTE.
solmething of the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs
Cholmondeley, that, though I was a sweet creature enough, I
had rather a bread-and-butter-eating, school-girl air; of which
it Was his special desire that I should get rid, by an introducLion to society here, before I make my regular debut in Eng
land. Well, then, if I go out, I must dress.  Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and will give nothing more; it would
be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for all the things I
Lc~'d: that you can't deny-that agrees with your own pretensions. Well, but SOMEBODY who heard me (quite by chance,
I assure you) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances, and what straits I was put to for an ornament or two: somebocly, far from  grudging one a present,
was quite delighted at the idea of being permitted to oftil
some trifle.  You should have seen what a blanc-bec  he
looked when he first spoke of it: how  he hesitated and
blushed, and positively trembled from fear of a. repulse."
" That will (lo, Miss Fanshawe.  I suppose I am to understand that M. Isidore is the benefactor: that it is from him
you have accepted that costly paruzre; that he supplies your
bouquets and your gloves?"
" You express yourself so disagreeably," said she, "one
hardly knows how to answer; what I mean to say is, that I
occasionally allow Isidore the pleasure and honor.of expressing
his homage, by the offer of a trifle."
" It comes to the same thing...Now, Ginevra, to speak
the plain truth, I don't very well understand these matters
but I believe you are doing very wrong-seriously wrong.
Perhaps, however, you now feel certain that you will be able
to marry M. Isidore-your parents and uncle have given their
consent-and, as for your part, you love him entirely?"
" Mais pas du tout!" (she always had recourse to French,
when about to say 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
and coquetry.  There is nothing great about you, yet you are
above profiting by the good nature and purse of a man to
whom you feel absolute indifference. You love M. Isidore far
more than you think, or will avow."
"No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom 1
love a thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel




ISIDORE.                         89
s3 very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and
other ladies admire him; 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!" said I, " try to get a clear idea of the
state of your mind.  To me, it seems a great mess —chaotio
as a rag-bag."
"It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long
"the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something
more of me than I find it convenient to be.  He thinks I am
perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid
virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can't
help, in his presence, rather trying to justify his opinion; and
it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense,-for he really
thinks I am  sensible.  I am far more at my ease with you,
old lady-you, you dear crosspatch-who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting,
and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things
you and I have agreed to be part of my character."
" This is all very weil," I said, making a strenuous effort
to preserve that gravity and severity which ran risk of being
shaken by this whimsical candor, " but it does not alter that
wretched business of the presents.  Pack them up, Ginevra,
like a good, honest girl, and send them back."
" Indeed I won't," said she stoutly.
"Then you are deceiving:M. Isidore. It stands to reason
that by accepting his presents you give him to understand he
will one day receive an equivalent, in your regard.... "
" But he won't," she interrupted: " he has his equivalent
now, in the pleasure of seeing me wear them-quite enough
for him: he is only bourgeois."
This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of
the temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone
and aspect.  She rattled on:
" My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of
fettering myself, by promise or vow, to this man or that
When first I saw Isidore, I believed he would help me to en
joy it.  I believed he would be content with my being a
pretty girl; and that we should meet and part and flutter
about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I
find him  at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and




90                     VILLETTE.
thoughtful.   Bah!  Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et
passiones, iie sont pas a mon gout.  Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better.  Va pour les beaux fats et les jolis
fripons! Vive!es joies et les plaisirs  A bas les grandes
passions et les severes vertus!"
She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.
" J'aime mon beau colonel," she went on:' Je n'aimerai
jamais son rival.  Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois,
noi!"
I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my
apartment should be relieved of the honor of her presence:
she went away laughing.
CHAPTER X.
DR. JOMN.
u^ADAME BECK was a most consistent character; forbearing
with all the world, and tender to no part of it. Her own
children drew her into no deviation from  the even tenor of
her stoic calrn. She was solicitous about her family, vigilant
for their interests, and physical well-being; but-she never
seemed to know the wish to take her little children- upon her
lap, to press their rosy lips with her own, to gather them in
a genial embrace, to shower on them softly the benignant caress, the loving word.
I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, view.
ing the little ones afar off, as they walked in a distant alley
with Trinette, their bonne; in her mien spoke care and prudence: I know she often pondered anxiously what she called
"leur avenir;" but if the youngest, a puny and delicate,
but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from its nurse,
and toddling down the walk, came all eager and laughing
and panting to clasp her knee, madame would just calmly
put out one hand, so as to prevent inconvenient concussiorn
irom the child's sudden outset: "Prends garde, mon enfant "'
she would say unmoved, patiently permit it to stand near hei




DR. JOHN.                        91
a few moments, and then, without smile or kiss, or endearing
syllable, rise and led it back to Trinette.
Her demeanor to the oldest girl was equally characteristic
in another way.  This was a vicious chi-ld.  " Quelle peste
que cette D6siree! Quel poison que cet enfant la!" were
the expressions dedicated to her, alike in kitchen and in
school-room.  Amongst her other endowments she boasted ai,
exquisite skill in the art of provocation, sometimes driving
her bonne and the servants almost wild. She would steal to
their attics, open their drawers and boxes, wantonly teal
their best caps and soil their best shawls; she would watch
her opportunity to get at the beaufet of the salle a manger,
where she would smash articles of porcelain or glass-or to
the cupboard of thestore-room, where she would plunder the
preserves, drink the sweet wine, break jars and bottles, and
so contrive as to throw the onus of suspicion on the cook and
the kitchen-maid. All this when madame saw, and of
which, when she received report, her sole observation, uttered
with matchless serenity, was:
" Desiree a besoin d'une surveillance toute particuliere."
Accordingly she kept this promising olive-branch a good deal
at her side. Never once, I believe, did she tell her faithfully
of her faults, explain the evil of such habits, and show the
results which must thence ensue.  Surveillance must work
the whole cure.  It failed of course.  Desiree was kept in
some measure from the servants, but she teased and pillaged
her mamma instead.  Whatever, belonging to madame's
work-table or toilet, she could lay her hands on, she stole and
hid. Madame saw all this, but she still pretended not to see:
she had not rectitude of soul to confront the child with her
vices.  When an article disappeared whose value rendered
restitution necessary, she would profess to think that Desiree
had taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. Desiree
was not to be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehood
to the aid of theft, and would deny having touched the
brooch, ring, or scissors.  Carrying on the hollow system, the
mother would calmly assume an air of belief, and afterwards
ceaselessly watch and dog the child till she tracked her to
her hiding-places-some hole in the garden-wall-some chink
oL cranny in garret or out-house.  This done, madame would
send Desirie out for a walkwith herb onne, and profit bi




92                     VILLETTN.
her absence to rob the robber.  D6siree proved herself the
true daughter of her astute parent, by never suffering either
her countenance or manner to betray the least sign of inortitication on discovering 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 blue eye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived its
moral being.  It was an honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate, warm-tempered, bustling creature it was too, and of
the sort likely to blunder often into perils and difficulties.
One day it bethought itself to fall from  top to bottom of a
steep flight of stone steps; and when madame, hearing the
noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the salle a
manger and picked it up, she said quietly," Cet enfant a un os de casse."
At first we hoped this was not the case. It was however,
nut too true: one little plump arm hung powerless.
"Let meess" (meaning me) "take her," said madame 
" et qu'on aille tout de suite chercher urn 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;
out that mattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on
a substitute to her mind, and brought him back with her.
Meantime I had cut the child'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, the portress, myself, all which personages were now
gathered in the small and heated chamber,) looked very scrutinizingly at the new doctor when he came into the room. I,
at least, was taken up with endeavoring to soothe Fifine;
whose cries (for she had good lungs) were appalling to hear.
These cries redoubled in intensity as the stranger approached
her bed; when he took her up, "Let alone!" she cried passionately, in her broken English (for she spoke English as did
the other children.)  "I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!"
"And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend," was the answer,
in perfect English; "but he is busy at a place three leaguea
off and I ami come in his stead.  So now, when we get a
little catl.rer, we must commence business; and we will soon
have that unl:.cky little arm bandaged and in right order."




DR. JOHN.                        DS
hereupon he called for a glass of eau sutc ee, fed lhe with
some teaspoonsful of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank
gourmande; anybody could win her heart through her palate,)
promised her more when the operation should be over, and
promptly went to work.  Some assistance being needed, he
demanded it of the cook, a robust, strong-armed woman, but,he, the portress, and the nurse instantly fled.  I did not like
to touch that small, tortured limb, but, thinking there was no
alternative, my hand was already extended to do what was
requisite.  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: tres bien, fort bien!" said the operator
when he had finished.  "Voila un sang-froid bien opportun,
et qui vaut mille elans-de sensibilit6 deplacee."
He was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment.  It is likely too that his whole general appearance, his
voice, mien, and manner wrought impressions in his favor.
Indeed, when you looked well at him, and when a lamp was
brought in-for it was evening and now waxing dusk —you
saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less than woman, it
could not well be otherwise.  This young doctor (he was
young) had no common aspect. His stature looked imposingly
tall in that little chamber, and amidst that group of Dutchmade women; his profile was clear, fine, and expressive;
perhaps his eye glanced fiom face to face rather too vividly,
too quickly, and too often, but it had a most pleasant character, and so had his mouth; his chin was full, cleft, Grecian,
and perfect. As to his smile, one could not in a hurry make
up one's mind as to the descriptive epithet it merited; there
was something in it that pleased, but something too that
brought surging up into the mind all one's foibles and weak
points: all that could lay one open to a laugh; yet Fifine liked
this doubtful smile, and thought the owner genial: much as
he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him a friendly
g-cd-night.  He patted her little hand kindly, and then he
and madame went down stairs together; she talking in hei
highest tide of spirits and volubility; he listening with an ail




94                    VILLETTE.
of good-natured amenity, dashed with that unconscious roguial
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. As he passed me in leaving the rrom,
turning his face in my direction one moment-not to address
me, but to speak to madame, yet so standing, that I almost
necessarily looked up at him-a recollection which had been
struggling to form in my memory, since the first moment I
heard his voice, started up perfected.  This was the very
gentleman to whom I had spoken at the bureau; who had
helped me in the matter of the trunk; who had been my
guide through the dark, wet park.  Listening, as he passed
down the long vestibule out into the street, I recognised his
very tread: it was the same firm and equal stride I had followed under the dripping trees.
It was to be concluded that this young surgeon-physician s
first visit to the Rue Fossette would be his last.  The respectable Dr. Pillule being expected horne the next day, there
appeared no reason why his temporary substitute should again
represent him; but the Fates had written their decree to the
contrary.
Dr. Pillule had been summoned to see a rich old hypochondriac at the antique university town of Bouquin-Moisi, and
upon his prescribing change of air and travel as remedies, he
was retained to accompany the timid patient on a tour of
some weeks; it but remained, therefore, for the new doctor to
continue his attendance at the Rue Fossette.
I often saw him when he came, for madame would not trust
the little invalid to Trinette, but required me to spend much
of my time in the nursery.  I think he was skilful.  Fifille
recovered rapidly under his care, yet even his convalescence
did not hasten his dismissal.  Destiny and Madame Beck
seemed in league, and both had ruled that he should make
deliberate acquaintance with the vestibule, the private staircase, and upper chambers of the Rue Fossette.
No sooner did Fifine emerge from his hands than Ddsiree
declared herself ill.  That possessed child had a genius foi




DR. JOHN                          95
simulation, and captivated by the attentions and irdulgenoes
of a sick-room, she came to the conclusion that an illness
would perfectly accommodate her tastes, and took her bed
accordingly. She acted well, and her mother still better; for
while the case was transparent to Madame Beck as the day,
she treated it with an astonishingly well-assured air of gravity
and good faith.
WVhat surprised me was that Dr. John (so the young Englishman had taught Fifine to call him, and we all took from
her the habit of addressing him by this name, till it became
an established custom, and he was known by no other in the
Rue Fossette)-that Dr. John consented tacitly to adopt madame's tactics, and to fall in with her manceuvres.  )Ie betrayed, indeed, a period of comic doubt, cast one or two rapid
glances from the child to the mother, indulged in an interval
of self-consultation, but finally resigned himself with a good
grace to play his part in the farce.  Desiree eat like a raven,
gambolled day and night in her bed, pitched tents with the
sheets and blankets, lounged like a Turk amidst pillows and
bolsters, diverted herself with throwing her shoes at her bonne
and grimacing at her sisters-overflowed, in short, with unmerited health and evil spirits-only languishing when her
mamma and the physician paid their diurnal visit.  Madame
Beck, I knew, was glad, at any price, to have her daughter
in bed out of the way of mischief; but I wondered that Dr.
John did not tire of the business.
Every day, on this mere pretext of a motive, he gave punctual attendance; madame always received him with the same
empressement, the same sunshine for himself, the same admirably counterfeited air of concern for her child. Dr. John
wrote harmless prescriptions for the patient, and viewed her
mother with a shrewdly sparkling eye.  Madame caught his
rallying looks without resenting them-she had too much
good sense for that.  Supple as the young doctor seemed, one
could not despise him-this pliant part was evidently not
adopted in the design to curry favor with his employer: while
he liked his office at the Pensionnat, and lingered strangely
about the Rue Fossette, he was independent, almost careless
in his carriage there; and yet, too, he was often thoughtful
andl pi -occupied.
It wts not nerhaps my business to observe the mystery ol
E2




96                      VILLETTE.
this bearing, or search out its origin or aim; but placed as I
was, I could hardly help it.  He laid himself open to my observation, according to my presence in the room just that
degree of notice and consequence a person of my exterior ha.
bitually expects: that is to say, about what is given to unobtrusive articles of furniture, chairs of ordinary joiners' work,
and carpets of no striking pattern.  Often, while waiting for
madame, he would muse, smile, watch, or listen like a man
who thinks himself alone.  I, meantime, was fiee to puzzle
over his countenance and movements, and wonder what could
bt the meaning of that peculiar interest and attachment —all
mixed up with doubt and strangeness, and inexplicably ruled
by some presiding spell-which wedded him  to this demiconvent, secluded in the built-up core of a capital.  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 sat in the sunshine, and I was observing the coloring of his hair, whiskers, and complexion-the whole being
of such a tone as a strong light brings out with somewhat
perilous force (indeed I recollect I was 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 overmastering strength and power of attraction.  I know not to this
day how I looked at him-the force of surprise, and also of
conviction, made me forget myself-and I only recovered
wonted consciousness when I saw that his notice was arrested:
and that it caught my movement in a clear little oval mirror
fixed in the side of the window recess-by the aid of which
reflector madame often secretly spied pelsons walking in the
garden below.  Though of so gay and sanguine a temperament, he was not without a certain nervous sensitiveness
which made him ill at ease under a direct, inquiring gaze.
On surprising me thus, he turned and said in a tone which,
though courteous, had just so much dryness in it as to mark
a shadb of annoyance, as well as to give to what was said the
chaJ acter of rebuke:
" Mademoiselle does not spare me: I am  rot vain enough
to fancy that it is my merits which attract her attention; it
must then be some defect, Dare I ask-what?"




THE PORTRESSE'S CABINET.                     97
I was confounded, as the reader may suppose, yet not with
an irrecoverable confusion, being conscious that it was from
no emotion of incautious admiration, nor yet in a spirit of
unjustifiable inquisitiveness, that I had incurred this reproof.
I might have cleared myself on the spot, but would not.  I
did not speak. I was not in the habit of speaking to him.
Suffering him, then, to think what he chose, and accuse me
of what he would, I resumed some work I had dropped, and
kept my head bent over it during the remainder of his stay.
There is a perverse mood of the mind which is rather soothed
than irritated by misconstruction; and in quarters'here we
can never be rightly known, we take pleasure, I think, in
being consummately ignored.  What honest man on being
casually taken for a housebreaker, does not feel rather tickled
than vexed at the mistake?
CHAPTER XI.
TIIE PORTRESSE S CABINET.
IT was summer and very hot.  Georgette, the youngest of
Madame Beck's children, took a fever.  Desiree, suddenly
cured of her ailments, was, together with Fifine, packed off
to Bonne-Maman in the country, by way of precaution against
infection.  Medical aid was now really needed, and Madame,
choosing to ignore the return of Dr. Pillule, who had been at
home a week, conjured his English rival to continue his visits
One or two of the pensionnaires complained of headache, and
in other respects seemed slightly to participate Georgette's
ailment.  "Now  at last," I thought, "Dr. Pillule must be
recalled: the prudent directress will never venture to permit
tlhe attendance of so young a man on the pupils."
The directress was very prudent, but she could also be
intrepidly venturous.  She actually introduced Dr. John to
the school-division of the premises, and established him in
attendance on the proud and handsome Blanche de Melcy,
and the vain, flirting Angrlique, her friend.  Dr. John, I




98                    VILLETTE.
thought, testified a certain gratification at this mark of confidence; and if discretion of bearing could have justified the
step, it would by him have been amply justified.  Here, however, in this land of convents and confessionals, such a presence as his was not to be suffered with impunity in a' Pensionnat de demoiselles." The school gossiped, the kitchen
whispered, the town caught the rumor, parents wrote letters
and paid visits of remonstrance.  Madame, had she been
weak, would now have been lost: a dozen rival educational
houses were ready to improve this false step-if false step it
were-to her ruin; 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 hei
able bearing, her skilled management, her temper and her
firmness on this occasion.
She met the alarmed parents with a good-humored, easy
grace: for nobody matched her in, I know not whether to say
the possession or the assumption of a certain "rondeur et
franchise de bonne femme," which on various occasions gained
the point ailned at with instant and complete success, where
severe gravity and serious reasoning would probably have
failed.
"Ce pauvre Docteur Jean!" she would say, chuckling and
rubbing joyously her fat, little, white hands; "c cher jeune
homme! le meilleur creature du monde!" and go on to explain how she happened to be employing him  for her own
children, who were so fond of him that they would scream
themselves into fits at the thoughts of another doctor; how
where she had confidence for her own, she thought it natural
to repose trust for. others, and au reste it was only the most
temporary expedient in the world: Blanche and Angelique
had the migraine; Dr. John had written a prescription;
voila tout!
The parents' mouths were closed.  Blanche and Angelique
saved her all remaining trouble by chanting loud duets in
their physician's praise; the other pupils echoed them, unran
imously declaring that when they were ill they would have
Dr. John and nobody else; and madame laughed, and the
parents laughed too.  The Labassecouriens must have a large
argan of philoprogenitiveness: at least the indulgence of off
spring is carried by them  to excessive lengths; the law of




THE PORTRESSE'S CABINE~.                    99
most households being the children's will.  Madame now got
credit for having acted on this occasion in a spirit of n'otherly
partiality: she came off with flying colors; people liked her
as a directress better than ever.
To this day I never fully understood why she thus risked
her interest for the sake of Dr. John.  What people said, of
course I know well: the whole house-pupils, teachers, ser.
vants included-affirmed that she was going to marry him.
So they had settled it: difference of age seemed to make no
obstacle in their eyes; it was to be so.
It must be admitted that appearances did not wholly dis.
countenance this idea; madame seemed so bent on retainiiig
his services, so oblivious of her former protege, Pillule.  She
made, too, such a point of personally receiving his visits, and
was so unfailingly cheerfil, blithe, and benignant in her manner to him.  Moreover, she paid, about this time, marked
attention to dress: the morning deshabille, the night-cap and
shawl, were discarded; Dr. John's early visits always found
her with auburn braids all nicely arranged, silk dress trimly
fitted on, neat laced brodequins in lieu of slippers: in short,
the whole toilette complete as a model, and fresh as a flower
I scarcely think, however, that her intention in this went
iirther than just to show a very handsome man that she was
not quite a plain woman: and plain she was not.  Without
beauty of feature or elegance of form, she pleased.  Without
youth and its gay graces, she cheered.  One never tired of
seeing her: she was never monotonous, or insipid, or colorless,
or flat. Her unfaded hair, her eye with its temperate blue
light, her cheek with its wholesome fruit-like bloom-these
things pleased 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 him comfortable for the rest
of his life?  Did Dr. John suspect her of such visions?  1
have met him coming out of her presence with a mischievous
half-smile about his lips, and in his eyes a look of masculine
vanity elate and tickled. With all his good looks and goodnature, he was not perfect; he must have been vary imper.
feet if he roguishly encouraged aims he never intended to be
successful.  But (lid he not intend them  to be successful "




100                    VILLETT E.
People said he had no money, that he was wholly Jipenlent
upon his profession.  Madame-though perhaps some fiurtees
years his senior-was yet the sort of woman never to grow
old, never to wither, never to break down. They certainly
vwere on good terms.  lie perhaps was not in love; but how
many people ever do love, or at least marry for love in this
world?  We waited the end.
For what he waited I do not know, nor for what he
watched; but the peculiarity of his manner, his expectant,
vigilant, absorbed, eager look, never wore off: it rather intensified.  He had never been quite within the compass of
my penetration, and I think he ranged farther and farthei
beyond it.
One morning little Georgette had been more feverish and
consequently more peevish; she was crying and would not
be pacified. I thought a particular draught ordered, disagreed
with her, and I doubted whether it ought to be continued;
I waited impatiently for the doctor's coming in order to consult him.
The door-bell rung, he was admitted; I felt sure of this
for I heard his voice addressing the portresse.  It was his
custom to mount straight to 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 nothingr of him. What could he be doing?  Possibly waiting in the corridor below.  Little Georgette still
piped her plaintive wail, appealing to me by her familiar
term. "Minnie, Minnie, me very poorly!" till my heart
ached.  I descended to ascertain why he did not come. The
corridor was empty.  Whither was he vanished?  Was he
with madame in the salle a manger?  Impossible: I had
left her but a short time since, dressing in her own chamber.
I listened. Three pupils were just then hard at work practising in three proximate rooms-the dining room  and the
greater and lesser drawing-rooms, between which and the
corridor there was but the portresse's cabinet communicating
with the salons, and intended originally for a boudoir. Farther off, at a fourth instrument in the oratory, a whole clasA
of a dozen or more were taking a singing lesson, and just
then joining in a " barcarole" (I think they called it), whereof I yet remember these wards " fraich brise" and " Vcnis."'




THE PORTRESSE'S  CABINE'i.                  101
Under these circumstances what could I hear?  A great
deal, certainly; had it only been to the purpose.
Yes; I heard a giddy treble laugh in the abc ve-mentioned
little cabinet, 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,
" Fcr God's sake 1"  Then, after a second's pause, forth issued
Dr John, his eye full-shining, but not with either joy or
triumph; his fair English cheek high-colored; a baffled, torLured, 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 I believe he would have passed without seeing
me.  Some mortification, some strong vexation had hold of
his soul-: or rather, to write my impressions now as I received
them at the time, I should say some sorrow, some sense of
injustice.  I did not so much think his pride was hurt, as
that his affections had been wounded-cruelly wounded it
seemed to me.  But who was the torturer?  What being in'
that house had him  so much in her power?  Madame I believed to be in her chamber; the room whence he had stepped
was dedicated to the portresse's sole use; and she, Rosine
Matou, an unprincipled though pretty little French grisette,
airy, fickle, dressy, vain, and mercenary-it was not surely,
to her hand he owed the ordeal through which he seemed tc
have passed?
But while I pondered, her voice, clear though somewhat
sharp, broke out in a lightsome French song, thrilling through
the door still ajar: I glanced in, doubting my senses. There
at the table she sat in a smart dress of "jaconas rose," trimming a tiny blond cap): not a living thing save herself was in
the room, except indeed some gold-fish in a glass 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 before him; the little patient had been examined and
soothed, and now lay composed in her crib.  Madame Beck,
as I entered, was discussing the physician's own health, renarkingf on some real or fancied change in his looks, charging
him with over-work, and recommending rest and. change of
air  He lstened good-naturedly, but with laughing indiff:i




102                    VILLETTE.
ence, telling her that she was "trop bonne," ani that he felt
perfectly well.  Madame appealed to me-Dr. John following her movement with a slow glance which seemed to express languid surprise at reference being made to a quarter so
insianificant.
" Wlat do you think, Miss Lucie? "asked madame.  "Is
he not paler and thinner'!"
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 ever to remain the neutral, passive thing he
thought me.  Now, however, I took license to answer in a
phrase: and a phrase I purposely made quite significant.
"He looks ill at this moment; but perhaps it is owing to
some temporary cause: Dr. John may have been vexed or
harassed." I cannot tell how he took this speech, as I never
sought his face for the information.  Georgette here began to
ask me in her broken English if she might have a glass of eau
sucree.  I answered her in English.  For the first time, I
fancy, he noticed that I spoke his language; hitherto he had
always taken me for a foreigner, addressing me as " mademoiselle," and giving in French the requisite directions about
the children's treatment.  He seemed on the point of making
a remark, but thinking better of it, held his tongue.
Madame recommenced advising him; he shook his head
laughing, rose and bid her good morning, with courtesy, but
still with the regardless air of one whom too much unsolicited
attention was surfeiting and spoiling.
When he was gone, madame dropped into the chair he had
just left; she rested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiable vanished from her face: she looked stony
and stern, almost mortified and morose. She sighed; a single,
but a deep sigh.  A loud bell rang for morning school.  She
got up; as she passed a dressing-table with a glass upon it,
she looked at her reflected image.  One single white hair
streaked her nut-brown tresses; she plucked it out with a
shudder.  In the full summer daylight, her face, though it
atill had the color, 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. 1ever
had I pitied madame before, but my heart softened towards
lier, when she turned darkly from the glass.  A calamity ihad








i!   ii   I i  III  HIM,   1-10~iiiif 
i:~~~~~~~~~~~L 
i'd TI;
p~'!! i i I1
II1'                                               E-e~~~~~~~~
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XiHE  CASKEI.                    103
n.ome upon hex.  That hag disappointment was greeting hei
with a grisly " all hail!" and her soul rejected the intimracy
But Rosine! My bewilderment there surpasses description.
I embraced five opportunities of passing her cabinet that day,
with a view to contemplating her charms, and finding out the
secret of their influence.  She was pretty, young, and wore a
well-made dress. All very good points, and, I suppose, amply
sufficient to account, in any philosophic mind, for any amount
of agony and distraction in a young man like Dr. John. Still,
I could not help forming half a wish that the said doctor
were my brother; or at least that he had a sister or a
mother who would kindly sermonize him.  I say half a wish;
I broke it and flung it away before it became a whole one, dis.
covering in good time its exquisite folly.  "Somebody," I argued, "might as well sermonize madame about her young
physician: and what good would that do?"
i believe madame sermonized herself. She did not behave
weakly, or make herself in any shape ridiculous.  It is true
bhe had neither strong feelings to overcome, nor tender feelings by which to be miserably pained. It is true likewise that
she had an important avocation, a real business to fill her time,
divert her thoughts, and divide her interest.  It is especially
true that she possessed a genuine good sense which is not given
to all women nor to all men; and by dint of these combined
advantages she behaved wisely, she behaved well.  Brava'
once more, Madame Beck.  I saw you matched against an
Apollyon of predilection; you fought a good fight, and you
overcame!
CHAPTER XII.
THE CASKET.
BEHIND the house at the Rue Fossette there was a gardenlarge, considering that it lay in the heart of a city, and to my
recollection at this day it seems pleasant: but time, like distance, lends to certain scenes an influence so softening; and
where all is stone around, blank wall and hot pavement, how




104                    VILLETTE.
precious seems one shrub, how lovely an enclosed ani planted
spot of ground!
There went a tradition that Madame Beck's house had in
old days been a convent.  That in years gone by-how long
gone by I cannot tell, but I think some centuries-before the
city had overspread this quarter, and when it was tilled ground
and avenue, and such deep and leafy seclusion as ought to
embosom a religious house-that something had happened on
this site which, rousing fear and inflicting horror, had left to
the place the inheritance of a ghost story. A vague tale went
of a black and white nun, sometimes, on some night or nights
of the year, seen in some part of this vicinage. The ghost
must have been built out some ages ago, for there were houses
all round now; but certain convent-relics, in the shape of old
and huge fruit-trees, yet consecrated the spot; and, at the foot
of one-a Methuselah of a pear-tree, dead, all but a few boughs
which still faithfully renewed their perfumed snow in spring,
and their honey-sweet pendants in autumn-you saw in scraping away the mossy earth between the half-bared roots, a
glimpse of slab, smooth, hard, and black.  The legend went,
unconfirmed and unaccredited, but still propagated, that this
was the portal of a vault, imprisoning deep beneath that
ground, on whose surface grass grew and flowers bloomed, the
bones of a girl whom a monkish conclave of the drear middle
ages had here buried alive, for some sin against her vow.
Her shadow it was that tremblers had feared, through long
generations after her poor frame was dust; her black robe
and white veil that, for timid eyes, moonlight and shade had
mocked, as they fluctuated in the night-wind through the
garden-thicket.
Independently of romantic rubbish, however, that old gar.
den had its charms.  On summer mornings I used to rise
early, to enjoy them alone; on summer evenings, to linger
solitary, to keep tryste with the rising moon, or taste one kiss
of the evening breeze, or fancy rather than feel the freshness
of dew descendinrg.  The turf was verdant, the gravelled
walks were white; sun-bright nasturtiums clustered beautiful
about the roots of the doddered orchard giants. There was a
large berceau. above which spread the shade of a  acacia;
there was a smaller, more sequestered bower. nestled in the
vines which ran all along a high and gray wall, and gathered




THE  CASKET.                       105
their tendrils in a knot of beauty, and hung their clusteis ih
loving profusion about the favored spot where jasmine and ivy
met, and married them.
Doubtless at high noon, in the broad vulgar middle of the
day, when Madame Beck's large school turned out rampant,
and externes and pensionnaires were spread abroad, vying
with the denizens of the boys' college close at hand, in the
brazen exercise of their lungs and limbs-doubtless then the
garden was a trite, trodden-down place enough.  But at sunset or the hour of salut, when the externes were gone home,
and the boarders quiet at their studies; pleasant was it then
to stray down the peaceful alleys, and hear the bells of St
Jean Baptiste peal out with their sweet, soft, exalted sound.
I was walking thus one evening, and had been detained,
farther within the verge of twilight than usual, by the still
deepening calm, the mellow coolness, the fragrant breathing
with which flowers no sunshine could win now answered the
persuasion of the dew.  I saw by a light in the oratory window that the Catholic household were then gathered to evening prayer-a rite, from  attendance on which, I now and
then, as a Protestant, exempted myself.
"One moment longer," whispered solitude and the summer
moon, "stay with us: all is truly quiet now; for another
quarter of an hour your presence 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 particular the whole of one side was skirted by the rear
of a long line of premises-being the boarding-houses of the
neighboring college.  This rear, however, was all blank
stone, with the exception of certain attic loop-holes high
up, opening fiom the sleeping-rooms of the women-servants,
and also one casement in a lower story said to mark the
chamber or study of a master.  But, though thus secure, an
alley, which ran parallel with the very high wall on that side
the garden, was forbidden to be entered by the pupils. It
was called indeed " l'allee defendue," and any girl setting
foot there would have rendered herself liable to as severe a
penalty as the mild rules of Madame Beck's establishment
permitted.  Teachers might indeed go there with impunity;
but as the walk was narrow, and the neglected shrubs werM




106                    VILLETTE.
grown very thick and close on each side, weaving overhead a
roof of branch and leaf which the sun's rays penetrated but
in rare chequers, this alley was seldom entered even during
day, and after dusk was carefully shunned.
From the first I was tempted to make an exception to this
rule of avoidance: the seclusion, the very gloom of the walk
attracted me.  For a long time the fear of seeming singular
seared me away; but by degrees, as people became accustomed to me and my habits, and to such shades of peculiarity
as were engrained in my nature-shades, certainly not striking enough to interest, and perhaps not prominent enough to
offend, but born in and with me, and no more to be parted
with than my identity-by slow degrees I became a frequentei
of this strait and narrow path.  I made myself gardener of
some tintless flowers that grew between its closely-rankec
shrubs; I cleared away the relics of past autumns, choking uI
a rustic seat at the far end.  Borrowing of Goton, the cuisi
niere, a pail of water and a scrubbing-brush, I made this seal
clean.  Madame saw me at work and smiled approbation:
whether sincerely or not I don't know; but she seemed sincere.
"Voyez-vous!" cried she, "comme elle est propre cette
demoiselle Lucie?  Vous aimez cette allee, meess?"
Yes," I said, " it is quiet and shady."
"'est juste," cried she with her air of bont6; and she
kindly recommended me to confine myself to it as much as I
chose, saying, that as I was not charged with the surveillance,
[ need not trouble myself to walk with the pupils: only 1
might permit her children to come there, to talk English
with me.
On the night in question, I was sitting on the hidden seat
reclaimed from fungi and mould, listening to what seemed
the far off sounds of the city.  Far-off, in truth, they were
not: this school was in the city's centre; hence, it was but
five minutes' walk to the park, scarce ten-to buildings of
palatial splendor.  Quite near were wide streets brightly lit,
teeming at this moment with life: carriages were rolling
through themn to balls or to the opera.  The same hour which
tolld curfew for our convent, which extinguished each lamp,
and dropped the curtain round each couch, rung for the gay
zity about us the summons to festal enjoyment.  Of this con



'HE  CASKET.                       107
trast I thought not, however: gay instincts my nature had
lfw; ball or opera I had never seen; and though often J
had heard them described, and even wished to see them, it
was not the wish of one who hopes to partake a pleasure if
she could only reach it  who feels fitted to shine in some
bright distant sphere, could she but thither win her way; it
was no yearning to attain, no hunger to taste: only the calm
desire to look on a new thing.
A  moon was in the sky, not a full moon but a young
crescent.  I saw her through a space in the boughs overhead.  She and the stars, visible beside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood knew them.
I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve
leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an
old field in old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned
back beside a stately spire in this continental capital.
Oh, my childhood! I had feelings; passive as I lived, little as. spoke, cold as I looked, when I thought of past days, I could
feel. About the present, it was better to be stoical; about the
future-such a future as mine-to be dead. And in catalepsy
and a (ead trance, I studiously held the quick of my nature.
At that time, I well remember whatever could excitecertain accidents of the weather, for instance, were almost
dreaded by me, because they woke the being I was always
lulling, and stirred up a craving cry I could not satisfy. One
night a thunder-storm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in
our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to 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, it was wild, it was pitch-dark.
Within the dormitory they gathered round the night-lamp in
consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistlesa
was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full
of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man-too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds,
split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.
I did long, achingly, then and for four-and-twenty hours
afterwards, Ibr something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead me upwards and onwards.  This longing




108                    VILLETTE.
and all of a similar kind, it was necessary to knock on th4
head; which I did, figuratively, after the manner of Jael to
Sisera, driving a nail through their temples.  Unlike Sisera,
they did not die: they were but transiently stunned, and at
intervals would turn on the nail with a rebellious wrench;
then did the temples bleed, and the brain thrill to its core.
To night, I was not so mutinous, nor so miserable.  My
Sisera lay quiet in the tent, slumbering; and if his pain ached
through his slumbers, something like an angel-the Ideal —knelt near, dropping balm on the soothed temples, holding
before the sealed eyes a magic glass, of which the sweet,
solemn visions were repeated in dreams, and shedding a reflex
from  her moonlight wings and robe over the transfixed
sleeper, over the tent threshold, over all the landscape lying
without.  Jael, the stern woman, sat apart, relenting somewhat over her captive; but more prone to dwell on the
faithful expectation of Heber coming home. By which words
I mean that the cool peace and dewy sweetness of the-night
filled me with a mood of hope: not hope on any definite point,
but a general sense of encouragement and heart-ease.
Should not such a mood, so sweet, so tranquil, so unwonted,'iave been the harbinger of good? Alas, no good came of it
Presently the rude Real burst coarsely in-all evil, grovelling,
and repellent as she too often 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 windows here are casements, opening on hinges]
creaked.  Ere I had time to look up and mark where, il
which story, or by whom unclosed, a tree overhead shook, as
if struck by a missile; some object dropped prone at my feet.
Nine was striking by St Jean Baptiste's clock; day was
fading, but it was not dark: the crescent-moon aided little, bui
the deep gilding of that po:nt in heaven where the sun beamed
last, and the crystalline clearness of a wide space above, sustained the summer twilight; even in my dark walk I could,
by approaching an opening, have managed to read print of a,mall type.  Easy was it to see then that the missile was a
box, a small box of white and colored ivory: its loose lid
opened in my hand; violets lay within, violets smothering a
closely-folded bit of pink paper, a note, superscribed,' Pci:u
la robe grise"  I wore indeed a dress of French gray.




THE CASKET                        109
Good.  Was this a billet-doux?  A thing I nati hea'd of,
but hitherto had not had the honor of seeing or handling.
Was it this sort of cormmedity I held between my finger and
thumb at this moment?
Scarcely: I did not dreala it for a.moment.  Suitor or ad.
mirer my very thoughts had not conceived.  All the teachers
had dreams of some lover; one (but she was naturally of a
credulous turn) believed in a future husband. All the pupils
above fourteen knew of some prospective bridegroom; two or
three were already affianced by their parents, and had been
so from childhood: but into the realm  of feelings and hopes
which such prospects open, my speculations, far less my presumptions, had never once had warrant to intrude.  If the
other teachers went into town, or took a walk on the boulevards, or only attended mass, they were very certain (according to the accounts brought back) to meet with some individual of the " opposite sex," whose rapt, earnest gaze assured
them of their power to strike and to attract. I can't say that
my experience tallied with theirs, in this respect.  I went to
church and 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, and did not testify to having received an admiring beam from our young doctor's blue eyes,
at one time or other.  I am  obliged, however humbling it
may sound, to except myself: as far as I was concerned, those
blue eyes were guiltless, and calm  as the sky, to whose tint
theirs seemed akin.  So it came to pass that I heard the
others talk, wondered often at their gaiety, security and selfsatisfaction, but did not trouble myself to look up and gaze
along the path they seemed so certain of treading.. This then
was no billet-doux: and it was in settled conviction to the
contrary that I quietly opened it.  Thus it ran-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 beset with such dangerthe hour so untimely, the alley so strictly secluded-often,
you said, haunted by that dragon, the English teacher-une
veritable begueule Britannique a ce que vous dites-espece
de monstre, brusque et rude corme un vieux caporal dc greuladiers, et reveche ccinme une religieuse" (the reader wilF




110                    V ILLETT.
excuse my modesty in allowing this flattering sketch of my
amiable self to retain the slight veil of the original tongue),
"You are aware," went on this precious effusion, " that little
Gustave, on account of his illness, has been removed to a
master's chamber-that favored chamber, whose lattice overlooks your prison-ground.  There, I, the best uncle in the
world, am  admitted to visit him.  How tremblingly I approached the window and glanced into your Eden-an Eden
for me, though a desert for you!-how  I feared to behold
vacancy, or the dragon aforesaid! How my heart palpitated
with delight when, through apertures in the envious boughs,
I at once caught the gleam of your graceful straw-hat, and
the waving of your gray dress-dress that I should recognize
amongst a thousand.  But why, my angel, will you not look
up?  Cruel, to deny me one ray of those adorable eyes!how a single glance would have revived me! I write this in
fiery haste; while the physician examines Gustave, I snatch
an opportunity to enclose it in a small casket, together with
a bouquet of flowers, the sweetest that blow-yet less sweet
than thee, my Peri-my all-charming!  Ever thine-thou
well knowest whom!"
"I wish I did know whom," was:my comment; and the
wish bore even closer reference to the person addressed in
this choice document, than to the writer thereof. Perhaps it
was from  the fiance of one of the engaged pupils; and, in
that case, there was no great harm done or intended-only a
small irregularity.  Several of the girls, the majority indeed,
had brothers or cousins at the neighboring college.  But, "la
robe grise, le chapeau de paille," here surely was a clue-a
very confusing one. The straw-hat was an ordinary garden
head-screen, common to a score besides myself.  The gray
dress hardly gave more definite indication.  Madame Beck
herself ordinarily wore a gray dress just now; another teacher,
and three of the pensionnaires, had had gray dresses purchased of the same shade and fabric as mine: it was a sort
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 the dormitory, announced that prayers were over,
and the pupils going to bed.  Another half hour and all doors
would be locked-all lights extinguish"ll   The front door yea




TIE  CASKET.                      111
tJood open, co admit into the heated house the coolness of the
Bummer night; from. the portresse's cabinet close by shone a
lamp, showing the long vestibule with the two-leaved drawing-room  doors on one side, the great street-door closing the
vslta.
All at once, qL.ick ran the bell-quick, but not loud —a
cautious tinkle-a sort of warning, metal whisper.  Rosine
darted from her cabinet and ran to open.  The person she
admitted stood with her two minutes in parley: there seemed
a demur, a delay.  Rosine came to the garden door, lamp in
hand; she stood on the steps, lifting her lamp, looking round
vaguely.
" Quel conte!" she cried with a coquettish laugh.  "Persorne n'y a ete."
"Let me pass," pleaded a voice I knew: "I ask but five
minutes;" and a familiar shape, tall and grand (as we of the
Rue Fossette all thought it), issued from the house, and strode
down amongst the beds and walks.  It was sacrilege-the
intrusion of a man into that spot, at that hour; but he knew
iimnself privileged, and perhaps he trusted to the friendly
night.  He wandered down the alleys, looking on this side
and on that-he was lost in the shrubs, trampling flowers
ind breaking branches 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 I held it in my hand.
"Do not betray her," he said, looking at me as if I were
indeed a dragon.
"Were I ever so disposed to treachery, I cannot betray
what I do not know," was my answer. " Read the note, and
you will see how little it reveals."
"Perhaps you have read it," I thought to myself; and yet
I could not believe he wrote it: that could hardly be his style:
besides, I was fool enough to think there would be a degree
of hardship in his calling me such names.  His own look
vindicated him; he grew hot, and colored as he read.
" This is indeed too much: this is cruel, this is humiliating," were the words that fell from him.  I thought it wan
rruel, when I saw his countenance so moved.  No matter




112                    VILLETTE.
whether he was to blame or not; somebody, it seemed to mq
must be more to blame.
" WTht shall you do about it?" he inquired of me. " Shal
you tell Madame Beck what you have found, and cause a
stir-an esclandre?"
T thought I ought to tell, and said so; adding that I did
not believe there would be either stir or esclandre; madame
was much too prudent to make a noise about an affair of that
sort connected with her establishment.
lie stood looking down and meditating.  Hie was both too
proud and too honorable to entreat my secrecy on a point
which duty evidently commanded me to communicate.  I
wished to do right, yet loathed to grieve or injure him. Just
then Rosine glanced out through the open door; she could
see us, though between the trees I could plainly see her: her
dress was gray, like mine. This circumstance, taken in connection with prior transactions, suggested to me that perhaps
the case, however deplorable, was one in which I was under
no obligation whatever to concern myself.  Accordingly, I
said:~
" If you can assure me that none of Madame Beck's pupils
are implicated in this business, I shall be very happy to stand
aloof from all interference. Take the casket, the bouquet,
and the billet; for my part, I gladly forget the whole affair."
"Look there i" he whispered suddenly, as his hand closed
on what I offered, and at the same time he pointed through
the boughs.
I looked.  Behold madame, in shawl, wrapping gown, and
slippers, softly descending the steps, and stealing like a cat
round the garden: in two minutes she would have been upon
Dr. John.  If she were like a cat, however, he quite as much,
resembled a leopard: nothing could be lighter than his tread
when he chose.  He watched, and as she turned a corner,
he took the garden at two noiseless bounds. She reappeared,
and he was gone.  Rosine helped him, instantly interposing
the 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 in the garden, yet, never till now, had I remained so late.  Full sure was I that madame had missedwas come in search of me. and designed now to pounce on




TIIE CASKET.                       113
the defaulter unawares.  I expected  a leprimand.  No,
Madame was all goodness.  She tendered not even a remonstrance; she testified no shade of surprise. With that consummate tact of hers, in which I believe she was never surpassed by living thing, she even professed merely to havs
issued forth to taste " la brise du soir."
Q' uelle belle nuit!" cried she, looking up at the stars —
the moon was now gone down behind the broad tower of
Jean Baptiste.  " Qu'il fait bon! que l'air est frais!"
And, instead of sending me in, she detained me to take a
few turns with her down the principal alley.  When at last
we both re-entered, she leaned affably on my shoulder by way
of support in mounting the front-door steps; at parting, her
cheek was presented to my lips, and " Bon soir, ma 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 behavior offered, for one who knew her, a sure token that
suspicion of some kind was busy in her brain. From some
aperture or summit of observation, through parted bough or
open window, she had doubtless caught a glimpse, remote or
near, deceptive or instructive, of that night's transactions.
Finely accomplished as she was in the art of surveillance, it
was next to impossible that a casket could be thrown into 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 few words he dropped to me, yet the hum of
mlan's voice pervaded, I thought, the whole conventual ground)
without, I say, that she should have caught intimation of things
extraordinary transpiring on her premises.  VWhat things, she
might by no means see, or that time be able to discover; but
a delicious little ravelled plot lay tempting her to disentanglements; and in the midst, folded round and round in Qxbwebs, had she not secured "MeesE Lucie," clumsily invl&A  1,
like the foolish fly she was,




114                    VILLEITTS
CHAPTER XII.
A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.
I HA&D oocasion t) smile-nay, to laugh, at madame again,
within the space of four and twenty hours after the little
scene treated of in the last chapter.
Villette owns a climate as variable, though not so humid. as
that of any English town. A night of high wind followed upon
that soft sunset, and all the next day was one of dry stormdark, beclouded, yet rainless,-the streets were dim with
sand and dust, whirled from the boulevards.  I know not that
even lovely weather would have tempted me to spend the
evening time of study and recreation, where I had spent it
yesterday.  My alley, and, indeed, all the walks and shrubs il
the garden, had acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest ~
their seclusion was now become precarious; their calm-insecure.  That casement which rained billets, had vulgarized
the one dear nook it overlooked; and elsewhere the eyes of
the flowers had gained vision, and the knots in the tree-boles
listened like secret ears.  Some plants there were, indeed,
trodden down by Dr. John in his search, and his hasty and
heedless progress, which I wished to prop up, water, and revive; some foot-marks, too, he had left on the beds: but these
in spite of the strong wind, I found a moment's leisure to ef
face very early in the morning, ere common eyes had discov
ered them. With a pensive sort of content, I sat down to my
desk and my German, while the pupils settled to their evening
lessons, and the other teachers took up their needlework.
The scene of the " Etude de soir" was always the refectory, a much smaller apartment than any of the three classes
or school-rooms; for here none, save the boarders, were ever
admitted, and these numbered only 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 demeanor assumed, general silence enforced,
and then commenced' la lecture pieuse."  This said "lee.
ture pieuse" was,  soon found, mainly designed as a wholel




A SNEEZE  OUT OF SEASON.                    115
some mortification of the Intellect, a useful humiliation of the
lReason; 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-gray as the Hotel de Ville.
I would have given two francs for the chance of getting
that book once into my hands, turning over the sacred yellow
leaves, ascertaining the title, and perusing with my own eyes
the enormous figments which, as an unworthy heretic, it was
only permitted me to drink in with my bewildered ears. This
book contained legends of the saints.  Good God! (I speak
the words reverently) what legends they were.  What gasconading rascals those saints must have been, if they first
boasted these exploits or invented these miracles.  These legends, however, were no more than monkish extravagances,
over which one laughed inwardly; there were, besides.
priestly matters, and the priestcraft of the book was far worse
than its monkery.  The ears burned on each side of my headt
as I listened, perforce, to tales of moral martyrdom inflicted
by Rome; the dread boasts of confessors, who had wickedly
abused their office, trampling to deep, degradation high-born
ladies, making of countesses and princesses the most tormented
slaves under the sun. Stories like that of Conrad and Elizabeth of Hungary, recurred again and again, with all its dreadful viciousness, sickening tyranny 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 scissors by involuntarily sticking them somewhat deep
in the worm-eaten board of the table before me.  But, at
last, it made me so burning hot, and my temples and my
heart and my wrist throbbed so fast, and my sleep afterwards
was so broken with excitement, that I could sit no longer.
Prudence recommended henceforward a swift clearance of my
person from the place, the moment that guilty old book was
brought out.  No Mause Headrigg ever felt a stronger call to
take up her testimony against Sergeant Bothwell, than I —
to speak my mind in this matter of the popish "lecture
pieuse."  However, I did manage somehow to curb and rein
in; and though always, as soon as Rosine came to light the




11G                   VILLETTE.
amps, I shot from the room quickly, yet also I did it quietly;
seizing that vantage moment given by the little bustle before
the dead silence, and vanishing whilst the boarders put their
books away.
When I vanished-it was into darkness; candles were not
allowed to be carried about, and the teacher who forsook the
refectory had only the unlit hall, school-room, or bed-room, as
refuge.  In winter I sought the long classes, and paced
hemn fast to keep myself warm-fortunate if the moon shone,
and if there were only stars, soon reconciled to their dim
gleam, or even to the total eclipse of their absence.  In summner it was never quite dark, and then I went up stairs, to my
own quarter of the long dormitory, opened my own casement
(that chamber was lit by five casements large as great doors),
and leaning out, looked Ibrth upon the city beyond the garden,
and listened to band-music from the park or the palace-square,
thinrking meantime my own thoughts, living my own life in
my own still, shadow-world.
This evening, fugitive as usual before the Pope and his
works, I mounted the staircase, approached the dormitory,
and quietly opened the door which was always kept carefully
shut, and which, like every other door in this house, revolved
noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Before I saw, I felt that life
was in the great room, usually void: not that there was either
stir or breath, or. rustle of sound, but Vacuum lacked, Solitude
was not at horne.  All the white beds-the " lits d'ange," as
they were poetically termed-lay visible at a glance; all were
empty: no sleeper reposed therein.  The sound of a drawer
cautiously slid out struck my ear; stepping a little to one
side, my vision took a free range, unimpeded by falling curtains. I now commanded my own bed and my own toilet, with
a locked work-box upon it, and locked drawers underneath.
Very good.  A dumpy, motherly, little body, in decent
shawl and the cleanest of possible night-caps, stood before this
toilet, hard at work, apparently doing me the kindness of
tidying out" the " meuble."  Open stood the lid of the workbox, open the top drawer; duly and impartially was each
succeeding drawer opened in turn: not an article of their contents but was lifted and unfolded, not a paper but was glanced
over, not a little box but was unlidded; and beautiful was
the adroitness, exemplary the care with which the search was




A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.                    117
accomplished.  Madame wrought at it like a true star, " unhasting yet unresting."  I will not deny that it was with a
secret glee I watched her.  Had I been a gentleman, I believe
madame would have found favor in my eyes, she was so
handy, neat, thorough in all she did: some people's movencnts provoke the soul by their loose awkwardness-hers
satisfied by their trim  compactness.  I stood, in short, fascinsated; but it was necessary to make an effort to break this
spell: a retreat must be beaten.  The searcher might have
turned and caught me; there would have been nothing for it
then but a scene, and she and I would have had to come all
at once, with a sudden clash, to a thorough knowledge of each
other: down would have gone conventionalities, away swept
disguises, and I should have looked into her eyes, and she
into mine-we should have known that we could work
together no more, and parted in this life for ever.
Where was the use of tempting such a catastrophe?  I
was not angry, and had no wish in the world to leave her
I could hardly get another employer whose yoke would be se
light and so easy of carriage; and truly, I liked madame for
her capital sense, whatever I might think of her principles:
as to her system, it did me no harm; she might work me
with it to her heart's content: nothing would come of the
operation.  Loverless and inexpectant of love, I was as safe
from spies in my heart-poverty, as the beggar from thieves inl
his destitution of purse.  I turned, then, and fled; descending the stairs with progress as swift and soundless as that of
the spider, which at the same instant ran down the banister.
How I laughed when I reached the school-room.  I knew
now she had certainly seen Dr. John in the garden; I knew
what her thoughts were.  The spectacle of a suspicious nature so far misled by its own inventions, tickled me much.
Yet as the laugh died, a kind of wrath smote me, and then
bitterness followed: it was the rock struck, and Meribah's
waters gushing out.  I never had felt so strange and contradictory an inward tumult as I felt for an hour that evening:
soreness and laughter, and fire, and grief, shared my heart
between them. I cried hot tears; not because madame mistrusted me-I did not care twopence for her mistrust —-Lat
for other reasons.  Complicated, disquieting thoughts broke
F2




118                   VILLETTE.
up the whole repose of my nature.  However, that turmoil
bubsided: next day I was again Lucy Snowe.
On revisiting my drawers, I found them all securely locked 
the closest subsequent examination could not discover change
or apparent disturbance in the position of one object.  My
few dresses were folded as I had left them; a certain little
bunch of white violets that had once 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 for its sweet
perilme between the folds of my best dress, lay there unstirred;
my black silk scarf, my lace chemisettes and collars were unrumpled.  Had she creased one solitary article, I own I should
have felt much greater difficulty in forgiving her; but finding
all straight and orderly, I said, "Let oygones be bygones.  I
am unharmed: why should I bear ma.^ee?"
A thing there was which puzzled myself, and I sought in
my brain a key to that riddle almost as sedulously as madame
had sought a guide to useful knowledge in my toilet drawers.
How was it that Dr. John, if he had not been accessory to the
dropping of that casket into the garden, should hare known
that it was dropped, and appeared so promptly on the spot to
seek it?  So strong was the wish to clear up this point that
i began to entertain this daring suggestion:
" Why may I not, in case I should ever have the opportunity, ask Dr. John himself to explain this coincidence?"
And so long as Dr. John was absent, I really believed I had
courage to test him with such a question.
Little Georgette was now convalescent; and her physician
accordingly made his visits very rare: indeed, he would have
ceased them altogether, had not madame insisted on his giving an occasional call till the child should be quite well.
She came into the nursery one evening just after I hadl
listened to Georgette's lisped and broken prayer, and had put
her to bed.  Taking the little one's hand, she said:
" Gette enfant a toujours un peu de fievre."  An(l presently
afterwards, looking at me with a quicker glance than was
habitual to her quiet eye, "Le Docteur John l'a-t-il vu6
derniirement?  Non, n'est-ce pas?"




A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.                     119
01 course, she knew this better than any other person in
the house.  " Well, she continued, I am going out, pour faire
quelques courses en fiacre. I shall call on Dr. John, and send
him to the child.  I will that he sees her this very evening;
her cheeks are flushed, her pulse is quick: you will receive
him-for my part, I shall be from home."
Now  the child was well enough, only warm  with the
warmth of July; it was scarcely less needful to send for a
priest to administer extreme unction than for a doctor to prescribe a dose; also madame rarely made " courses" as she
called them, in the evening: moreover, this was the first
time she had chosen to absent herself on the occasion of a visit
fiom Dr. John.  The whole arrangement indicated some plan;
this I saw, but without the least anxiety.  " Ha! ha! madame," laughed Light-heart the 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
any complexion less fresh than her own, but, to her. not nnbecoming. I wondered what she intended: whether she really
would send Dr. John or not; 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 and palavering the little language for hei
benefit.  I affected Georgette; she was a sensitive and loving
child; to hold her in my lap, or carry her in my arms was
to me a treat.  To-night she would have me lay my head on
the pillow of her crib: she even put her little arms round my
neck.  Her clasp and the nestling action with which she
pressed her cheek to mine, made me almost cry with a tender
pain. Feeling of no kind abounded in that house; this pure
little drop from a pure little source was too sweet: it penetrated deep, and subdued the heart, and sent a gush to the
eyes.
Half an hour or an hour passed; Georgette murmured in
her soft lisp that she was growing sleepy.' And you shall
sleep," thought I, "malgre maman and medecin, if they are
not here in ttn minutes."
Hark! There was the ring, and there the tread, astonish
ing the staircase by the fleetness with which it left the steps




120                    VIL LET T E.
behind.  Roslne introduced Dr. John, and, with a freedorm
of manner not altogether peculiar to herself, but characteristic
of the domestics of Villette generally, she stayed to hear what
he had to say.  Madame's presence would have awed her
back to her own realm of the vestibule and the cabinet-for
mine, or that of any other teacher or pupil, she cared not a
jot.  Smart, trim and pert, she stood, a hand in each pocket
of her gay grisette apron, eyeing Dr. John with no more fear
or shyness than if he had been a picture instead of a living
gentleman.
" Le marmot n'a rien n'est-ce pas?" said she, indicating
G eorgette with a jerk of her chin.
"Pas beaucoup," was the answer, as the doctor hastily
scribbled with his pencil some harmless prescription.
"Eh bien!" pursued Prosine, approaching him quite near,
while he put up his pencil.  "And the box-did you get it?
Monsieur went off like a coup 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 the very words I should so much have wished to
say, but had no address or courage to bring it out: how short
4orne people make the road to a point which, for others, seems
unattainable I"
"That may be my secret," rejoined Dr. John briefly, but
with no sort of hauteur: he seemed quite to understand the
Rosine or grisette character.
"Mais enfin," continued she, nothing abashed, " monsieur
knew it was thrown, since he came to seek it-how did he
know?"
" I was attending a little patient in the college near," said
he, " and saw 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 physician as then examining " Gustave."
" A h ca " pursued Rosine, "' II n'y a done rien la-dessousa
pas de mystere, pas d'amourette, par exemple?"
" Pas plus que sur ma main," responded the doctor, show*
mg his palm.
"u QucJ dommage!" responded the grisette: "et moi.-A
qui tout cela commenqait i donner des idees."'




A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.                     121
"Vraiment! vous en etes pour vos frais," was the doctor's
cool rejoinder.
She pouted.  The doctor could not help laughing at the
sort of "lnoue" she made: when he laughed, he had something peculiarly good-natured and genial in his look. I saw
his hand incline to his pocket.
"How many times have you opened the door for me within
this last month?" he asked.
"Monsieur ought to have kept count of that," said Rosine,
quite readily.
"As if I had not something better to do!" rejoined he; but
I saw him give her a piece of gold, which she took unscrupuiously, and then danced off to answer the door-bell, ringing
just now every five minutes, as the various servants came to
fetch the half-boarders.
The reader must not think too hardly of Rosine; on the
whole, she was not a bad sort of person, and had no idea
there could be any disgrace in grasping at whatever she could
get, or any effrontery in chattering like a pie to the best gen-.leman in Christendom.
I had learnt something from the above scene besides what
concerned the ivory box: viz., that not on the robe de jaconas, pink or gray, nor yet on the frilled and pocketed apron,
lay the blame of breaking Dr. John's heart: these items of
array were obviously guiltless as Georgette's little blue tunic.
So much the better.  But who then was the culprit? What
was the ground-what the origin-what the perfect explanation of the whole business? Some points had been cleared,
but how many yet remained obscure as night?
"However," I said to myself, "it is no affair of yours;"
and turning from the face on which I had been unconsciously
dwelling with a questioning gaze, I looked through the window which commanded the garden below.  Dr. John, meantime, standing by the bed-side, was slowly drawing on his
gloves and watching his little patient, as her eyes closed and
her rosy lips parted in coming sleep.  I waited till he should
depart as usual, with a quick bow and scarce articulate " good
night." Just as he took his hat, my eyes, fixed on the tall
houses bounding the garden, saw the one lattice, already cornmemorated, cautiously open; forth fiom the aperture pro.
jtcted a hand and a white handkrrchief; broth waved




12-2                   VILLETTE.
know not whether the signal was answered from simne view
less quarter of our own dwelling; but immediately after there
fluttered from the lattice a falling object, white and lightbillet the second, of course.
There!" I ejaculated involuntarily.
"Where?" asked Dr. John with energy, making direct fox
the window.  " What is it?"
They have gone and done it again," was my reply.  
handkerchief waved and something fell:" and I pointed to
the lattice, now closed and 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 direct to 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," lie
said, looking at me.
" Those fault?' I asked.  " Who is it?"
"You don't yet know, then?"
Not in the least."' Have you no rguess?"
"None."
"If I knew you better, I might be tempted to risk some
confidence, and thus secure you as guardian over a most innocent and excellent, but somewhat 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, would warrant him in recommending
to my care and indulgence some ethereal creature, against
wrhom powers of darkness were plotting.  I felt no particular
rocation to undertake the surveillance of ethereal creatures;
but recalling the scene at the bureau, it seemed to me that 1
owed himr a good turn: if I could help him then I would, and
it lay not with me to decide how.  WTith as little rel actanee
r1, might be, I intimated that " I was willing to do what I




A SNEEZE  OUT OF SEASON.                   123
eouid towards taking care of any person in whorm re rrulh
be interested."
"I am  no farther interested than as a spectator," said he,
with a modesty, admirable, as I thought, to witness.  " 
happen to be acquainted with the rather worthless character
of the person who, fiom  the house opposite, has now twice
invaded the sanctity of this place; I have also met in society
the object at whom these vulgar attempts are aimed. Her
exquisite superiority and innate refinement ought, one would
think, to scare impertinence from her very idea.  It is not so,
however; and innocent, unsuspicious as she is, I would guard
her from evil if I could.  In person, however, I can do nuth-'ig: I cannot come near her"-he paused.
" Well, I am willing to help you," said I, " only tell me
how."  And busily, in my own mind, I ran over the list of
~ur inmates, seeking this paragon, this pearl of great price,
this gem without flaw.  "It must be madame," I concluded.
" She only, amongst us all, has the 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: he shall be humored
his angel shall be an angel."
"Just notify the quarter to which my care is to be direct
ed," I continued gravely: chuckling, however, to myself over
the thought of being set to chaperon Madame Beck or any of
her pupils.
Now Dr. John had a fine set of nerves, and he at once felt
by instinct, what no more coarsely constituted mind would
have detected; namely, that I was a little amused at him.
The color rose to his cheek; with half a smile 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.  I will watch over your angel; I will take care of
her, only tell me who she is."
"But you must know," said he, then with earnestness, yet
speaking very low.  " So spotless, so good, so unspeakably
beautiful! impossible that one house should contain two like
her.  I allude, of course-"
Here the latch of Madame Beck'  chamber-door (opening
into the nursery) gave a sudden cli i;, as if the hand holding;t had been slightlyconvulsed; there was the suppressed ex.




124                    VILLETTS
plosion of an irrepressible sneeze.  These little accidents will
happen to the best of us. Madame-excellent woman!-was
then on duty.  She had come home quietly, stolen up-stairs
on tip-toe; she was in her chamber.  If she had not sneezed,
she would have heard all, and so should I; but that unlucky
sternutation routed Dr. John.  While he stood aghast, she
came forward alert, composed, in the best yet most tranquil
spirits: no novice to her habits, but would have thought she
was just come in, and scouted the idea of her ear having been
glued to the key-hole for at least ten minutes. She affected
to sneeze again, declared she was "enrhumee," and then
proceeded volubly to recount her " courses en fiacre."  The
prayer-bell rang, and I left her with the doctor.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FETE.
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 than before.  But I must not complain.  I
lived in a house full of robust life; I might have had companions, and I chose solitude.  Each of the teachers in turn
made me overtures of special intimacy; I tried them  all
One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a
coarse feeler, and an egotist.  The second was a Parisienne,
externally refined-at heart, corrupt —without a creed, without a principle, without an affection: having penetrated the
outward crust of decorum in this character, you found a slough
beneath.  She had a wonderful passion for presents; and, in
this point, the third teacher-a person otherwise characterless
and insignificant-closely resembled her.  This last-named
had also one other distinctive property-that of avarice.  In
her reigned the love of money for its own sake.  The sight
of a piece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten,
singular to witness.  She once, as a mark of high favor, took
me upstairs, and, opening a secret drawer, showed me a hoard




THE FETE.                       125
-"a mass of coarse, large coin-about fifteen guineas, in fiv~
franc pieces.  She loved this hoaid as a bird loves its eggs
These were her savings.  She would come and 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 (in disposition, that is: as to action, I do not know).
That latter quality showed its snake-head to me but once,
peeping out very cautiously.  A  curious kind of reptile it
seemed, judging from the glimpse I got; its novelty whetted
my curiosity: if it would have come out boldly, perhaps I
might philosophically have stood my ground, and coolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly tail-tip; but
it merely rustled in the leaves of a bad novel; and, on en
countering a hasty and ill-advised demonstration of wrath,
recoiled and vanished, hissing. She hated me from that day.
This Parisienne was always in debt; her salary being anticipated, not only in dress, but in perfumes, cosmetics, confectionary, and condiments. What a cold, callous epicure she
was in all things! I see her now.  Thin in face and figure,
sallow in complexion, regular in features, with perfect teeth,
lips like a thread, a large, prominent chin, a well-opened, but
frozen eye, of light at once craving and ingrate. 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 once talked to me about her, with an odd mixture of
discrimination, indifference, and antipathy. I asked why she
kept her in the establishment.  She answered plainly, "because it suited her interest to do so;" and pointed out a fact I
had already noticed, namely, that Mademoiselle St. Pierre
possessed, in an almost unique degree, the power of keeping
order amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain
petrifying influence accompanied and surrounded her: without
passion, noise, or violence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost-air might still a brawling stream. She was of little
use as far as communication of knowledge went, but for strict
surveillance and maintenance of rules she was invaluable
"Je sais bien qu'elle n'a pas de principes, ni, peutetre, de
moars," admitted madame frankly; but added, with philoso
phy, "son maintien en classe est toujours convenable et remph




12G                    VILLETTE.
reme d'une certaine dignit63: c'est tout ce qu'il fiut.  Ni let
eleves, ni les parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par eons6.
qupnt, rnoi non plus."
A strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school:
great pains were taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle
essence of Romanism  pervaded every arrangement: large
sensual indulgence (so to speak) was permitted by way of
counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Each mind was
being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection from dwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation was seized
and made the most of.  There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH
strove to bring up her children robust in body, feeble in soul,
fat, ruddy, hale, joyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning.
" Eat, drink, and live!" she says.  "Look after your bodies;
leave your souls to me. I hold their cure-guide their course:
I guarantee their final fate."  A bargain, in which every true
Catholic deems himself a gainer. Lucifer just ofiers the same
terms: " All this power will I give thee, and the glory of it;
Ibr that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give
it. If' thou, therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine!"
About this time-in the ripest glow of summer —Madamne
Beck's house became as merry a place as a school could welt
be.  All day long the broad folding-doors and the two-leaved
casements stood wide open: settled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were far off, sailing away
beyond the sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such as England-that dear land of mists-but withdrawn wholly from
the drier continent. We lived far more in the garden than
under a roof: classes were held, and meals partaken of, in
the " grand berceau." Moreover, there was a note of holiday
preparation, which almost turned freedom into license.  The
autumnal long vacation was but two months distant; but
before that, a great day-an important ceremony-none other
than the fete of madame-awaited celebration.
The conduct of this fete devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle
St. Pierre; madame herself being supposed to stand aloof,
disinterestedly unconscious of what might be going forward
il her honor, Especially, she never knew, never in the least




THE  FEtTE.                       127
suspected that a subscription was annually levied on the whole
school for the purchase of a handsome present.  The polite
tact of the reader will please to leave out of the account a
brief, secret consultation on this point in madame's own
chamber.
"What will you have this year?" was asked by her Pa.
risian lieutenant.
"Oh, no matter!  Let it alone.  Let the poor children
keep their francs."  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  bonte""des grimaces."  She never even professed to respect them
one instant.
" Vite!" she would say coldly. " Name the article. Shali
it be jewelery or porcelain, haberdashery or silver?"
" Eh bien  I Deux ou trois cuillers et autant de fourchettes
en argent."
And the result was a handsome case. containing 300 francs
worth of plate.
The programme of the fete-day's proceedings comprised:
Presentation of plate, collation in the garden, dramatic perfbrmance (with pupils and teachers for actors), a dance and
supper. Very gorgeous seemed the effect of the whole to me,
as I well remember. Zelie St. Pierre understood these things
and managed them ably.
The Play was the main point; a month's previous drilling
being there required. The choice too of the actors required
knowledge and care; then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue of countless rehearsals.  For all
this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierre did not suffice:
other management, other accomplishments than hers were
requisite here. They were supplied in the person of a master —M. Paul Emanuel, professor of literature. It was never
my lot to be present at the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but
I often saw him as he crossed the carre (a square hall between the dwelling-house and school-house). I heard him
too in the warm evenings, lecturing with open doors, and his
name with anecdotes of him, resounded in one's ears from
all sides.  Especially our former acquaintance, Miss Ginevrn
Fanshawe, who had been selected to take a prominent parl
Hn te play-~used, by bestowing on me a large portion of




128                   VILLETTE.
het leisure, to lard her discourse with frequent allusions to hii
sayings and doings.  She esteemed him hideously plain, and
used to profess herself frightened almost into hysterics at the
sound of his step or voice.  A dark little man he certainly
was; pungent and austere.  Even to me he seemed a harsh
apparition, with his close-shorn black head, his broad, sallow
brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, his
thorough glance and hurried bearing. irritable he was; one
heard that, as he apostrophised with vehemence the awkward
squad under his orders.  Sometimes he would break out on
these raw amateur actresses with a passion of impatience at
their falseness of conception, their coldness of emotion, their
feebleness of delivery.  "Ecoutez!" he would cry; and
then his voice rang through the premises like a trumpet; and
when, mimicking it, came the small pipe of a Ginevra, a
Mathilde, or a Blanche, one understood why a hollow  groan
of scorn, or a fierce hiss of rage rewarded the tame echo.
"Vous n'etes done que des poupdes?" I hear him thunder.
"' Vous n'avez pas de passions-vous autres?  Vous ne sentez
done rien?  Votre chair est de neige, votre sang de glace?
Moi, je veux que tout cela s'allume, qu'il ait une vie, une
ame!"
Vain resolve! And when he at last found it was vain, he
suddenly broke the whole business down.  Hitherto he had
been teaching them a grand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in
morsels, and came next day 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 I was told that the polish of her manner, her
seeming attention, her tact and grace, impressed that gentlenlan very favorably.  She had, indeed, the art of pleasing,
for a given time, whom she would; but the feeling would not
last; in an hour it was dried like dew, vanished like gossamer.
The day preceding madame's fete was as much a holiday
as the fete itself.  It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning,
arranging and decorating the three schoolrooms.  All within
doors was the gayest bustle; neither upstairs nor down could
a quiet isolated person find rest for the sole of her foot; accord.
ingly, for my part, I took refuge in the garden.  The whole
day did I wander 3r sit there alone, finding warmth in ths




THIE  FET.                       123
sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionship in
my own thoughts.  I well remember that I exchanged but
two sentences that day with any living being: not that I felt
solitary; I was glad tc be quiet.  For a looker-on, it sufficed
to pass through the rooms once or twice, observe what changes
were being wrought, how a green-room and a dressing-room
were being contrived, a little stage with scenery erected, how
[I. Paul Emanuel, in conjunction with  Mademoiselle St.
Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils,
amongst them Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under
his control.
The great day arrived.  The sun rose hot and unclouded,
and hot and unclouded it burned on till evening.  All the
doors and all the windows were set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom-and freedom the most complete
seemed indeed the order of the day.  Teachers and pupils
descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:
anticipating " avec d6lices" the toilette of the evening, they
seemed to take a pleasure in indulging that forenoon a luxury
of slovenliness; like aldermen, fasting in preparation for a
feast.  About nine o'clock, A. M., an important functionary,
the "coiffeur," arrived.  Sacrilegious to state, he fixed his
head-quarters in the oratory, and there, in the presence of
benitier, candle, and crucifix, solemnized the mysteries of his
art.  Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his
hands; emerging from  them with head as smooth as a shell,
intersected by faultless white lines, and wreathed about with
Grecian plaits that shone as if lacquered.  I took rmy turn
with the rest, and could hardly believe what the glass said
when I applied to it for information afterwards; the lavish
garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me —I feared it was
not all my own, and it required several convincing pulls to
give assurance to the contrary.  I then acknowledged in the
coiffeur a first-rate artist-one who certainly made 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 ever must be an enigma, how they contrived
to spend so much time in doing so little.  The operation
Beemed close, intricate, prolonged: the result simple.  A clear
white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin's colors), a pair of




130                    VILLETTE.
white, cr straw-colored kid gloves-such was the gala uni
form, to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and
pupils devoted three mortal hours.  But though simple, it
must be allowed the array was perfect —perfect in fashion
fit, and freshness; every head being also dressed with exquisite nicety, and a certain compact taste-suiting the full, firm
comeliness of Labassecourien contours, though too stiff for any
more flowing and flexible style of beauty-the general effect
was, on the whole, commendable.
In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I weil
remember feeling myself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field
of light; the courage was not in me to put on a transparent
white dress: something thin I must wear-the weather and
rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics sufferance, so
I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a crape-like
material of purple-gray-the color, in short, of dun mist, lying
on a moor in bloom.  My tailleuse had kindly made it as well
as she could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was " si
triste-si peu voyant," care in the fashion was the more imperative. it was well she took this view of the matter, for I had
no flower, no jewel to relieve it; and what was more, I had
no natural rose of complexion.
We become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform
routine of daily drudgery, but they will force upon us their
unwelcome blank on those bright occasions when beauty
should shine.
However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and
at ease; an advantage I should not have enjoyed in anything
more brilliant or striking.  Madame Beck, too, kept me in
countenance; her dress was almost as quiet as mine, except
that she wore a bracelet, and a large brooch bright with gold
and fine stones. We chanced to meet on the stairs, and she
gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that she thought
I was looking well-a point unlikely to engage her interest —
but she considered me dressed " convenablement," " decern
ment," and la Convenance et la Decence were the two calm
deities of madame's worship.  She even paused, laid on my
shoulder her gloved hand, holding an embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, and confided to my ear a sarcasm on the
other teachers (whom  she had just been complimenting tc
their faces). " Nothing so ab-urd," she said' as for des femmes




THE FETE.                          131
naires'to 4ress themselves like girls of' fifteen —qluant a
la St. Pierre, elle a l'air d'une vieille coquette qui faiit lFii
genue."
Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else,
I ielt a pleasure in betaking myself-not to the garden, where
servants were busy propping up long tables, placing seats, and
spreading cloths in readiness for the collation-but to the
school-roomns, now  empty, quiet, cool, and clean; their wails
flesh stained, their planked floors fresh scoured and scarce
dry; flowers fresh gathered adorning the recesses in pots, and
draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows.
Withdrawing to the first classe, a smaller and neater room
than the others, and taking from  the glazed  book-case, of
which I kept the key, a volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read.  The glass-door of this " classe" or
school-room  opened into the large berceau; acacia-boughs
caressed its panes, as they stretched across to meet a rosebush blooming by the opposite lintel: in this rose-bush bees
murmured busy and happy.  I commenced reading.  Just as
the stilly hum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely callA
of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page,
vision from the eyes, and to lure me along the track of reverie)
down into some deep dell of dream-land-just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell to which that much-tried instrument. had ever thrilled, snatched me back to consciousIleSS.
Now, the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, or servants, or coiffeurs, or taillezuses, went and came on
their several errands.  Moreover, there was good reason to
expect it would ring all the afternoon, since about one hun
dred externes were yet to arrive in carriages or fiacres: nor
could it be expected to rest during the evening, when parents
and friends would gather thronging to the play. Under these
circumstances, a ring-even a sharp ring-was a matter of
course: yet this particular peal had an accent of 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
-right on through vestibule, along corridor, across carre,
through first divison, second division, grand salle-strode a
step, quick, regular, intent.  The closed door of the first classe
— my sanctuary-offered no obstacle; it burst open, and a




132                       VILLETTE.
paletot, and a bonn t grec filled the void; also two e es fil'
vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily div3d into me.
" C'est cela!" said a voice.   "Je la connais:'est lFAn
glaise.  Tant pis. Toute Anglaise, et par consequent, toute b6e
gueule qu'elle soit-ella fera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi.'
Then, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thoughi
I had not caught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings),
and in a jargon the most execrable that ever was heard
"Mees -, play you must: I am planted there."
" What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?" I inquired:
for M. Paul Emanuel it was, and in a state of no little excite
ment.
"Play you must.  I will not have you shrink, or frown, oi
make the prude.  I read your skull, that night you came; 1
see your moyens: play you can; play you must."
" But how, M. Paul?   Vhat do you mean?"
" There is no time to be lost," lie went on now speaking in
French; " and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, all minauderies.  You must take a part."' In the vaudeville?"
" In the vaudeville. You have said it."
I gasped, horror-struck.  WVhat did the little man mean?
" Listen!" he said.  " The case shall be stated, and you
shall then answer me Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever after estimate you."
The scarce-suppressed impetus of a most irritable naturl
glowed in his cheek, fed with sharp shafts his glances, a nature-the injudicious, the mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen,
the affected, above all, the unyielding, might quickly rendei
violent and implacable. Silence and attention was the best
balm to apply: I listened.
"The whole matter is going to fail," he began.  "Louise
Vanderkelkov has fallen ill-at least so her ridiculous mother
asserts; for my part, I feel sure she might play if she would:
it is only good will that lacks.  She was charged with a r6le,
as you know, or do not know-it is equal: without that srole
the play is stopped.  There are now but a few hours in which
to learn it: not a girl in this school would hear reason, and
accept the task.  Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not an
amiable, part; their vile amzour-pgropre-~that base qrality
of which women have so much-would revolt from it. Eng




THES   ETE.                       133
Ihshwomen are either the best or the worst of the.r sex, Di u
Bait que je les deteste comme la peste, ordinairement" (this
between his recreant teeth).  " I apply to an Englishwoman
to rescue me.  What is her answer-Yes, or No?"
A thousand objections rushed into my mind.  The foreign
language, the limited time, the public display.... Inclination
recoiled, Ability faltered, Self-respect (that "vile quality")
trembled.  "Non, non, non!" said all these; but looking up
at M. Paul, and seeing in his vexed, fiery, and searching eye,
a sort of appeal behind all its menace-my lips dropped the
word " oui."  For a momrent, his rigid countenance relaxed
with a quiver of content: quickly bent up again, however, he
went on," Vte a l'ouvrage I  Here is the book; here is your role 
read."  And I read.  He did not commend; at some passa.
ges he scowled and stamped.  He gave me a lesson: 1 dili
gently imitated.  It was a disagreeable part,-a man's- an
empty-headed fop's. One could put into it neither heart noi
soul: I hated it.  The play —a mere trifle-ran chiefly on
the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette.  One lover was called the " Outs," a good and gallant
but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other
was a butterfly, 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 endeavored to do better than my best: I presume he gave me credit
for good intentions; he professed to be partially content.  " Ca
ira!" he cried; and as voices began sounding from  the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he added:' You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this.  Come
with me."
Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found
myself in the same breath convoyed along as in a species ol
whirlwind, up stairs, up two pair of stairs, nay, actually up
three (for this fiery little man seemed as by instinct to know
his way everywhere); to the solitary and lofty attic was 1
borne, put in and locked in, the key being on the door, and
Lhat key he took with him, and vanished.
The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know
bow unpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in
G




134                    VILLETTE.
with so little ceremony.  In this summer weather it was hot
as Africa; as in winter, it was always cold as Greenland.
Boxes and lumber filled it  old dresses draped its unstained
wall-cobwebs its unswept ceiling.  Well was it known to be
tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and by cockroachesnay, rumor affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the garden had
once been seen here.  A partial darkness obscured one end,
across which, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was
drawn, by way of screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks,
pendent each from its pin-like a malefactor from his gibbet.
From amongst these cloaks, and behind that curtain, the Nun
was said to issue. I did not believe this, nor was I troubled
by apprehension thereof; but I saw  a very dark and large
rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from that squalid alcove; and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black beetle
dotting the floor.  These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heat of the place. The last inconvenience
would soon have become intolerable, had I not found means
to open and prop up the sky-light, thus admitting some freshness. Underneath this aperture I pushed a large empty chest,
and having mounted:ipon it a smaller box, and wiped from
both the dust, I gathered my dress (my best, the reader must
remember, and therefore a legitimate object of care) fastidiously round me, ascending this species of extempore throne,
and being seated, commenced the acquisition of my task;
while I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp look-out on
the black beetles and cockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of the rats, I sat in mortal dread.
My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it
really was impossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do
my best and be resigned to fail.  I soon found, however, that
one part in so short a piece was not more than memory could
master at a few hours' notice.  I learned and learned on, first
in a whisper, and then aloud.  Perfectly secure from hunmar
audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin. Entering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spirit
inspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this
"fat," by making him as fatuitous as I possibly could.
In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide
into evening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast,




THE  FETE.                      135
grew excessively hungry.  Now I thought of the collation,
which doubtless they were just then devouring in the garden
far below.  (I had seen in the vestibule a basketful of small
vsats a la crnme, than which nothing in the whole range of
cookery seemed to me better).  A pate'; or a square of cake
it seemed to me would come very apropos; and as my relish
for these dainties increased, it began to appear somewhat
hard that I should pass my holiday, fasting and in prison.
Remnote as was the attic from the street-door and vestibule,
yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; and also
the ceaseless roll of wheels on the tormented pavement.  I
knew that the house and garden were thronged, and that all
was gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the
beetles were fading from my sight; I trembled lest they should
steal on me a march, mount my throne unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient and apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to kill time.
Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key
in the lock came to my ear —no unwelcome sound.  M. Paul
(I could just see through the dusk that it was M. Paul, for
light enough still lingered to show the velvet blackness of his
close shorn head, and the sallow ivory of his brow) looked in.
"Brava!" cried he, holding the door open, and remaining
at the threshold.      J'ai tout entendu.  C'est assez bien.
Encore!"
A moment I hesitated.
"Encore!" said he sternly.  "Et point de grimaces! A
bas la timidite!"
Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I
had spoken it alone.
"Enfin, elle le sait," said he, half dissatisfied, " and one
cannot be fastidious or exacting under the circumstances."
Then he added, " You may yet have twenty minutes for pre.
paration: au revoir!" And he was going.
"Monsieur," I called out, taking courage.
"Eh bien.  Qu'est-ce que c'est, mademoiselle?"
J'ai bien faim."
"Commxent, vous avez faim! Et la collation?"
"I know nothing about it.  I have not seen it, shut ua
A'ere.'" Ah! C' est vrli," cried he.




136                    gILLETTE.
in a Incment rmy throne was abdicated, the attic evacu
ated; an inverse repetition of the impetus which had brought
me up into the attic, instantly took me down-down —down
to the very kitchen.  I thought I should have gone to the
cellar.  The cook was imperatively ordered to produce food,
and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my great
joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine
and sweets, which I did not like.  How he guessed that l
hould like a petitpate a la c crene I cannot tell; but he went
out and procured me one from some quarter.  WTith consid.
erable willingness I ate and drank, keeping the petit pate till
the last, as a bonne bouche.  M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I could swallow.
"A  la bonne heure," he cried, when I signified that I
really could take no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored
to be spared the additional roll on which he had just spread
butter.  "You will set me down as a species of tyrant and
Bluebeard, starving women in a garret; whereas, after all, I
am no such thing.  Now, mademoiselle, do you feel courage
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 order of beings who must not be opposed, unless you
possessed an all-dominant force 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 to run at his side in order to keep pace. In the
carre he stopped a moment; it was lit with large lamps: the
wide doors of the classes were open, and so were the equally
wide garden-doors; orange trees in tubs, and tall flowers in
pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groups of ladies
and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst the
flowers.  Within, the long vista of the school-rooms pre.
tented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, all rose, and blue, and half translucent white.
There were lustres burning overhead; far off there was a
stage, a solemn green curtain, a row of foot-lights.
"'est-ce pas que c'est beau?" demanded my companion.
I should have said it was, but my heart got up into mn
throat.  M. Paul discovered this, and gave me a side-scow'
and a little shake for my pains.




THE  FETE                        137
"I will do my best, but I wish it was over,' sid 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 me somewhat.  It was moonless, but the reflex from
tlhe many glowing windows lit the court brightly, and even
th}e alleys-dimly.  Heaven was cloudless, and grand with
thie quiver of its living fires.  How soft are the nights of the
continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; no chilling damp; mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.
Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door
of the first classe.  It stood open, like all other doors that
night; we passed, and then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe from  the grande salle.  This
cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light; it deafened me, it
was so clamorous with voices: it stifled me, it was so hot,
choking, thronged.
" De l'ordre! D   silence!" cried M. Paul.  "Is this
chaos?" he demanded; and there was a hush.  With a
dozen words, and as many gestures, he turned out half the
persons present, and obliged the remnant to fall into rank,
Those left were all in costume: they were the performers
and this was the green-room.  M. Paul introduced me.  Al.
stared and some tittered.  It was a surprise: they had not
expected  the Englishwoman would play in a vaudeville.
Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking iascinatingly 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 of shining off before
hundreds-my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst of her joy.  She would have exclaimed,
but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check.
Having surveyed and criticised the whole troop, he turned
to me.
" You, too, must be dressed for your part."' Dressed-dressed like a man!" exclaimed Zelie St. Pierre.
darting forwards; adding with officiousness, " I will dress he?
myself"
To be dressed like a man did not please, and would no'
suit me   I had consented to take a man's name and part




18                     VI L LETTE.
as to nis d es -- haZe lZ! No. I would keep my swn dresw
Uome what might. Mi. Paul might storm, might rage:
would keep my own dress.  I said so, with a voice as rcsolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady, ir.
utterance.
HIe did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he
would: he stood silent.  But Zelie again interposed.
"She will make a capital petit-maitre.  Here are the gaiments, all-all complete: somewhat too large, but I will
arrange all that.  Come chere amie-belle Anglaise i"
And she sneered, for I was not " belle."  She seized my
hand, she was drawing me away.  M. Paul stood impassible
-neutral.
"You must not resist," pursued St. Pierre-for resist I did.
"You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your amourpropre.  This would be too bad-monsieur will never permit
this?"
She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He
gave her one, and then he gave me one.  " Stop!" he said
slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag
me after her. Everybody awaited the decision.  He was not
angry, not irritated; I perceived that and took heart.
"You do not like these clothes?" he asked, pointing to the
masculine vestments.
" 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 stage dressed as a woman  This is an amateur
affair, it is true-a vaudeville depensionnat: certain modifications I might sanction, yet something you must have to
announce you as of the nobler sex."
"And 1 will, rronsieur; but it must be arranged in my
own way: nobody must meddle; the things must not be
forced upon me.  Just let me dress myself."
Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from
St. Pierre, gave it 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 garb without the
slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed in addition, a little
vest, a collar, and a cravat, aid a paletbot of small dimen



tIE FETE.                       139
ions; the whole being the costume )f a brother of one of
the pupils.  Having loosened 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 my hand and came out.
M. Paul was waiting and so were the others.  He looked at
me.  "That may pass in a Pensionnat," he pronounced.
Then added, not unkindly, " Courage, mon ami!  TUn pen
de sang froid —un peu d'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 upon her and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a
gentleman, I should feel disposed to call her out.
" After the play, after the play," said M. Paul.  " I will
then divide my pair of pistols between you, and we will settle
the dispute according to 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 general addressing soldiers about to charge.  I
Jon't know what he said, except that he recommended each
to penetrate herself well with a sense of her personal insignificance.  God knows I thought this advice superfluous fbl
some of us. A bell tinkled.  I and two more were ushered
on to the stage. The bell tinkled again.  I had to speak the
very first words.
Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it," whisperea
iM. Paul in my ear.  "Imagine yourself in the guard acting
to the rats."
He vanished. The curtain drew up-shrivelled to the
ceiling; the bright lights, the long room, the gay throng
burst upon us.  I thought of the black beetles, the old boxes,
the worm-eaten bureaux.  I said my say badly; but I said
it. That first speech was the difficulty; it revealed to me
this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared, so much as my
own voice.  Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing
to me. Nor did I think of them. When my tongue once
got free, and my voice took its true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but the personage I represented-and of M. Paul, who was listening, prompting in the
Bide-scen.es.
By-andl7, fe ini.g the right power come —the spring de




1 to                   v I L L E T T E.
manded gush and rise inwardly-I became sufficiently  mrr
posed to notice my fellow-actors. Some of them played vert
well; especially Ginevra Fanshawe, who had a coquette be
tween two suitors, and managed admirably: in fact she was
in her element. I observed that she once or twice threw a certain marked fondness, and pointed partiality into her manner
towards me-the fop.  "With such emphasis and animation
did she favor me, such glances did she dart out into the listen.
ng and applauding crowd, that to 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 handsome and distinguished
aim for her shafts; full in the path of those arrows-taller
than other spectators, and therefore more sure to receive
them-stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known form
-that of Dr. John.
The spectacle seemed somehow  suggestive. Thexe was
language in Dr. John's look, though I cannot tell what it
said; it animated me: I drew out of it a history; I put my
idea into that part I performed; I threw it into my wooing
of Ginevra.  In the " Ours," or sincere lover, I saw Dr.
John.  Did I pity him, as erst?  No, I hardened my heart,
rivaled and out-rivaled him.  I knew myself but a fop, but
where he was outcast I could please. Now I know I acted as
if wishful and resolute to win and conquer.  Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the nature of the r1le,
gilding it from top to toe.  Between the acts M. Paul told us
he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated, " C'est,
peutetre plus beau que votre modele,"said he, " 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 chival.
ric?  Retaining the letter, I recklessly altered the spirit of
the role. Without heart, without interest, I could not play
it at all.  It must be played-in went the yearned-for seasoning-thus flavored, I played it with relish.
What I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected
to feel and do, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh
heaven.  Cold, reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part
to please another: ere long, warming, becoming interestel,
taking courage, I acted to please rayself  Yet the next dav




THE FETE.                      ll
when 1 thought it over, I quite disapproved of these amateu
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
dramatic expression had revealed itself as part of my nature;
to cherish and exercise this new-found faculty might gift me
with a world of delight, but it would not do for a mere lookerrtm at life: the strength and longing must be put by; and I
2uit them by, and fastened them in with the lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has since picked.
No sooner was the play over and well over, than the choleric and arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His
hour of managerial responsibility past, he at once laid aside
his magisterial austerity; in a moment he stood amongst us,
vivacious, kind, and social, shook hands with us all round,
thanked us separately, and announced his determination that
each of us should in turn be his partner in the coming ball.
On his claiming my promise, I told him  I did not dance' For once I must," was the answer; and if I had not slipped
aside and kept out of his way, he would have compelled me
to this second performance. But I had acted enough for one
evening; it was time I retired into myself and my ordinary
life.  My dun-colored dress did well enough under a paletot
on the stage, but would not suit a waltz or a quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I could observe —
the ball, its splendors and its pleasures passed before me as a
spectacle.
Again Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and
the gayest present; she was selected to open the ball: very
lovely she looked, very gracefully she danced, very joyously
she smiled.  Such scenes were her triumphs-she was the
child of pleasure.  Work or suffering found her listless and
dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expanded her
butterfly's wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots made
her flash like a gem, and flush like a flower.  At all ordinary
diet and plain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams
and ices like a humming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was
her element and sweet cake her daily bread. Ginevra lived
her fill life in a ball-room; elsewhere she drooped dispirited.
Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for
the mere sake of M.. Paul her partner, or that she lavished
G( 2




142                    VILLETTE.
her best graces that night for the edification of her compan
tons only, or for that of thle parents ard grand-parents, whi
filled the carre and lined the ball-room; under circumstances
so insipid and limited, with motives so chilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk one quadrille, and
weariness and fietfulness world have replaced animation and
good-humor, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy
istal mass which lightened the whole' she tasted a condimernt which gave it zest; she perceived reasons justifying the
display of her choicest attractions
In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was
to be seen who was not married and a father-M. Paul excepted-that gentleman, too, being the sole creature of his
sex permitted to lead out a pupil to the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as a matter of oldestablished custom (for he was a kinsman of Madame Beck's,
and high in her confidence), partly because he would always
have his own way and do as he pleased, and partly becausewilful, passionate, partial, as he might be-he was the soul
of honor, and might be trusted with a regiment of the fairest
and purest, in perfect security that under his leadership they
would come to no harm.  Many of the girls-it may be noted
in parenthesis-were not pure-minded at all, very much
otherwise; but they no more dare betray their natural coarseness in M. Paul's presence, than they dare tread purposely
on his corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or
speak above their breath while some crisis of irritability was
covering his human visage with the mask of an intelligent
tigvr.  M. Paul, then, might dance with whom  he would —
and wo be to the interference which put him out of step.
Others there were admitted as spectators-with (seeming)
reluctance, through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by
special and difficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious goodnature, and whom she all the evening-with her own personal
surveillance-kept far aloof at the remotest, Ireariest, coldest,
darkest side of the carre-a small, forlorn, band of" jeunes
gens;" these being all of the best families, grown-up solns of
mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the schoc 1.
That whole evening was madame on duty beside these "jeunliv
enls" —attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them ats
a dragon.  There was a sort of cordon sketched before tieul




THE  FETE.                        143
which they wearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass,
and just to revive themselves by one dance with that "belle
tllonld," or that "jolie brune," or " cette jeune fillo magnitique aux cheveux noirs comme le jais."
" Taisez-vous I" madame would reply, heroically and inexorably. " Vous ne passerez pas a moins que ce ne soit sur
mon cadavre, et vous ne danserez qu'avec la nonnette du jardin" (alluding to the legend). And she majestically walked to
and fro along their disconsolate and impatient line, like a littie Bonaparte in a mouse-colored 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 to admit a "jeune homme"
within her walls; but madame knew that by granting such
admission, on an occasion like the present, a bold stroke might
be struck, and a great point gained.
In the first place the parents were made accomplices to
the deed, for it 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-that of a first-rate surveillante.  Thirdly: their presence furnished a 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; lif and mirth
circulated quickly round the ball-room; the "jeunes gens"
themselves, though restrained, were amused: for madame
never permitted them to fe.el dull-and thus Madame Beck's
fate a.nnrally insured a success unknown to the ftte of any
other directross in the land.
I observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at
large through the classes: there was about him a manly, re.
sponsible look, that redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his
beauty; hut as soon as the ball began madame ran up to him.
"Come, Wolf; come," said she, laughing: "You weal
sheep's clothing, but you must quit the fold notwithstanding.
Come; I have a fine menagerie of twenty here in the carre:
let me place you amongst my collection."
"But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupi  of
my choice."




144                     t- LETT E.
"' Have you the face to ask such a thing?  It is madness
t is impiety. Sortez, sortez, et 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 my retreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and
(a demonstration I could very well have dispensed with) cast
her arms round my neck.
" Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!" she cried in a somewhat
sobbing voice, half hysterical.
"What in the world is the matter?" I drily said.
" How do I look-how do I look to-night 2" she demanded.
As usual," cried I; " preposterously vain."
"Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me;
but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I
am beautiful: I feel it, I see it-for there is a great lookingglass 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 humored even to the
top of your bent."
The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without
resistance, or remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her selflove have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it
could swallow-whether it was possible it could feed to satiety-whether any whisper of consideration for others could
penetrate her heart, and moderate its vain-glorious exultation.
Not at all.  She turned me and herself round; she viewed
us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she re
touched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go
my arm, and curtseying with mock respect, she said:
"I would not be you for a kingdom."
The remark was too naive to rouse anger; I merely said.
"Very good."
"And what would you give to be ME?" she inquired.
" Not a bad sixpence-strange as it may sound," I replied
You are but a poor creature."
" You don't think so in your heart."'; N; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place:
I only occasionally ttuln you over in rmv branit,."




Tf E FETE.                     14s
"Well, but," said she, in an expostulatory tone, "just listen
to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am
I, and how miserable are you."
" Go on; I listen."
"In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of
family, and though my father is not rich, I have expectations
from an uncle.  Then, I am  just eighteen, the finest age
possible.  I have had a continental education, and though 1
can't spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I am pretty;
y9u can't deny that; I may have as many admirers as I
choose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of
two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of
them just now, which puts me in such spirits.  I do so like
to watch them turn red and pale, and scowl and dart fiery
glances at each other, and languishing 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 little children when you first came to Villette: you have
no relations; you can't call yourself young at twenty-three;
you have no attractive accomplishments-no beauty.  As to
admirers, you hardly know what they are; you can't even
talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the other teachers
quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and
never will be; you don't know the feeling: and so much the
better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no
living heart will you ever break. Isn't it all true?"
" A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides.
There must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly;
that snake, Zelie St. Pierre, could not utter what you have
uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to
your showing, sixpence I would not give to 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 wayvery smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts
-that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don't
quite enter; pray on whom does your vanity lead you to thing
you have done execution to-night?"
She approached her lips to my ear-" Isidore and Alfred
fie Ilamal are both here," she whispered.




146                    VILLE  T E.
"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  the classes," said she, turning, " Macame keeps therr
too far off. Let us cross the garden, enter by the corridor
and get close to them behind: we shall be scolded if we arc
seen, but never mind."
For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we wentpenetrated into the corridor by a quiet private entrance, and
approaching the carre, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of "jeunes gens."
I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamel
even undirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured, little dandy, I say little dandy, though he was not beieath the middle standard in stature; but his lineaments
were small, and so were his hands and feet; and he was
pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: so nicely dressed, sc
nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated-he was
charming indeed.  I said so: "What a dear personage!''
cried I, and commended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked
her What she thought de Hamel might have done with the
precious fragments of thatheart she had broken-whether hu
kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in otto of roses 7
I observed, too, with a deep rapture of approbation, that the
colonel's hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe's own,
and suggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as
he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, 1
told her I doted; and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic head-piece, I confessed I had no language to do
such perfections justice.
"Andr if he were your lover?" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.
" Oh! heavens, what bliss!" said I; "but do not be inhu.
man, Miss Fanshaw: to put such thoughts into my head is
like showing poor outcast 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 ado
ration; she could then readily credit that they were 1mnll  too




THE FETE.                        1-7
"Now  for lsidore," I went on.  I own I felt still more
curious to see him than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed
in the latter.
"Alfred was admitted here to-night," said she, "through
the influence of his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot;
and now, having seen him, can you not understand why 1
have been in such spirits all the evening, and acted so
well and danced with such life, and why I am  now happy
%s a queen?  Dieu! Dieu! It wAas such  good  fun tu
glance first at him and then at the other, and madden themi
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 ar 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 G-inevra
with extreme kindness.  She is delicate; she must be cared
for: fetch her a shawl." 
"Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawc,
with hauteur.  "I want 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 wis hurt became evident in his eye; darkened,
and saddened, -nd pained, he turned a little aside, but was
patient.  I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at
hand; I ran and fetched one.
" She shall wear this if I have strength to make her," said
I, folding it well round her muslin dress, covering carefully




148                   VILLETTE.
her neck and her arms.  "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
have given her a dozen.
" C'est lui-meme," said she. " How coarse he is, comparedl
with the Colonel-Count! And then-oh, ciel!-the whiskers!"
Dr. John now passed on.
" The Colonel-Count!" I echoed.  "The doll-the puppet
— the manikin-the poor inferior creature! Is it possible
that fine generous gentleman-handsome as a vision-offers
you his honorable hand and gallant heart, and promises to
protect your flimsy person and worthless mind through the
storms and struggles of life-and you hang back-you scorn,
you sting, you torture him! Have you power to do this?
Who gave you that power?  Where is 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 bend
his 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 only dissembling: 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 a seat and told her she should not stir till she had
avowed which she meant in the end to accept-the man or
the monkey.
" Him you call the man," said she, "is bourgeois, sandy.
haired, and answers to the name of John!-cela suffit: jc
n'en veux pas. Colonel de Hamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweet appearance, with
pale interesting face, and hair and eyes like an Italian. Then
too he is the most delightful company possible-a man quite
in my way; not sensible and serious like the other, but one
with whom I can talk on equal terms-who does not plague,
and bore, and harass me with depths, and heights, and pas.
sions, and talents for which I have no taste   There now
Don't hold me so fast"




TIHE FE1E,                     149
I slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care
to pursue her.
Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the di.
rection of the corridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John;
but I met him on the garden-steps, standing where the light
from a window fell broad.  His well-proportioned figure was
not to be mistaken, for I doubt whether there was another
ia that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat in his hand;
his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsome and manly.  His features were not delicate, not slight
like those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and
feeble; though well cut, they were not so chiselled, so frittered
away, as to lose in power and significance what they gained
in unmeaning symmetry.  Much feeling spoke in them  at
times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such at least were
my thoughts of him: to me he seemed all this.  An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me as I looked at this man,
and reflected that he could be slighted.
It was not ny intention to approach or address him in the
garden, our terms of acquaintance not warranting such a
step; I had only meant to view him in the crowd —myself
unseen; coming upon him thus alone, I withdrew.  But he
was looking out for me, or rather for her who had been with
me; therefore he descended the steps, and followed me down
the alley.
" You know Miss Fanshawe?  I have often wished to ask
whether you knew her," 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, " I have shaken her well, and would have shaken
her better, but she escaped out of my hands and ran away."
" Would you favor me," he asked, " by watching over hey
this evening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent
— does not, for instance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?"
" I may, perhaps, look after her a little, since you wish it;
but she likes her own way too well to submit readily ta
control."




150O                   V ILLATTE.
"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 tel
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 she ever speak of me to you?"
"Under the name of'Isidore' she has talked about you
often; but I must add that it is only within the last ten nminutes I have discovered that you and'Isidore' are identical.
It is only, Dr. John, within that brief space of time I have
learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is the person, under this roof,
in whom you have long been interested-that she is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for her sake
you venture into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped
by rivals."
"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 see her every Sunday.  But you observed that under the name of'Isidore' she often spoke of
me: may I-without inviting you to a breach of confidence
-inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of her remarks?  I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tor.
mented with uncertainty as to how I stand with her."
"Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind.':
"Still, you car gather some general idea-?"
"I can," thought I, " but it would not do to communicate
that general idea to you.  Besides, if I said she did not love
you, I know you would not believe me."
" You are silent," he pursued.  "I suppose you have no
good news to impart.  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 of Colonel de Hamal?"
"'  love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any




JflE FETE.                       151
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 your beautiful young
friend."
"My' beautiful young friend' ought to know that, and to
know or feel who is worthy of her," said I.  "If her beauty
or her brains will not serve 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.  You should hear the strictures with which I favor
my'beautiful young friend,' only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want of tender considerateness for her
delicate nature."
" She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her.
You-every woman older than herself; must feel for such a
simple, innocent, girlish fairy, a sort of motherly or eldersisterly fondness.  Graceful angel!  Does not your heart
yearn towards her when she pours into your ear her pure,
child-like confidences?  How you are privileged!"  And he
sighed.
" I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and
then," said I.  "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, or straighter, or
neater; and then, such classic lips and chin-and his bearing
-sublime."
"De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very
white-livered hero."
" You, Dr. John, and every man of a less refined mould
than he, must feel for him a sort of admiring affection, such
as Mars and the coarser deities may be supposed to have
borne the young, graceful Apollo."
" An unprincipled, gambling, little jackanapes!" said Dr.
John curtly, " whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the
waistband any day, and lay low in the kennel, if I liked."
" The sweet seraph!" said I. " What a cruel idea? Are
you not a little severe, Dr. John?"
And now I paused.  For the second time that night I was




152                   VILLETT S.
going beyond myself-venturing out of what I looked on aa
my natural habits-speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive
strain, which startled me strangely when I halted to reflect.
On rising that morning, had I anticipated that before night I
should have acted the part of a gay lover in a vaudeville
and an hour after, frankly discussed with Dr. John the quees
tion of his hapless suit, and rallied him on his illusions? I
had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forward
to an ascent in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn.
The Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were nowv
returning; the reflex from the window again lit his face: ho
smiled, but his eye was melancholy. How I wished that he
could feel heart's-ease! How I grieved that he brooded ovei
pain, and pain from such a cause! He, with his great advan
talges, he to love in vain! I did not then know that the pen
siveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds; nor dik.
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 in Ginevra one spark of worthiness of your affection,
she will-she must feel devotion in return.  Be cheerful, be
hopeful, Dr. John.  WVho should hope, if not you l"
In return for this speech I got-what, it must be supposed,
I deserved-a look of some surprise: I thought also of some
disapprobation.  We parted, and I went into the house very
chill.  The clocks struck and the bells tolled midnight; people were leaving fast: the fete was over; the lamps were
fading.  In another hour all the dwelling-house, and all the
Pensionnat, were dark and hushed.  I too was in'bed, but not
asleep. To me it was not easy to sleep after a day of such
rcitreeant.




TBIS  LONG  VACATION.                    153
CHAPTER XV.
THE LONG VACATION.
FDLLOWVING Madame Beck's f6te, with its three preceding
weeks of relaxation, its brief twelve hours' burst of hilarity
and dissipation, and its one subsequent day of utter languor,
came a period of reaction; two months of real application,
of close, hard study. These two months being the last of the
"' annee scolaire," were indeed the only 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
the distribution of prizes. Candidates for rewards had then to
work in good earnest; masters and teachers had to set their
shoulders to the wheel, to urge on the backward, and diligently aid and train the more promising.  A showy demonstration-a telling exhibition-must be got up for public
view, and all means were fair to this end.
I scarcely noted how the other teachers went to work; I
had my own business to mind: and my task was not the least
onerous, being to imbue some ninety sets of brains with a due
tincture of what they considered a most complicated and difficult science, that of the English language; and to drill ninety
tongues in what, for them, was an almost impossible pronun
ciation-the lisping and hissing dentals of the isles.
The examination-day arrived.  Awful day    Prepared for
with anxious care, dressed for with silent despateh-nothing
vaporous or fluttering now-no white gauze or azure stream
ers; the grave, close, compact was the order of the toilette
It seemed to me that I was this day especially doomed-the
main burden and trial falling on me alone of all the female
teachers.  The others were not expected to examine in the
studies they taught; the professor of literature, M. Paul,
taking upon himself this duty.  He, this school-autocrat gathered all and sundry reins into the hollow of lis one hand;
he irefully rejected any colleague; he would not have help.
Madame herself; who evidently rather wished to undertake the




104                    VILLETTE.
examination in geography-her favorite study, which she
taught well-was forced to succumb, and be subordinate to
her despotic kinsman's direction. The whole staff of instructors,
male and female, he set aside, and stood on the examiner's estrade alone. It irked him that he was forced to make one exception to this rule.  He could not manage English: he was
obliged to leave that branch of education in the English teachTr's halIs; which he did, not without a flash of naive jealousy.
A constant crusade against the "amour-propre" of every
human-being, but himself, was the crotchet of this able, but
licry and grasping little man.  He had a strong relish for
public repiesentation in his own person, but an extreme abhorrence of the like display in any other.  He quelled, he
kept down,hen he could; and when he could not, he fumed
like a bottled storm.
On the eveixing preceding examination-day, I was walking
in the garden, as were the other teachers and all the boarders.
iM. Emanuel joined me in the " allee defendue;" his cigar
was at his lips; his paletot-a most characteristic garment
of no particular shape-hung dark and menacing; the tassel
of his bonnet gree sternly shadowed his left 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 allez troner uo(mme une reine; demain-troner a mes
co6ts?  Sans doute vous savourez d'advance les delices de
l'autorite.  Je crois voir en vous je ne sais quoi de rayonnante, petite ambitieune!"
Now the fact was, lie happened to be entirely mistaken. I
did not-could not-estimate the admiration or the good
opinion of to-morrow's audience at the same rate he did. Had
that audience numbered as many personal friends and acquaintance for me, as for him, I know not how it might 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-warmth and hearth-glow. He cared for them perhaps
too much; I, probably, too little.  However, I had my own
fancies as well as he. I liked, for instance, to see M. Emanuel
jealous; it lit up his nature, and woke his spirit; it threw all
torts of queer lights and shadows over his dun face, and inut




TIlE  LONG  VACATION.                  155
his violet-azure eyes (he used to say that his black hair and
blue eyes were " une de ses beaut6s"). There was a relish in
his anger; it was artless, earnest, quite unreasonable, but
never hypocritical.  I uttered no disclaimer then of the cornplacency he attributed to me; I merely asked him where the
English examination was to come in-whether at the corn
mencement or close of the day?
"I hesitate," said he, " whether at the very beginning, be(ore many persons are come, and when your aspiring nature
will not be gratified by 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 etes dur, monsieur!" I said, affecting dejection
" One ought to be' dur' with you.  You are one of those
beings who must be kept down.  I know you! I know you 
Other people in this house see you pass, and think that a
colorless shadow has gone by.  As for me, I scrutinized your
face once, and it sufficed."
" You are satisfied that you understand me?"
Without answering directly, he went on, " Vere you not
gratified when you succeeded in that vaudeville? I watched
you, and saw a passionate ardor for triumph in your physiognomy.  What fire shot into the glance! Not mere light,
hut flame:je me tins pour averti."
"What feeling I had on that occasion, monsieur-and
pardon me, if I say, you immensely exaggerate both its quality
and quantity-was quite abstract.  I did not care for the
vaudeville. I hated the part you assigned me.  I had not
the slightest sympathy with the audience below the stage.
They are good people, doubtless, but do I know them?  Are
they anything to me?  Can I care for being brought before
their view again to-morrow?  Will the examination be anything but a task to me —a task 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 few words: Dar exemple, de sonn, de mone, de stare —
e.t-ce bien dit?  My opinion is that it would be better to
give up the thing altogether: to have no English examina.
tion, eh?"
"If Madame consents; I consent."




156                   V JVILLE TTF.
Heartily?"
" Very heartily."
He smoked his cigar in silence.  He turned suddenly.
" Donnez-moi la main," said he, and the spite and jealousy
melted out of his face, and a generous kindliness shone there
instead.
" Come, we will not be rivals, we will be friends;" he
pursued.  "The examination shall take place, and I will
choose a good moment; and instead of vexing and hindering,
as I felt half inclined ten minutes ago-for I have my rialevolent moods: I always had, from childhood-I will aic 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 that you should become known.  We will be friends 
do you agree?"
" Out of my heart, monsieur.  I am  glad of a friend.  ]
like that better than 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, and did his best to make my part easy.  The next
day came the distribution of prizes; that also passed; the
school broke up; the pupils went home, 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 seaside; all the three teachers had parents or friends
with whom they took refuge; every professor quitted the city;
some wont to Paris, some to Bouemarine; M. Paul set forth
on a pilgrimage to Rome; the house was left quite empty,
but for me, a servant, and a poor deformed and imbecile
pupil, a sort of cretin whom  her stepmother in a distant province would not allow to return home.
My heart almost died within me; miserable longlngs
strained its chords.  How long were the September days'
How silent, how lifeless!  How vast and void seemed the
desolate premises! How gloomy the forsaken garden-gray
now with the dust of a town-summer departed.  Looking
forward at the commencement of those eight weeks, I hardly
knew how I was to live to the end. My spirits had long been
gradually sinking; now that the prop of employment was
withdrawn, they went down fast.  Even to look forward wag




TIHE  LONG  VACATION.                   157
not to hope: the dumb future spoke no comfort, offrll no
promise, gave no inducement to bear present evil in reliance
on future good.  A sorrowful indifference to existence often
pressed on me-a despairing resignation to reach betimes the
end of all things earthly.  Alas! W hen I had full leisure
to look on life as life must be looked on by sach as me, I found
it but a hopeless desert; tawny sands, with no green field, no
palm-tree, no well in view.  The hopes which are dear to
youth, which bear it up and lead it on, I knew not and dared
not know. If they knocked at my heart sometimes, an inhos.
pitable bar to admission must be inwardly drawn.  When
they turned away thus rejected, iears sad enough sometimes
flowed; but it could not be helped: I dalred not give such
guests lodging. So mortally did I fear the sin and weakness
of presumption.
Religious reader, you will preach to me a long sermon
about what I have just written, and so will you, moralist;
and you, stern sage: you, stoic, will frown; you, cynic, sneer;
you, epicure, laugh. \Vell, each and all, take it your own way.
I accept the sermon, frown, sneer and laugh; perhaps you are
all right: and perhaps, circumstanced like me, you would have
been, like me, wrong.  The first month was, indeed, a long,
black, heavy month to me.
The cretin did not seem  unhappy.  I did my best to feed
her well and keep her warm, and she only asked food and sunshine, or when that lacked, fire. Her weak faculties approved
of inertion: her brain, her eyes, 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 fourth and fifth were tempestuous and wet. I do not
know why that change in the atmosphere made a cruel impression on me, why the raging storm and beating rain crushed
me with a deadlierparalysis than I had experienced while the
air remained serene: but so it was; and my nervous system
could hardly support what it had for many days and nights to
undsrgo in that huge, empty house.  How I used to pray to
Heaven for consolation and support! WVith what dread force
the conviction would grasp me that Fate was my permanent
foe, never to be conciliated.  I did not, in my-heart, arraign
the mercy or iustice of God for this  I concluded it to 1'c a
1H




158                   VILLETTE.
part of his great plan that some must deeply sulTre while they
live, and I thrilled in the certainty that of this number, I was
one.
It was some relief when an aunt of the cretin, a kind old
woman, came one day, and took away my strange, deformed
companion.  The hapless creature had been at times a heavy
charge; I could not take her out beyond the garden, and I
could not leave her a minute alone; for her poor mind, like
her body, was warped: its propensity was to evil. A vague
bent to mischief, an aimless malevolence made constant vigib
lance indispensable.  As she very rarely spoke, and would sit
for hours together moping and mowing and distorting her features with indescrible grimaces, it was more like being prisoned
with some strange animal, than associating with a human
being.  Then there were personal attentions to be rendered
which required the nerve of an hospital nurse; my resolution
was so tried, it sometimes fell dead sick. These duties should
not have fallen on me; a servant, now absent, had rendered
them hitherto, and in the hurry of holiday departure, no substitute to fill this office had been provided. This tax 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
more wearing.  Attendance on the cretin deprived me often
of the power and inclination to swallow a meal, and sent me
faint to the fresh air, and the well or fountain in the court;
but this duty never wrung my heart, or brimmed my eyes, or
scalded my cheek with tears hot as molten metal.
The cr6tin being gone, I was free to walk out. At first I
lacked courage to venture very far from the Rue Fossette, but
by degrees I sought the city-gates, and passed them, and then
went wandering away far along chaussees, through fields,
beyond cemeteries, Catholic and Protestant, beyond farmsteads, to lanes and little woods, and I know not where.  A
goad thrust me on, a fever forbade me to rest; a want of cornr
panionship maintained in my soul the cravings of a most deadly
famine. I often walked all day, through the burning noon
and the arid afternoon, and the dusk evening, and came back
with moonrise.
While wandering in solitude, I would sometimes picture
the present probable -position of others, my acquaintance.
There was Madame Beck at a cheerful watering-place with




THE LONG  VACATION.                    15l
ht, children, her mother, and a whole troop of friends who
had eought the same scene of relaxation.  Zel:e St. Pierre
was at Paris, with her relatives; the other teachers were at
their homes. There was Ginevra Fanshawe whom  certain
of her connections had carried on a pleasant tour southward.
Ginevra seemed to me the happiest. She was on the route of
beauutxul scenery; these September suns shone for her on fertile plains, where harvest and vintage matured under their
mellow beam.  Those gold and crystal moons rose on her
vision over blue horizons waved in mountain lines.
But all this was nothing; I too felt those autumn suns and
saw those harvest moons, and I almost wished to be covered
in witti earth and turf, deep out of their influence; for I
could not live in their light, nor make them  comrades, nor
yield them affection.  But Ginevra had a kind of spirit with
her, empowered to give constant strength and comfort, to
gladdetn daylight and embalm darkness; the best of the good
genii that guard humanity curtained her with his wings, and
canopied her head with his bending form.  By True Love was
Ginevia followed: never could she be alone. Was she insensible. to this presence?  It seemed to me impossible: I
could not realise such deadness. I imagined her grateful in
secret, loving now with reserve; but purposing one day to show
how much she loved: I pictured her faithful hero half conscious of her coy fondness, and comforted by that conscious.
ness: I conceived an electric chord of sympathy between
them, a fine chain of mutual understanding, sustaining union
through a separation of a hundred leagues-carrying, across
mound and hollow, communication by prayer and wish.  Ginevra gradually became with me a sort of heroine. One day,
perceiving this growing illusion, I said, "I really believe my
nerves are getting overstretched: my mind has suffered somewhat too much; a malady is growing upon it-what shall I
do?  How shall I keep well?"
Indeed there was no way to keep well under the circurn
stances.  At last a day and night of peculiarly agonizing
depression were succeeded by physical illness, I took perforce
to my bed.  About this time the Indian summer closed and
the equinoctial storms began; and for nine dark and wel
days, of which the hours rushed on all turbulent, deaf, die
hevelled-bewildered with sounding hurricane-I lay in.




I60                   V1LLETTE.
strange fever of the nerves and blood.  Sleep went quite
away.  I used to rise in the night, look round for her, beseech
her earnestly to return. A rattle of the window, a cry of
the blast only replied-Sleep never came!
I err.  She came once, but in anger.  Impatient of' my
importunity she brought with her an avenging dream.  By
the clock of St. Jean Baptiste, that dream remained scarce
fifteen minutes-a brief space, but sufficing to wring my
whole frame with unknown anguish; to confer a nameless
experience that had the hue, the mien, the terror, the very
tone of a visitation from eternity. Between twelve and one
that night a cup was forced to my lips, black, strong, strange,
drawn from no well, but filled up seething from a bottomless
and boundless sea.  Suffering, brewed in temporal or calculable measure, and mixed for mortal lips, tastes not as this
suffering tasted.  Having drank and woke, I thought all was
over: the end come and past by. Trembling fearfully-as
consciousness returned-ready to cry out on some fellowcreature to help me, only that I knew no fellow-creature was
near enough to catch the wild summons-Goton in her far
distant attic could not hear-I rose on my knees in bed. Some
fearful hours went over me: indescribably was I torn, racked
and oppressed in mind. Amidst the horrors 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 of
despair about the future.  Motive there was none why 1
should try to recover or wish to live; and yet quite unendurable was the piti'ess and haughty voice in which Death challenged me to engage his unknown terrors.  WVhen I tried to
pray I could only utter these words:-' From my youth up Thy terrors have I suffered with a
troubled mind."
Most true was it.
On bringing me my tea the next morning, Goton urged min
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
golitude and the stillness of the long dormitory could not be
borne any longer; the ghastly white beds were turning into




THE LONG  VACATION.                     161
spectres-the coronal of each became a death's head, huge
and sun-bleached-dead  dreams of an elder world and
mightier race lay frozen in their wide gaping eye-holes. That
evening more firmly than ever fastened into my soul the conviction that Fate was of stone, and Hope a false idol —blind,
bloodless, and of granite core.  I felt, too, that the trial God
had appointed me was gaining its climax, and must now be
turned by my own hands, hot, feeble, trembling as they were,
It rained still, and blew; but with more clemency, I thought,
than it had poured and raged all day. Twilight was falling,
and I deemed its influence pitiful; from  the lattice I saw
coming night-clouds trailing low like banners drooping. It
seemed to me that at this hour there was affection and sorrow
in Heaven above for all pain suffered on earth beneath; the
weight of my dreadful dream  became alleviated-that insufferable thought of being no more loved, no more owned,
half-yielded to hope of the contrary-I was sure this hope
would shine clearer if I got out from under this house-roof,
which was crushing as the slab of a tomb, and went outside
the city to a certain quiet hill, a long way distant in the fields.
Covered with a cloak (I could not be delirious, for I had sense
and recollection to put on warm clothing), forth I set.  The
bells of a church arrested me in passing; they seemed to
call me in to the salut, and I went in. Any solemn rite, any
spectacle of sincere worship, any opening for appeal to God
was as welcome to me then as bread to one in extremity of
want.  I knelt down with others on the stone pavement. It
was an old solemn church, its pervading gloom not gilded but
purpled by light shed through stained glass.
Few worshippers were assembled, and, the salut over half
of them departed. I discovered soon that those left, remained
to confess.  I did not stir.  Carefully every door of the church
was shut; a holy quiet sank upon, and a solemn shade gathered
about us. After a space, breathless and spent in prayer, a
penitent approached the confessional. I watched. She whispered her avowal; her shrift was whispered back; she returned consoled.  Another went, and another.  A pale 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 knuw what I
was about; my mind had run over the intent with lightning.




162                    VILLETT E.
speed.  To tiLe this step could 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.  IHe
might be a good man, but this duty had become to him a sort
of form: he went through it with the phlegm of custom.  1
hesitated; of the formula of confession, I was ignorant: instead of commencing them with the prelude usual, I said:" Mon pere, je suis Protestante."
He directly turned.  He was not a native priest; of that
class, the cast of physiognomy is, almost invariably, grovelling: I saw by his profile and brow he was a Frenchman;
though gray and advanced in years, he did not, I think, lack
either 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. I had been living for some weeks quite alone; I
had been ill; I had a pressure of affliction on my mind of
which it would hardly any longer endure the weight.
" Was a sin, a crime?" he inquired, somewhat startled.
I reassured him on this point, and, as well as I could, I
showed him the mere outline of my experience.
He looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled.  "You take me
unawares," said he.  "I have not had such a case as yours
before: ordinarily we know our routine and are prepared, but
this makes a great break in the common course of confession.
I am hardly furnished with counsel fitting the circumstances."
Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere
relief of communication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet consecrated-the mere pouring out of some portion
of long accumulating, long pent-up pain into a vessel whence
it could not be again diffused -iad done me good. I was al.
ready 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 had a compassionate eye-" for the present you
had better go; but I assure you your words have struck me.
Confession, like other things, is apt to become formal and
trivial with habit.  You have come and poured your heart
out; a thing seldom done.  I would fain think your case over,
and take it with me to my oratory.  Were you of our faith I




THE LONG  VACATIO                          163
htould know what to say-a mind so tossed can find repose
but in the bosom of retreat, and the punctual practice of
piety.  The world, it is well known, has no satisfaction for
that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents like
you to hasten their path upward by penance, self-denial, and
difficult good works.  Tears are given them  here for meat
and drink-bread of affliction and waters of affliction-their
recompense comes hereafter.  It is my own conviction that
these impressions under which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the true church.  You
were made for our faith; depend upon it our faith alone could
heal and help you-protestantism is altogether too dry, cold,
prosaic for you.  The further I look into this matter, the more
plainly I see it is entirely out of the common order of things.
On no account would I lose sight of you. Go, my daughter,
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, and this church is too cold; you must come to my
house; I live~" (and he 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 that worthy priest's reach?  As soon should I have
thought of walking into a Babylonish furnace. That priest
had arms which could influence me; he was naturally kind
with a sentimental French kindness, to whose softness I knew
myself not wholly impervious. Without respecting some sorts
of affection, there was hardly any sort having a fibre of root
in reality, which I could rely on my force wholly to withstand. Had I gone to him, he would have shown me all that
was tender, and comforting, and gentle, in the honest popish
superstition. Then he would have tried to kindle, blow and
stir up in me the zeal of good works.  I know how it would
all have ended.  We all think ourselves strong in'somo
points; we all know ourselves weak in many; the probabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the
hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing




i164  IILLETTS.
this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a
c:ertain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Crecy in Villette.  There was something of Fenelon about that benign
old priest, and whatever most of his brethren may be, and
whatever I may think of his church and creed (and I like
neither), of himself I must ever retain a grateful recollection.
tie was kind when I needed kindness; he did me good. May
heaven bless him!
Twilight had passed into night, and the lamps were lit in
the streets, ere I issued from that sombre church.  To turn
back was now  become possible to me; the wild longing to
breathe this October wind on the little hill far without the
2ity-walls had ceased to be an imperative impulse, 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. But
I had become involved in a part of the city with which I was
not familiar, it was the old part and fill of narrow streets of
picturesque, ancient, and mouldering houses. I was much
too weak to be very collected, and I was still too careless of
my own welfare and safety, to be cautious.  I grew embarrassed; I got immersed in a net-work of turns unknown. I
was lost, and had no resolution to ask guidance of any pas.
senger.        
If the storm had lulled a little at sunset, it made up now
for lost time.  Strong and horizontal thundered the current
of the wind from north-west to south-east; it brought rain
like spray, and sometimes, a sharp hail like shot; it was cold
and pierced me to the vitals.  I bent my head to meet it, but
it beat me back.  My heart did not fail at all in this conflict;
I only wished that I had wings and could ascend the gale,
spread and repose my pinions on its strength, career in its
course, sweep where it swept.  While wishing this, I suddenly felt colder where before I was cold, and more powerle?where before I was weak.  I tried to reach the porch of a
great building near, but the mass of frontage and the giant.
spire turned black and vanished from  my eyes.  Instead of
sinking on the steps as I intended, I seemed to pitch headlong
down an abyss.  I remember no more.




AULD LANG S  N.                     165
CHAPTER XVI.
AULD LANG ~YNE.
WHERE my soul went during that swoon I cannot tell.
W hatever she saw, or wherever she travelled in her trance
on that strange night, she kept her own secret; never whisporing a word to Memory, and baffling Imagination by an
indissoluble silence. She may have gone upward, and come
in sight of her eternal home, hoping for leave to rest now, and
deeming that her painful union with matter was at last dissolved.  While she so deemed, an angel may have warned
her away from  heaven's threshold, and, guiding her weeping
down, have bound her, once more, all shuddering and unwilling, to that poor frame, cold and wasted, of whose companionship she was grown more than weary.
I know she re-entered her prison with pain, with reluctance, with a moan and a long shiver.  The divorced mates,
Spirit and Substance, were hard to re-unite: they greeted
each other, not in an embrace, but a racking sort of struggle.
The returning sense of sight came upon me, red, as if it swam
in blood; suspended hearing rushed back loud, like thunder;
consciousness revived in fear: I sat up appalled, wondering
into what region, amongst what strange beings I was waking.
At first I knew nothing Ilooked on: a wall was not a walla lamp not a lamp.  I should have understood what we call
a ghost, as well as I did the commonest object; which is
another way of intimating that all my eyes rested on struck
it as spectral.  But the faculties soon settled each in its
place; the life-machine presently resumed its wonted and regular working.
Still, I knew.not where I was; only in time I saw I had
been removed from the spot where I fell: I lay on no porticostep: night and tempest were excluded by walls, windows,
and ceiling   Into some house I 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
H 2




I66                    VILLETTE.
had pat me; whether the great dormitory or one of the little
dormicories.  I was puzzled, because I could not make the
glimpses of furniture I saw, accord with my knowledge of any
of these apartments.  The empty white beds were wanting,
and the long line of large windows. "Surely," thought I, "it
is not to Madame Beck's own chamber they have carried
me!"  And here my eyes fell on an easy chair covered with
blue dam sk. Other seats, cushioned to match, dawned on me
by degrees; and at last I took in the complete fact of a pleasant parlor, with a wood-fire on the clear shining hearth, a carpet where arabesques of bright blue relieved a ground of shaded'awnr; pale walls over which a slight but endless garland of
azure forget-me-nots ran mazed and bewildered amongst myriad g(old leaves and tendrils.  A gilded mirror filled up tho
s)ace between two windows, curtained amply with blue damask. In this mirror I saw myself laid, not in bed, but on a
sofa.  I looked spectral; my eyes larger and more hollow, my
hair darker than was natural, by contrast with my thin and
ashen face.  It was obvious, not only from the furniture, but
tfrom the position of windows, doors, and fire-place, that this
was an unknown room in an unknown house.
Hardly less plain was it that my brain was not yet settled;
for, as I gazed at the blue arm-chair, it appeared to grow
familiar; so did a certain scroll-couch, and not less so the
roud(l centre-table, with a blue covering, bordered with
autumn-tinted foliage; and, above all, two little footstools
with worked covers, and a small ebony-framed chair, of which
the seat and back were also worked with groups of brilliant
flowers on a dark ground.
Struck with these things, I explored further.  Strange to
say, old acquaintance were all about me, and' auld lang
syne" smiled out of every nook. There were two oval minia
tures over the mantel-piece, of which I knew by heart the
pearls about the high and powdered " heads;" the velvets
circling the white throats; the swell of the.full muslin kerchiefs; 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 aa
egg-shell, and a white centre-ornament, a classic group in
alabaster, preserved under glass.  Of all these things I could
hare told the pecularities, numbered the flaws or cracks, like




AULD LANG  SYE                         167,ny clzirvotacnte.  Above all, there was a pair of hand
screens, with elaborate pencil-drawings finished like line.
engravings; these, my very eyes ached at beholding again,
recalling hours when they had followed, stroke by stroke ani
touch by touch, a tedious, 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 io
what year of our Lord?  For all these objects were of pas
days, and of a distant country.  Ten years ago I bade themr
good-by; since my fourteenth year they and I had never met.
I gasped audibly, " Where am I?"
A shape hitherto unnoticed, stirred, rose, came forward; a
shape inharmonious with the environment, serving only to
complicate the riddle further.  This was no more than a sort
of native bonne, in a commonplace bonne's cap and print
dress. She spoke neither French nor English, and I could get
no intelligence from her, not understanding her phrases of dialect.  But she bathed my temples and forehead with some
cool and perfumed water, and then she heightened the cushion
on which I reclined, made signs that I was not to speak, and
resumed her post at the foot of the sofa.
She was busy knitting; her eyes thus drawn from me, I
could gaze on her without interruption.  I did mightily wonder how she came there, or what she could have to do among
the scenes, or with the days of' my girlhood.  Still more I
marveled what those scenes and davs could now have to do
with me.
Too weak to scrutinize thoroughly the mystery, I tried tc,
settle it by saying it was a mistake, a dream, a fever-fit; and
yet I knew there could be no mistake, and that I was not sleeping, and I believed I was sane.  I wished the room had not
been so lighted, that I might not so clearly have seen the lit.
tie pictures, the ornaments, the screens, the worked chairs. Al
these objects, as well as the blue-damask furniture, were, in
fact, precisely the same, in every minutest detail, with those I
so well remembered, and with which I had been so thoroughly
intimate, in the drawing-room of my godmother's house at
Bietton.  Methought the apartment only was changed, being
of different proportions and dimensions.
I thought of Bedreddin Hassan, transported in his sleep
from Cairo to the gates of I'amascus.  Had a Genius stooped




168                    VILEOTTE.
nis dark wing down the storm to whose stress I had suc urnbed,
and gathering me from the church-steps, and " rising high into
the air," as the eastern tale said, had he bornq me over land
and ocean, and laid me quietly down beside a hearth of Old
England?  But no; I knew the fire of that hearth burned
before its Lares no more-it went out long ago, and the household 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, she put down her knitting. I saw her busied for
a moment at a little stand; she poured out water, and measured drops from a vial: glass in hand, she approached me.
What dark-tinged draught mifht she now be offering? 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 and softer rose the flow, with tepid
undulations smoother than balm. The pain of weakness left
my limbs, my muscles slept.  I lost power to move: but,'osing at the same time wish, it was no privation. That kind
bonne placed a screen between me and the lamp; I saw hey
rise to do this, but do not remember seeing her resume he?
place: in the interval between the two acts, I " fell on sleep."
At waking, lo! all was again changed. The light of high
day surrounded me; not, indeed, a warm, summer light, but
the leaden gloom of raw and blustering autumn.  I felt sure
now that I was in the pensionnat-sure by the beating rain
on the casement: sure by the " wuther" of wind among trees,
denoting a garden outside; sure by the chill, the whiteness,
the solitude, amidst which I lay.  I say whitezess-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 of a long, large, and white-washed chamber, blinked
baffled, on encountering the limited area of a small cabineta cabinet with sea-green walls; also, instead of five wide and
naked windows, there was one high lattice, shaded with muslin festoons: instead of two dozen little stands of painted




AULD LANG SY'NE                        169
wood, each holding a basin and an ewer, there was a toilet table dressed, like a lady for a ball, in a white robe over a pink
skirt; a polished and large glass crowned, and a pretty pin.
cushion frilled with lace adorned it. This toilet, together with
a small, low, green and white chintz arm-chair, a wash-stand
topped with a marble slab, and supplied with utensils cf pales
grecn ware, sufficiently furnished the tiny chamber.
ILeader, I felt alarmed! Vhy? you will ask. What wa.
there in this simple 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
wash-stands-they must be the ghosts of such articles; or, if
this were denied as too wild an hypothesis-and, confcunded
as I was, I did deny it-there remained but to conclude that
I had myself passed into an abnormal state ot mind; in
short, that I was very ill and delirious: and even then, mine
was the strangest 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, shiningblack, foliated fiame of that glass; the smooth, milky-green
of the china vessels on the stand; the very stand too, with
its top of gray marble, splintered at one corner;-all these I
was compelled to recognize and to hail, as last night I had,
perforce, recognized and hailed the rosewood, the drapery, 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 they came at all, did they not return complete?  WVhy hovered before my distempered vision
the mere furniture, while the rooms and the locality were
gone?  As to that pin-cushion made of crimson satin, ornamiented with gold beads and frilled with thread-lace, I had
liiade it myself:  living with a start from the bed, I took the
cushion in my hand and examined it. There was the cipher
" L. L. B." fbrmed in gold beads, and surrounded with an
oval wreath emnbroidered in white silk. These were the initials of my godmlother's name-Louisa Lucy Bretton.
Amr I in England?  Am I at Bretton?  I muttered; and
hastily pulling up the blind with which the lattice was
dhrolded, I looked out to try and discover where I was; half



170                       VILLETTJB
prepared to meet the calm, old, handsome buildings and 3,2
gray pavement of St. Ann's street, and to see at the end,,he
towers of the minster: or, if otherwise, fully expectant.f a
town view  somewhere, a rue in Villette, if not a street in a
pleasant and ancient English city.
I looked, on the contrary, through a frame of leafage, clustering round the high lattice, and forth thence to a grassy
nmead-like level, a lawn-terrace with trees rising from  tlif
tower ground beyond-high forest-trees, such as I had not
se:pi for many a day. They were now  groaning under the
gale of October, and between their trunks I traced the line
of an avenue, where yellow leaves lay in heaps and drifts, or
were whirled singly before the sweeping west wind.  Whatever landscape might lie further must have been flat, and
these tall beeches shut it out. The place seemed secluded,
and was to me quite strange: I did not know it at all.
Once more I lay down.  My bed stood in a little alcove;
on turning my face to the wall, the room with its bewildering
accompaniments became excluded.  Excluded?  No  Foi
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-colors;
a head, a boy's head, fresh, life-like, speaking, and animated.
It seemed a youth of sixteen, fair-complexioned, with sanguine
health in his cheek; hair long, not dark, and with a sunny
sheen; penetrating eyes, an arch mouth, and a gay smile.
On the whole a most pleasant face to look at, especially for
those claiming a right to that youth's affection-parents, for
instance, or sisters.  Any romantic little school-girl might
almost have loved it in its fiamre.  Those eyes looked as if
when somewhat older they would flash a lightning response
to love: I cannot tell whether they kept in store the steadybeaming shine of faith.  For whatever sentiment met him in
form too facile, his lips menaced, beautifully but surely, caprice
and light esteemn.
Striving to take each new discovery as quietly as I could,
I whispered to myself"Ah! that portrait used to hang in the breakfast-roonm,
over the mantel-piece: somewhat too high, as I thought.  1
well remember,ow  I used to moulnt a music-stool tbr the




AULD  LANIO 3YNE.                      171
purpose of unllooking it, holding it in my hand, and searclling
into those bonny wells of eyes, whose glance under their hazel
lashes seemed like a pencilled laugh; and well I liked to note
the coloring of the cheek, and the expression of the mouth.'
I hardly believed fancy could improve on the curve of thai
mouth, or of the chinl; even my ignorance knew  that both
were beautiful, and pondered, perplexed over this doubt.
"  ow it was that what charmed so much, could at the same
time so keenly pain?"  Once, by way of test, I took little
Missy Home, and, lifting her in my arms, told her to look al
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, as she said, " Put me down."  So I put hei
down, saying to myself: " The child feels it too."
All these things did I now think over, adding, " He had his
faults, yet scarce ever was a finer nature; liberal, suave, impressible." My reflections 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. If it was strange to see that well-remembered
pictured form  on the wall, still stranger was it to turn and
behold the equally well-remembered living form opposite-a
woman, a lady, most real and substantial, tall, well-attired,
wearing widow's silk, and such a cap as best became her
matron and motherly braids of hair.  Her's, too, was a. good
face; too marked, perhaps, now for beauty, but not for sense
or character.  She was little changed; something sterner,
something more robust-but she was my godmother: still the
distinct vision of Mrs. Bretton.
I kept quiet, yet internally I was much agitated: my pulse
fluttered, and the blood left my cheek, which turned cold.
" Madame, where am I?" I inquired.
" In a very safe asylum, well protected for the present
make your mind quite 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 my senses at all, or whether they are misleading ime iu
every particular: but you speak English, do you not, malam m'




172                    VILLETTE.
"I should think you might hear that: it would puzzle me
uo hold a long discourse in French."
- You do not come from England?"
" I am lately arrived thence. Have you been long in this
country?  You seem to know my son?"
" Do I, madam?  Perhaps I do. Your son-the picture
there 2"
" That is his portrait as a youth.  Vhile looking at it, you
pronounced his name."
"Graham Bretton?"
She nodded.
"I speak to Mrs. Bretton, formerly of Bretton, - shire?"
" Quite right; and you. I am told, are an English teachel
in a foreign school here: my son recognized 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 you are too confused and weak for conversation; try
to eat some breakfast, and then sleep."
Notwithstanding all I had undergone-the bodily fatigue,
the perturbation of spirits, the exposure to weather-it seemed
that I was better: the fever, the real malady which had oppressed my frame, wras abating; for whereas during the last
nine days I had taken no solid food, and suffered from contin
ual thirst, this morning, on breakfast being offered, I experienced a craving for nourishment: an inward faintness which
caused me eagerly to taste the tea this lady offered, and to eat
the morsel of dry toast she allowed in accompaniment. It was
only a morsel, but it sufficed; keeping up my strength till
some two or three hours afterwards, when the bonne brought
me a little cup of broth and a biscuit.
As evening began to darken, and the ceaseless blast still
blew wild and cold, and the rain streamed on, deluge-like, I
grew weary-very weary of my bed.  The room, though
pretty, was small: I felt it confining; I longed for a change
The increasing chill and gathering gloom, too, depressed me;
I wanted to see-to feel firelight.  Bes'des, I kept thinking
nf the son of that tall matron: when should I see him?
(lertainly not till I left my room.
At last the bonne came to make my bed for the night.
She prepared to wrap me in a blanket and place me in the
litl.n chintz chair; but, declining these attentions, I proceeded




AULD  LANG SYNE.                      173
to dress myself.  The business was just achieved, andl I was
sitting down to take breath, when Mrs. Bretton once more
appeared.
"Dressed!" she exclaimed, smiling with that smile I so
well knew-a pleasant smile, though not soft;-" You are
quite. better thebn?  Quite strong-eh?"
She spoke to me so much as of old she used to speak that I
almost fancied she was beginning to know me.  There was
the same sort of patronage in her voice and manner that, as
a girl, I had always experienced from  her-a patronage 1
yielded to and even liked; it was not fiunded on conventional
grounds of superior wealth or station (in the last particular
there had never been any inequality; her degree was mine)
but on natural reasons of physical advantage: it was the
shelter the tree gives the herb.  I put a request without further ceremony.
" 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
the change," was her reply.  " Come then; here is an arm."
And she offered me hers: I took it, and we descended one
flight of carpeted steps to a landing where a tall door, standing open, gave admission into the blue damask room.  How
pleasant it was in its air of perfect domestic comfort! How
warm  its amber lamp-light and vermilion fire-flush! To
render the picture perfect, tea stood ready on the table-an
English tea, whereof the whole shining service glanced at me
familiarly; from the solid silver urn, of antique pattern, and
the massive pot of the same 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
silver knife and fork beside it.  Graham was then expected
to tea: Graham  was now, perhaps, in the house; ere many
minutes I might see him.
"Sit down-sit down," said my conductress, as my step
faltered a little in passing to the hearth.  She seated me on
the sofa, but I soon passed behind it, saying the fire was too
hot; in its shade I found another seat which suited me better
Mrs. Bretton was never wont to make a fuss about any person




174                    VILLETTE.
or anything; without remonstrance she suffered me to havr
my own way.  She made the tea, and she took up the newspaper.  I liked to watch every action of my godmother; ali
her movements were so young: she must have been now
above fifty, yet neither her sinews nor her spirit seemed yet
touched by the rust of age.  Though portly, she was alert,
and though serene, she was at times impetuous-good health
and an excellent temperament kept her green as in her
spring.
While she read, I perceived she listened-listened for her
son.  She was not the woman ever to confess herself uneasy,
but there was yet no lull in the weather, and if Graham were
out in that hoarse wind-roaring still unsatisfied-I well
knew his mother's heart would be out with 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 slight inclination of her head towards the
door, denoted that she heard some sound.  Presently her
brow cleared; and then even my ear, less practised, caught
the iron clash of a gate swung to, steps on gravel, lastly the
door-bell.  He was come.  His mother filled the tea-pot fiom
the urn, she drew nearer the hearth the stuffed and cushioned
blue chair-her own chair by right, but I saw there was one
who might with impunity usurp it.  And when that one
came up the stairs-which he soon did, after, I suppose, some
such attention to the toilet as the wild and wet night rendered necessary, and strode straight in"Is it you, Graham?" said his mother, hiding a glad smile
and speaking curtly.
"Who else should it be, mamma?" demanded the Unpunctual, possessing himself 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 table, lazy boy: no seat will serve you
but mine; if you had one spark of a sense of propriety, you
would always leave that chair for the Old Lady."
"So I should; only the dear Old Lady persists in leaving.t for me.  How is your patient, mamma?"
"Will she come forward and speak for herself?" said Mrs.
Bretton, turning tc my corner; and at this invitation, forward




AUJLD  LANG SYNS.                     175
I came. Graham courteously rose up to greet me.  He stood
tall on the hearth, a figure justifying his mother's unconcealed
pride.
"So you are come down," said he; "you must be better
then-much better. I scarcely expected we should meet thus,
or here.. I was alarmed last night, and if I had not been
forced to hurry away to a dying patient, I certainly would
not have left you: but my mother herself is something of a
doctress; and Martha an excellent nurse. I saw the case was
a fainting fit, not necessarily dangerous. What brought it
on, I have yet to learn, and all particulars; meantime, I
trust you really do feel better."
" Much better," I said calmly.  " MVuch 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, what is more, I ascertained this identity
scarcely with surprise.  What is more, when I heard Graham's step on the stairs, I knew what manner of figure would
enter, and for whose aspect to prepare my eyes. The discovery was not of to-day, its dawn had penetrated my perceptions long since.  Of course I remembered young Bretton
well; and though ten years (from sixteen to twenty-six) may
greatly change the boy as they mature him to the man, yet
they could bring no such utter difference as would suffice
wholly to blind my eyes, or baffle my memory.  Dr. John
Graham Bretton retained still a affinity to the youth of sixteen: he had his eyes; he had some of his features; to wit,
all the excellently-moulded lower half of the face; I found
him out soon.  I first recognized him on that occasion, noted
several chapters back, when my unguardedly-fixed attention
had drawn on me the mortification of an implied rebuke.
Subsequent observation confirmed, in every point, that early
surmise.  I traced in the gesture, the port, and the habits of
his manhood, all his boy's promise. I heard in his now deep
tones the accent of former days.  Certain turns of phrase,
peculiar to him of old, were peculiar to him still; and so was
many a trick of eye and lip, many a smile, many a sudden
ray levelled from the irid, under his well-charactered brow.
To say anything on the subject, to hint at my discovery
iad not suited my habits of tho-ight, or assimilated with my




176                   VI  L ET T E.
system of feeling.  On the contrary, I had preferred to keep
the matter to myself. I liked entering his presence covered
with a cloud he had not seen through, while he stood before
me under a ray of special illumination, which shone all partial
over his head, trembled about his feet, and cast light no
farther.
WVell I knew that to him  it could make little diflerence,
were I to come forward and announce " This is Lucy Snowe!"
So I kept back in my teacher's place; and as he never asked
my name, so I never gave it.  He heard me called " Mis,"
and " Miss Lucy;" he never heard the surname, " Snowe."
As to spontaneous recognition-though I, perhaps, was still
less changed than he-the idea never approached his mind,
and why should I suggest it?
During tea, Dr. John was kind, as it was his nature to be;
that meal over, and the tray carried out, he made a cosy arrangement of the cushions in a corner of the sofa, and obliged
me to settle amongst them.  He and his mother also drew to
the fire, and ere we had sat ten minutes, I caught the eye of
tle latter fastened steadily upon me.  Women are certainly
quicker in some things than men.
"Well," she exclaimed, presently; "I have seldom  seen
a stronger likeness! Graham, have you observed it?"
" Observed what?  What ails the Old Lady now?  How
you stare, mamma! One would think you had an attack of
second-sight."
"Tell me, Graham, of whom does that young lady remind
ou? " pointing to me.
" Mamma, you put her out of countenance. I often tell you
abruptness is your fault; remember, too, that to you she is a
stranger, and does not know your ways."
" Now, when she looks down; now, when she turns sideways, who is she like, Graham? "
" Indeed, mamma, since you propound the riddle, I think you
ought to solve it "
"And you have known her some time, you say-ever since
you first began to attend the school in the Rue Fossette; —yet you never mentioned to me that singular resemblance!"
"I could not mention a thing- of which I never thought,
and which I do not now acknowledg3. XWht'<in you
mean?"




AULD LANG SYNE.                      177
"Stupid boy  look at her."
Graham did look: but this was not to be endured; 1 saw
how it must end, so I thought it best to anticipate.
" Dr. John," I said,' has had so much to do and think of,
since he and I shook hands at our last parting in St. Ani's
Street, that, while I readily found out Mr. Graham Bretton,
some months ago, it never occurred to me as possible that he
should recognize Lucy Snowe."
"Lucy Snowe! I thought so! I knew  it! " cried Mrs
Bretton.  And she at once stepped across the hearth and
kissed me.  Some ladies would, perhaps, have made a great
bustle upon such a discovery without being particularly glad
of it; but it was not my godmother's habit to make a bustle,
and she preferred all sentimental demonstration in bas-relief
So she and I got over the surprise with few words and a single salute; yet I dare say she was pleased, and I know I was.Vlhile we renewed old acquaintance, Graham, sitting opposite, silently disposed of his paroxysm of astonishment.
" Mamma calls me a stupid boy, and I think I am so;" at
length he said, "for, upon my honor, often as I have seen you,
I never once suspected this fact: and yet I perceive it all now.
Lucy Snowe! To be sure!  I recollect ler perfectly, and
there she sits; not a doubt of it.  But," he added, "you
surely have not known me as an old acquaintance all this
time, and never mentioned it?"
" That I have," was my answer.
Dr. John commented not.  I supposed he regarded my silence as eccentric, but he was indulgent in refraining from censure.  I dare say, too, he would have deemed it impertinent
to have interrogated me very closely, to have asked me the
why and wherefore of my reserve; and, though he might feel
a little curious, the importance of the case was by no means
such as to tempt curiosity to infringe on discretion.
For my part, I just ventured to inquire whether he remembered the circumstance of my once looking at him very fixedly 
for the slight annoyance he had betrayed on that occasion, still
lingered sore on my mind.
" 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 man




178                  VNILLETTE.
nor was, I wJndered what personal or facial enormity in me
proved so magnetic lo your usually averted eyes."
"You see how it was, now?"
" Perfectly."
And here Mrs. Bretton broke in with many, many questions
about past times; and for her satisfaction I had to recur te
gone-by troubles, to explain causes of seeming estrangement,
to touch on single-handed conflict with Life, with Death, with
Grief, with Fate.  Dr. John listened, saying little.  He and
she then told me of changes they had known: even with them,
all had not gone smoothly, and fortune had retrenched her
once abundant gifts. But so courageous a mother, with such a
champion in her son, was well fitted to fight a good fight with
the world, and to prevail ultimately. Dr. John himself was one
of those on whose birth benign planets have certainly smiled.
Adversity might set against him her most sullen Fiont: he
was the man to beat her down with smiles.  Strong and
cheerful, and firm  and courteous; not rash, yet valiant; he
was the aspirant to woo Destiny herself, and to win from her
stone eye-balls 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 chateau, they told me, about half a league
without the Porte de Crecy); this country site being chosen
for the sake of his mother's health, with which town air did
rnot now agree.  Hither he had invited Mrs. Bretton, and she,
on leaving England, had brought with her such residue furniture of the former St. Ann's Street mansion, as she had
thought fit to keep unsold.  Hence my bewilderment at the
phantoms of chairs, and the wraiths of looking glasses, tea
arns, and tea cups.
As the clock struck eleven, Dr. John stopped his mother.
"Miss Snowe must retire now," he said; " she is beginning
to look very pale.  To-morrow  I will venture to put some
Questions respecting the cause of her loss of health.  She is
much changed indeed, since last July, when I saw her enact
with no little spirit, the part of a very killing fine gentleman.
As to last night's catastrophe, I am sure thereby hangs a tale,
but we will inquire no further this evening.  Good night,
-iiss Lucy."




LA 3' ERASSE.                     179
And so, lie kindly led me to the door, and holding a wax
candle, lighted me up the one flight of steps.
When I had said my prayers, and when I was undressed
and laid down, I felt that I still had friends.  Friends, not
professing vehement attachment, not offering the tender solace of well-matched and congenial relationship; on whom,
therefore, but moderate demand of affection was to be made,
of whom but moderate expectation formed; but towards whom,
my heart softened instinctively and yearned with an importunate gratitude, which I entreated Reason betimes to check.
"Do not let me think of them  too often, too much, too
fondly," I implored; "let me be content with a temperate
draught of this living stream: let me not run athirst, and apply passionately to its welcome waters: let me not imagine
in them a sweeter taste than earth's fountains know.  Oh!
would to God! I may be enabled to feel enough sustained by
an occasional, amicable intercourse, rare, brief; nnengrossing
and tranquil: quite tranquil!"
Still repeating this word, I turned to my pillow; and, stilt
repeating it, I steeped that pillow with tears.
CHAPTER  XVII.
LA TERRASSE.
THESE struggles with the natural character, the strong na
live bent of the heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the
end they do good.  They tend, however slightly, to give the
actions, the conduct, that turn which Reason approves, and
which Feeling, perhaps, too often opposes: they certainly
make a difference in the general tenor of a life, and enable it
to be better regulated, more equable, quieter on the 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 as you, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out
thence: take it to your Maker-show Him the secrets of the
spirit He gave-ask Him how you are to bear the pains Ha




180                    VILLETTE.
has appointed-kneel in his presence, and pray with faith fit
light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, 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, which ycui
heart loved, and for which it bled, the healing herald will descend.  The cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the po,
oessed, will be led to bathe. Herald, come quickly! Thousands
lie round the pool, weeping and despairing, to see it, through
slow years, stagnant.  Long are the "times" of Heaven: thb
orbits of angel messengers seem wide to mortal vision; they
may en-ring ages: the cycle of one departure and return
may clasp unnumbered generations; and dust, kindling to
brief suffering life, and through pain, passing back to dust.
may meanwhile perish out of memory again, and yet again.
To how many maimed and mourning millions is the first and
sole angel visitant, him easterns call Azrael.
I tried to get up next morning, but while I was dressing
and at intervals drinking cold water from the carc^fe on my
washstand, with design to brace up that trembling weakness
which made dressing so difficult, 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-if"
two minutes she consigned me captive to the French bed.
"There you lie till afternoon," said she.  " My boy left or
ders before he went out that such should be the case, and I cap
assure you my son is master and must be obeyed.  Presentl!
you shall have breakfast."
Presently she brought that meal-brought it with her own
active hands-not leaving me to servants.  She seated her.
self on the bed while I ate. Now it is not everybody, even
amongst our respected fiiends and esteemed acquaintance,
whom we like to have near us, whom we like to watch us, to
wait on us, to approach us with the proximity of a nurse tc
a patient. It is not every friend whose eye is a light in a sick
room, whose presence is there a solace: but all this was Mrs,
Bretton to me; all this she had ever been.  Food or drinh
never pleased me so well as when it came through her hands
I do not remember the occasion when her entrance into e




"A TERRASSE.                      181
roomi had not made that room cheerier.  Our natures own
predilections and antipathies alike strange.  There are peop2
irom whom we secretly shrink, whohom we would personally
avoid, though reason confesses that they are good people:
there are others with faults of temper, &c., evident enough,
beside whom we live content, as if the air about them did us
good.  My godmother's lively black eye and clear brunetto
cheek, her warm, prompt hand, her self-reliant mood, her decided bearing, were all beneficial to me as the atmosphere of
some salubrious climate. Her son used to call her " the old
lady;" it filled me with pleasant wonder to note how the
alacrity and 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 the emptied tea-cup, " and sit with you the whole day, if,hat overbearing John 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 your god-daughter
with gossip,' and he particularly desired me to keep close t(
my own quarters, and spare you my fine company. He says,
Lucy, he thinks you have had a nervous fever, judging from
your looks,-is that so?"
I replied that I did not quite know what my ailment had
been, but that I had certainly suffered a good deal, especially
in mind. Further, on this subject, I did nut consider it advisa
ble to dwell, for the details of what I had undergone belonged
to a portion of my existence in which I never expected my
godmother to take a share. Into what a new region would
snch a confidence have led that hale, serene nature! The
difference between her and me might be figured by that between the stately ship, cruising safe on smooth seas, with its
full complement of crew, a captain gay and brave, and venturous and provident; and the life-boat, which most days of
the year lies dry and solitary in an old, dark boat house, only
putting to sea when the billows run high in rough weather,
when cloud encounters water, when danger and death divide
between them the rule of the great deep.  No, the " Louisa
Bretton" never was out of harbor on such a night, and in
such a scene: her crew could not conceive it; so the halfdrowned life boat man keeps his own counsel, and spins nc
varns.
-t




182                    VILLETTE.
She left ine, and I lay in bed content: it was good of Gra
nam to remember me before he went out.
My day was lonely, but the prospect of coming evening
abridged and cheered it.  Then, too, I felt weak, and rest
seemed welcome; and after the morning hours were gone by
-those hours which always bring, even to the necessarily
unoccupied, a sense of business to be done, of tasks waiting
fulfilment, a vague impression of obligation to be employedwhen this stirring time was past, and the silent descent ot
afternoon hushed housemaid steps on the stairs and in the
chambers, I then passed into a dreamy mood, not unpleasant.
My calm little room seemed somehow like a cave in the sea.
There was no color about it, except that white and pale
green, suggestive of foam and deep water; the blanched cornice was adorned with shell-shaped ornaments, and there were
white mouldings like dolphins in the ceiling-angles. Even
that one touch of color visible in the red satin pincushion
bore affinity to coral; even that dark, shining glass might
have mirrored a mermaid.  When I closed my eyes, I heard
the gale, subsiding at last, bearing upon the house-front like a
settling swell upon a rock-base. - I heard it drawn and withdrawn far, far off, like a tide retiring from  a shore of the
upper world-a world so high above that the rush of its
largest waves, the dash of its fiercest breakers could sound
down in this submarine home, only like murmurs and a lullaby.
Amidst these dreams came evening, and then Martha brought
a light; with her aid I was quickly dressed, and, stronger now
than in the morning, I made my way down to the blue saloon
unassisted.
Dr. John, it appears, had concluded his round of professional calls earlier than usual; his form was the first object
that met my eyes as I entered the parlor; he stood in that
window-recess opposite the door, reading the close type of a
newspaper by such dull light as closing day yet gave.  The
fire shone clear, but the lamp stood on the table unlit, and tea
was not yet brought up.
A. to Mrs. Bretton, my active godmother-who, I after.
waris found, had been out in the open air all day-lay half:
reclned in her deep-cushioned chair, actually lost in a nap.
Her aon seeing me, came forward. I noticed that he trod care'
fully,,ot to wake the sleeper; he also spoke low: his mellow




LA  TERRASSE.                      183
-voice never had any sharpness in it; modulated as at present.
it was calculated rather to soothe than startle slumber.
"This is a quiet little chateau," he observed, after inviting
me to sit near the casement, "I don't know whether you
may have noticed it in your walks: though, indeed, from the
chaussee it is not visible; just a mile beyond the Porte de
Crecy, you turn down a lane which soon becomes an avenue,
and that leads you on, through meadow and shade, to the
very door of this house.  It is not a modern place, but built
somewhat in the old style of the Basse-Ville.  It is rather a
manoir than a chateau; they call it'La Terrasse,' because
its front rises from  a broad turfed walk, whence steps lead
down a grassy slope to the avenue.  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 her flushed ascent, she cleared to
gold, and in very brief space, floated up 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 no sighing mood, he sighed in watching it  sighed to himself quietly.
No need to ponder the cause or the course of that sigh; I
knew it was wakened by beauty: I knew it pursued Ginevra.
Knowing this, the idea pressed upon me that it was in some
sort my duty to speak the name he meditated.  Of course he
was ready for the subject: I saw in his countenance a teeming plenitude of comment, question and interest; a pressure
of language and sentiment, only checked, I thought, by sense
of embarrassment how to begin.  To spare him this embarrassment was my best, indeed my sole use.  I had but to
utter the idol's name, and love's tender litany would flow
out.  I had just found a fitting phrase: "You know that
Miss Fanshawe is gone on a tour with the Cholmondeleys,"
and was opening my lips to speak it, when he scattered my
plans by introducing another theme.
"The first thing this morning," said he, putting his sentiment in his pocket, turning from the moon, and sitting down,
"I went to tle Rue Fossette, and told the cuisiniere that you
were safe and in good hands.  Do you know  I actually
sIed that she ha' not yet discovered your absence from thu




184                   VILLETTE.
house: she thought you safe in the great dormitory.  With
what care must you have been waited on I"' Oh! all that is very conceivable," said I.  "Goton could
do nothing for me but bring me a little tisane and a crust of
bread, and I had rejected both so often during the past week,
that the good woman got tired of useless journeys from  the
dwelling-house kitchen to the school-dormitory, and only came
once a day at noon, to make my bed. Believe, however, that
she is a good-natured creature, and would have been delighted
to cook me coteletes de mouton, if I could have eaten them."
" 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
dreadfully low-spirited."
"Which disables me from  helping you by pill or potion.
Medicine can give nobody good spirits. My art halts at the
threshold of Hypochondria: she just looks in and sees a chamber of torture, but can neither say nor do much. Cheerful society would be of use; you should be as little alone as possible; you should take plenty of exercise."
Acquiescence and a pause followed these remarks. They
sounded all right, I thought, and bore the safe sanction of custom and the well worn stamp of use.
"Miss Snowe," recommenced Dr. John-my health, nervous system included, being now, somewhat to my relief, discussed and done with-" is it permitted me to ask what your
religion now is?  Are you a Catholic?"
I looked up in some surprise-"A Catholic?  No! Why
suggest such an idea?"
"The manner in which you were consigned to me last
night, made me doubt."
"I consigned to you?   But, indeed, I forget.  It remains
yet for me to learn how I fell into your hands."
" Why, under circumstances that puzzled me.  I had been
in attendance all day yesterday on a case of singularly interesting and critical character; the disease being rare, and its
treatment doubtful: I saw a similar and still finer case in a
hospital at Paris; but that will not interest you.  At last a
mitigation of the patient's most urgent symptoms (acute
pain is one of its accompaniments) liberated me, and I set




LA TERRASSE.                      185
c.t honleward.  My shortest way lay through the Basso
Ville, and as the night was excessively dark, wild and wet, I
took it. In riding past an old church belonging to a community of Beguines, I saw by a lamp burning over the porch
or deep arch of the entrance, a priest lifting some object in
his arms. The lamp was bright enough to reveal the priest's
features clearly, and I recognized him; he was a man I hava
often met by the sick beds of both rich and poor: and,
chiefly, the latter. He is, I think, a good old man, far better
than most of his class in this country; superior, indeed, in
every way: better informed, as well as more devoted to
duty.  Our eyes met, he called on me to st:p; what he supported was a woman, fainting or dying. I alighted.
"'This person is one of your countrywomen,' he said'save her, if she is not dead.' "
" My countrywoman, on examination, turned out to be the
English teacher at Madame Beck's pensionnat.  She was
perfectly unconscious, perfictly bloodless, and nearly cold.
" What does it all mean?" was my inquiry.
" He communicated a curious account: that you had been
to him that evening 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 gar.
rulity and my curiosity.  Your confidence, however, had not
made an enemy of the good father; it seems he was so
struck, and felt so sorry that you should be out on such a night
alone, he had esteemed it a christian duty to watch when you
quitted the church, and so to manage as not to lose sight of
you, till you should have reached home. Perhaps the worthy
man might, half unconsciously, have blent in this proceeding,
some little of the subtlety of his class: it might have been
his resolve to learn the locality of' your home-did you impart that in your confession?"
I did not: on the contrary, I carefully avoided the shadow
of any indication; and as to my confession, Dr. John, I suppose you will think me mad for taking such a step, but I
could not help it: I suppose it was all the fault of what you
call my'nervous system.' I cannot put the case into words
but, my days and night" were grown intolerable; a ecrlt




ISG                    VILLETTE.
~elise of desolation pair.ed my mind: a feeling that would
r.lake its way, rush out, or kill me-like (and this you wil
understand, Dr. John) the current which passes through the
heart, and which, if aneurism or any other morbid cause obstructs its natural channels, seeks abnormal outlet.  I wanted
companionship, I wanted friendship, I wanted counsel.  1
could find none of these inl closet, or chamber, so I went
and sought them in church and confessional. As to what i
said, it was no confidence, no narrative. I have done nothing
wrong: my life has not been active enough for any dark deed,
either of romance or reality: all I poured out was a dreary,
desperate complaint."
"Lucy, you ought to travel for about six months: why,
your calm nature is growing quite excitable!  Confound Madame Beck!  Has the little buxom widow no bowels, to condemn her best teacher to solitary confinement?"
" It was not Madame Beck's fault," said I; "it is no living
being's fault, 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 I like to lay the mountains of blame they were
sculptured to bear: me and Fate.
"' Me' must take better care in future," said Dr. Johnsmiling, I suppose, at my bad grammar.
"Change of air-change of scene; those are my prescriptions," pursued the practical young doctor.  "But to return
to our muttons, Lucy. As yet, Pere Silas, with all his tact
(they say he is a Jesuit), is no wiser than you choose him to
be; for instead of returning to the Rue Fossette, your fevered
wanderings-there must have been high fever-"
" No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night-now,
don't make out that I was delirious, for I know differently."
" Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment,
no doubt! Your wanderings had taken an opposite direction
to the Pensionnat.  Near the Beguinage, amidst the stress
of flood and gust, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had
swooned and fallen.  The priest came to your succor, and
the physician, as we have seen, supervened.  Between us
we procured a fiacre and brought you here.  Pere Silas, old
as he is, would Carry you up stairs, and lay you on that couch
himselfl He would certainly have remained with you till




LA TERRASSE.                        1S7
suspended animation had been restored; and so should I, but,
at that juncture, a hurried messenger arrived from the dying
patient I had scarcely left-the last duties were called forthe physician's last visit and the priest's last rite; extrema
unction could not be deferred.  Pere Silas and myself depart,
ed, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave
you in charge to Martha, leaving direction, which it seems
she followed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?"
"Not yet," said I, with a smile.  "And never let Pere
Si-as know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but
give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and
if ever I get rich I will send him  money for his charities.
See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea."
Which he did; and as Mrs. Bretton sat up-astonished and
indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fully prepared to deny that she had slept at all
— her son came gaily to the attack:
"Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again.  You look the picture
of innocence in your slumbers."
" My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking
about?  You know  I never do sleep by day: it was the
slightest doze possible."
"Exactly! a seraph's gentle lapse-a fairy's dream. Mamma, under such circumstances, you always remind me of
Pitania."
"That is because you, yourself; are so like Bottom."
"Miss Snowe-did you ever hear anything like mamma'l
wit! She is a most sprightly woman of her size and age."
" Keep your compliments to yourself, sir, and do not neglect
your own size: which seems to me a good deal on the increase.
Lucy, has he not rather the air of an incipient John Bull?
He used to be slender as an eel, and now I fancy in him  a
sort of heavy-dragoon bent-a beef-eater tendency. Graharam
take notice! If you grow fat I disown you."
" As if you could not sooner disown your own personality'
I am indispensable to the old lady's happiness, Lucy.  She
would pine away in green and yellow melancholy if she had:ot my six feet of iniquity to scold.  It keeps her lively-it
maintains the wholesome ifrment of her spirits."''he two were now standing opposite to each other, one on,ach sido the fire-place; their words were not very fond, but




188                    VILLETT E.
heir mutual looks atoned for verbal deficiencies.  At leas,
the best treasure of Mrs. Bretton's life was certainly casketed
in her son's bosom; her dearest pulse throbbed in his heart.
As to him, of course another love shared his feelings with
filial love; and, no doubt, as the new passion was the latest
born, so he assigned it in his emotions Benjamin's portion.
Ginevra! Ginevra! Did Mrs. Bretton yet know at whose
ie-et her own young idol had laid his homage?  Would she
ppyove of that choice? I could not tell; but I could well guess
that if she knew Miss Fanshawe's conduct towards Graham:
her alternations between coldness and coaxing, and repulse
and allurement; if she could at all suspect the pain with
which she had tried him; if she could have seen, as I had
seen, his fine 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, or both. WVell-I thought so too.
That second evening passed as sweetly as the first-more
sweetly indeed: we enjoyed a smoother interchange of
thought; old troubles were not reverted to, acquaintance
was better cemented; I felt happier, easier, more at home.
That night-instead of crying myself asleep-I went down to
dreamland by a pathway bordered with pleasant thoughts
CHAPTER  XVIII.
VWE QUARREL.
DURING the first days of my stay at the Terrace, Graham
never took a seat near me, or in his frequent pacing of the
room approached the quarter where I sat, or looked preoccupied, or more grave than usual, but I thought of Miss Fanshawe and expected her name to leap from his lips.  I kept
my ear and mind in perpetual readiness for the tender theme;
my patience was ordered to be permanently under arms, and
my sympathy desired to keep its cornucopia replenished and
ready for outpouring.  At last, and after a little inward




WE QUARREL.                        189
struggle which I saw and respected, he one day launched into
the topic.  It was introduced delicately; anonymously as it
were.
"Your friend is spending her vacation in traveling, 1
hear?"  "Friend, forsooth " thought I to myself: but it
would not do to contradict; 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 asking whom he meant?
He had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands
on a reel of thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.
" Ginevra-Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Chol.
mondeleys on a tour through the south of France?"
"She has."
"Do you and she correspond?"
" It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of
mnaking application for that privilege."
"You have seen letters of her writing?"
" Yes; several to her uncle."
" They will not be deficient in wit and nzaivete; there is
so much sparkle, and so little art in her soul?"
"She writes comprehensibly enough when she writes to
M. de Bassompierre: he who runs may read."  (In fact,
Ginevra's epistles to her wealthy kinsman were commonly
business documents, unequivocal applications for cash.)
" And her handwriting?  It must be pretty, light, lady*
like, I should think? 
It was, and I said so.
"I verily believe that all she does is well done," said Dr.
St. John; and as 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 honor me
too much in ascribing to me a degree of intimacy with Miss
Fanshawe I have not the felicity to enjoy. I have never been
the depositary of her plans and secrets. You will find her
particular friends in another sphere than mine; amongst the
Cholmondeleys, for instance."
12




190                   VILLE   TT.
lie actually thougl-t I was stung with a kind of jealous
pain similar to his own!' Excuse her;" he said, judge her
indulgently; the glitter of fashion misleads 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, selfish
people: depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a
score of such."
"You are verykind." I said briefly. A disclaimer of the
sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but I extinguished the flame.  I submitted to be looked upon as the
humiliated, cast-off, and now pining confidante of tho distinguished Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard subYnmission.
"Yet, you see," continued Graham, while I comfort you,
I cannot take the same consolation to myself; I cannot hope
she will do me 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.  I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made
it brittle.
"Dr. Bretton," I broke out, "there is no delusion like youi
own.  On all points but one you are a man, frank, healthful,
right-thinking, clear-sighted; on this exceptional point you
are but a slave.  I declare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor have you mine."
I got up, ani left the room very much excited.
This little scene took place in the morning; I had to
meet him again in the evening, and then I saw I had done
mischief. He was not made of common clay, not put together
out of vulgar materials; while the outlines of his nature had
been shaped with breadth, and vigor, the details embraced
workmanship of almost feminine delicacy: finer, much finer,
than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could
believe inherent in him, even after years of acquaintance.
indeed, till some over-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, their acute sensibility, this elaborate
construction must be ignored; and the more especially because
the sympathetic faculty was not prominent in him: to feel,
and to seize quickly another's feelings, are separate properties;
a Ibw constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. John had




WE QUARREL                        191
the one gift in exquisite perfection; and because I have admit
ted that he was not endowed with the other in equal degree,
the reader will considerately refrain from passing to an extrenm
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 grief into words, he
turned no deaf ear.  Expect refinements of perception, mira.
cles of intuition, and realize disappointment.   This night
when Dr. John entered the room, and met the evening lamp
I saw well and at one glance his whole mechanism.
To:one who had named him  "slave," and, on any point,
banned him from  respect, he must now have peculiar feelings. That the epithet was well applied, and the ban just,
might be: he put forth no denial that it was so: his mind
even candidly revolved  that unmanning possibility.  He
sought in this accusation the cause of that ill-success which
had got so galling a hold on his mental peace.  Amid the
worry of a self-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanor seemed
grave, perhaps cold, both to me and his mother.  And yet
there was no bad feeling, no malice, no rancor, no littleness
in his countenance, beautiful with a man's best beauty, even
in its depression.  When I placed his chair at the table,
which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when 1
handed him  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 ear welcomed.
For my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I
must expiate my culpable vehemence, or I must not sleep that
night.  This would not do at all; I could not stand it: I
made no pretence of capacity to wage war on this footing.
School solitude, conventual silence and stagnation, anything
seemed preferable to living embroiled with Dr. John.  As to
Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any
other fowl that flies, and mount straight up to the highest
place, amongst the highest stars, where her lover's highest
flight of fancy chose to fix the constellation of her charms;
never more be it mine to dispute the arrangement.  Long I
tried to catch his eye.  Again and again that eye just met
inie; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I was
baffled.  After tea, he sat, sad and q:iet, reading a book   I




192                   VILLE I   TE.
wished I could have dared to go and s:t near him, but ii
seemed that if I ventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostility and indignation. I longed to speak out,
and I dared not whisper. His mother left the room; then,
moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the words
"Dr. Bretton."
lie looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent, his mouth was not cynical; he was ready and willing to hear what I might have to say: his spirit was of vin
tage too mellow and generous to sour in 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 you don't respect me, I am sure it is because
I am not respectable. I fear, I am an awkward fool: I must
manage badly in some way, for where I wish to please, it
seems I don't please."
" Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case,
is it the fault of your character, or of another's perceptions?
But now, let me unsay what I said in anger.  In one thing,
and in all things, I deeply respect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much of others, what is that
but an excellence?"
Can I think too much of Ginevra?"
" I believe you may; youz believe you can't. Let us agree
to 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' Say that, to ease me of the heart-ache."
" Put away your heart-ache, so I will put away mine: for
you wounded me a little, Lucy.  Now, when the pain is gone,
I more than forgive: I feel grateful, as to a sincere wellwisher."
"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 give the feeling as at the time I felt it;
I describe the view of character as it appeared when diecovered.
He showed the fineness of his nature by being kindor to rn




WE QUARREL.                       193
after that misunderstanding than before.  Nay, the very iaci
dent which, by my theory, 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, but very chill: a sort
of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our two lives, glazed
the medium through which we exchanged intercourse. Those
fiw warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on
that frail frost-work of reserve; about this time, it gave note
of dissolution. I think from that day, so long as we continued
friends, he never in discourse stood on topics of ceremony with.ne.  He seemed to know that if he would but talk about
himself, and about that in which he was most interested, my
expectation would always be answered, my wish always satisfied. It follows, as a matter of course, that I continued to
hear much of " Ginevra."
"Ginevra!"  He thought her so fair, so good; he spoke so
lovingly of her charms, her sweetness, her innocence, that, in
spite of my plain prose knowledge of the reality, a kind of reflected glow began to settle on her idea, even for me. Still,
reader, I am free to confess, that he often talked nonsense; but I
strove to be unfailingly patient with him. I had had my lesson;
I had learned how severe for me was the pain of crossing, oi
grieving, or disappointing him. In a strange and new sense,
I grew most selfish, and quite powerless to deny myself the delight of indulging his mood, and being pliant to his will. He
still seemed t. me most absurd when he obstinately doubted,
and desponded about his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe's preference.  The fancy became rooted in my own
mind more stubbornly than ever, that she was only coquetting
to goad him, and that, at heart, she coveted every one of his
words and looks.  Sometimes he harassed me, in spite of my
resolution to bear and hear; in the midst of the indescribable
gall-honey pleasure of thus bearing and hearing, he struck so
on the flint of what firmness I owned, that it emitted fire
once and again.  I chanced to assert one day, with a view to
stilling his impatience, that in my own mind, I felt positive
Miss Fanshawe mnust intend eventually to accept him.
" Positive! It was easy to say so, but had I any grounds
for such assurance?"
"Th~ best grounds."




194                     V ILLETT E' Now, Lucy, do tell me what!"
"You know them  as well as I; and, kn wing them, At
John, it really amazes me. that you should not repose the
frankest confidence in her fidelity.  To doubt, under the circumstance, is almost to insult."
" Now you are beginning to speak fast and to breathe short;
but speak a little faster and breathe a little shorter, till you
have given anl explanation-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 Pere Silas ever convert you, you will
give him abundance of alms for his poor, you will supply his
altar with tapers, and the shrine of your favorite 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
her hands filled fiom  your hands more times than I can
count.  You have sought for her the costliest flowers; you
have busied your brain in devising gifts, the most delicate:
such, one would have thought, as only a woman could have
imagined; and in addition, Miss Fanshawe owns a set of ornaments, to purchase which your generosity must have verged
on extravagance."
The modesty Ginevra herself had never evinced in this
matter, now flashed all over the face of her admirer.
" Nonsense!" he said, destructively snipping a skein of silk
with my scissors.  "I ofiered them  to please myself: I felt
she did me a favor in accepting them."
"She did more than a favor, Dr. John: she pledgedt her
very honor that she would make you some return; and if she
cannot pay you in affection, she ought to hand out a businesslike equivalent, in the shape of some rouleaux of gold pieces."
" But you don't understand her; she is far too disinterested
to care for my gifts, and too simple-minded to know  theil
value."
I laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every jewel its
price; and well I knew money-embarrassment, money-schemes,
money's worth, and endeavors to realize supplies, had, young
as she was, furnished the most fiequent, and thr  favorite
stimulus of her thtug'hli S lor years.




WE QUARREL                       195
He pursued   " You snould have seen her whenever 1 have
laid on her lap some trifle; so cool, so unmoved: no eager
ness to take, not even pleasure in contemplating.  Just frorn
amiable reluctance to grieve me, she would permit the bouquet
to lie beside her, and perhaps consent to bear it away.  Or,
if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet on her ivory arm,
however pretty the trinket might be (and I always carefully
\'fbse what seemed to me pretty, and what of course was not
valueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright  yes: she would
hardly cast one look on my gift."
" Then, of course, not valuing it, she would unloose, and
return it to you?"
" No; for such a repulse she was too good-natured.  She
would consent to seem to forget what I had done, and retain
the offering with lady-like quiet and easy oblivion.: Under
such circumstances, how can a man build on acceptance of
his presents as a favorable symptom? For my part, were I
to offer her all I have, and she to take it, such is her incapacity to be swayed by sordid considerations, I should not venture to believe the transaction advanced me one step."
"Dr. John," I began, "Love is blind;" but just then a
blue, subtle ray sped sideways from  Dr John's eye: it reminded me of old days, it reminded me of his picture: it half
led me to think that part, at least, of his professed persuasion
of Miss Fanshawe's nzatvete was assumed; it led me dubiously
to conjecture that perhaps, in spite of his passion for her beau.
ty, his appreciation of her foibles night possibly be less mistaken, more clear-sighted, than from his general language was
presumable.  After all it might be only a chance look, or at
best, the token of a merely momentary impression.  Chance
or intentional, real or imaginary, it c'osed the conversation




1963                  VILLETTE.'HAPTER XIX
THE CLEOPATRA.
MY stay at La Terrasse was prolonged a fortnight beyond
the close of the vacation.  Mrs. Bretton's kind management
procured me this respite. Her son having one day delivered
the dictum that " Lucy was not yet strong enough to go back
to that den of a Pensionnat," she at once drove over to the
Rue Fossette, had an interview with the directress, and procured the indulgence, on the plea of prolonged rest and change
being necessary to perfect recovery.  Hereupon, however,
followed an attention I could very well have dispensed with,
viz.-a polite call from Madame Beck.
That lady-one fine day-actually came out in a fiacre as
far as the ch-ateau. I suppose she had resolved within herself to see the manner of place Dr. John inhabited. Apparently, the pleasant site and neat interior surpassed her expectations; she eulogized all she saw, pronounced the blue saloon
"une piece magnifique," profusely congratulated me on the
acquisition of friends, "tellement dignes, amiables, et respectables," turned also a neat compliment in my favor, and, upon
Dr John coming in, ran up to him with the utmost buoyancy,
opening at the same time such a fire of rapid language, all
sparkling with felicitations and protestations about his " chateau,"- "madame sa mere, la digne chatelaine:" also his
looks; which indeed were very flourishing, and at the moment additionally embellished by the good-natured but amused
smile with which he always listened to madame's fluent
and florid French.  In short, Madame shone in her very best
phase that day, and came in and went out quite a living
zatherine-wheel of compliments, delight, and affability.  Half
purposely, and half to ask some question about school-business,
I followed her to the carriage, and looked in after she was
seated and the door closed.  In that brief fraction of time
what a change had been wrought! An instant ago, all sparkles and jests, she now sat sterner than a judge and gravel
than a sage. Strange little woman 




THE CLEOPATRA.                       197
I went back and teased Dr. John about Madame's devotion
to him,  How he laughed! What fin shone in his eyes aa
he recalled some of her fine speeches, and repeated them, imitating her voluble delivery! He had an acute sense of humor,
and was the finest company in the world-when he could for.
get Miss Fanshawe.
To " sit in sunshine calm  and sweet " is said to be excellent for weak people; it gives them vital force. When little
(Georgette Beck was recovering from her illness, I used to take
her in my arms and walk with her in the garden by the hour
together, beneath a certain wall hung with grapes, which the
Southern sun was ripening: that sun cherished her little pale
frame quite as effectually as it mellowed and swelled the clustering fruit.
There are human tempers, bland, glowing, and genial,
within whose influence it is as good for the poor in spirit to
live, as it is for the feeble in frame to bask in the glow of
noon.  Of the number of these choice natures were certainly
both Dr. Bretton's and his mother's. They liked to communicate happiness, as some like to occasion misery: they did it
instinctively; without fuss, and apparently, with little consciousness: the means to give pleasure rose spontaneously in
their minds.  Every day while I stayed with them, some
little plan was proposed which resulted in beneficial enjoyment.  Fully occupied as was Dr. John's time, he still made
it in his way to accompany us in each brief excursion. I can
hardly tell how he managed his engagements; they were
numerous, yet by dint of system, he classed them in an order
which left him  a daily period of liberty.  I often saw him
hard-worked, yet seldom  over-driven; and never irritated,
confused, or oppressed. WThat he did was accomplished with
the ease and grace of all-sufficing strength; with the bountiful cheerfulness of high and unbroken energies.  Under his
guidance I saw, in that one happy fortnight, more of Villette,
its environs, and its inhabitants, than I had seen in the whole
eight months of my previous residence. He took me to places
of interest in the town, of whose names I had not before so much
as heard; with willingness and spirit he communicated much




198                    VILLETTE
note-wortny information.  He never seemed lo think it a
trouble to talk to me, and, I am sure, it was never a task to
me to listen. It was not his way to treat subjects coldly and
vaguely; he rarely generalized, never prosed. He seemed to
like nice details almost as much as I liked them myself; he
seemed observant of character, and not superficially observant
either: these points gave the quality of interest to his discourse; and the fact of his speaking direct from his own re.
sources, and not borrowing or stealing from books-here a dry
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 fresh day, to rise in new and noble dawn.
His mother possessed a good development of benevolence,
but he owned a better and larger. I found, on accompanying
him to the Basse-Ville-the poor and crowded quarter of the
city-that his errands there were as much those of the philanthropist as the physician.  I understood presently thatcheerfully, habitually, and in single-minded unconsciousness
of any special merit distinguishing his deeds-he was achieving, amongst a very wretched population, a world of active
good.  The lower orders liked him well; his poor patients in
the hospitals welcomed him with a sort of enthusiasm.
But stop-I must not, from the faithful narrator degenerate
into the partial eulogist.  Well, full well, do I know that
Dr. John was not perfect, any more than I am perfect.  Human fallibility leavened him  throughout, and there was nc
hour, and scarcely a moment of the times I spent with him,
that in act, or speech, or look, he did not betray something
that was not of a god.  A god could not have the cruel vanity
of Dr. John, nor his sometime levity.  No immortal could
have resembled him  in his occasional temporary oblivion of
all but the present-in his passing passion for that present,
drawn not coarsely, by devoting it to material indulgence, but
selfishly by extracting from  it whatever it could yield of nutriment to his masculine self-love: his delight was to feed that
ravenous sentiment, without thought of the price of provender, or care for the cost of keeping it sleek and high-pampered.
The reader is requested to note a seeming contradiction in
the two v:sws which have been given of Graham Brettonthe public and private-the out-door and the in-door view




THE CLEOPATRA..                      199
[n the first, the public, he is shown oblivious of self; as mooest in the display of his energies, as earnest in their exercise.
in the second, the fireside picture, there is expressed con
uciousness of what he has and what he is; pleasure in homage,,nome recklessness in exciting, some vanity in receiving the
<ame. Both portraits are correct.
It was hardly possible to oblige Dr. John quietly and in
secret. WVhen you thought that the fabrication of some trifle
dedicated to his use had been achieved unnoticed, and that
iike other men, he would use it when placed ready for his
use, and never ask whence it came, he amazed you by a smilingly-uttered observation or two proving that his eye had
been on the work from commencement to close: that he had
noted the design, traced its progress, and marked its comple
tion. It pleased him to be thus served, and he let his pleasure beam in his eye and play about his mouth.
This would have been all very well if he had not added
to such kindly and unobtrusive evidence a certain wilfulness
in discharging what he called debts. When his mother
worked for him, he paid her by showering about her his
bright animal spirits with even more affluence than his gay,
taunting,;easing, loving wont.  If Lucy Snowe were discovered to have put her hand to such work, he planned, in
recompense, some pleasant recreation.
I often felt amazed at his perfect knowledge of Villette; a
knowledge not merely confined to its open streets, but penetrating to all its galleries, salles, and cabinets: of every door
which shut in an object worth seeing, of every museum, of
every hall, sacred to art or science, he seemed to possess the
" Open I Sesame.'  I never had a head for science, but an
ignorant, blind, fond instinct inclined me to art. I liked to
visit the picture-galleries, and I daily liked to be left there
alone.  In company, a wretched idiosyncracy forbade me to
see much or to feel anything.  In unfamiliar company, where
it was necessary to maintain a flow of talk on the subjects in
presence, half an hour would knock me up with a combined
pressure of physical lassitude and entire mental incapacity.
I never yet saw the well-reared child, much less the educated
adult, who could not put me to shame by the sustained intelli.
gence of its demeanor under the ordeal of a conversible sociable visitation of pictures, historical sites or buildings, or any




203                    VILLETTE
lions of public interest.  Dr. Bretton was a cicerone after my
own heart; he would take me betimes ere the galleries were
filled, leave me there for two or three hours, and call for me
when his own engagements were discharged.  Meantime, I
was happy; happy, not always in admiring, but in examning,
questioning, and forming conclusions.  In the commencement
of these visits, there was some misunderstanding and consequent struggle between Will and Power. The former faculty
exacted approbation of that which it was considered orthodox
to admire; the latter groaned forth its utter inability 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 was chidden,
however, the more it wouldn't praise. Discovering gradually
that a wonderful sense of fatigue resulted from  these conscientious efforts, I began to reflect whether I might not dispense
with that great labor, and concluded eventually that I might,
and so sank supine into a luxury of calm before ninety-nine
out of a hundred of the exhibited frames.
It seemed to me that an original and good picture was just
as scarce as an original and good book; nor did I, in the end,
tremble to say to myself, standing before certain chef d'oewvres
bearing great names, "These are not a whit like nature.
Nature's daylight never had that color; never was made so
turbid, either by storm or cloud, as it is laid out there, under
a sky of indigo; and that indigo is not ether; and those dark
weeds plastered upon it are not trees."  Several very well
executed and complacent-looking fat women struck me as by
no means the goddesses they appeared to consider themselves.
Many scores of marvellously-finished little Flemish pictures,
and also of sketches, excellent for fashion-books, displaying
varied costumes in the handsomest materials, gave evidence
of laudable industry whimsically applied.  And yet there
were fragments of truth here and there which satisfied the
conscience, and gleams of light that cheered the vision.  Nature's power here broke through in a mountain snow-storm;
acld there her glory in a sunny southern day.  An expression
ill this portrait proved clear insight into character; a face in
that historical painting, by its vivid filial likeness, startlingly
reminded you that genius gave it birth. These exceptions I
loved: they grew dear as fiiends.
One day, at a quiet early hour, I found myself nearly alone




THE CLEOPATRA.                       201
in a certain gallery, wherein one particular picture cf preo
tentious size, set up in the best light, having a cordon of pro.
tection stretched before it, and a cushioned bench duly set in
front for the accommodation of worshipping connoisseurs who,
having gazed themselves off their feet, might be fain to complete the business sitting; this picture, I say, seemed to causider itself the queen of the collection.
It represented a woman, considerably larger, I thought,
than the life.  I calculated that this lady, put into a scale of
magnitude suitable for the reception of a commodity of bulk,
would infallibly turn from fourteen to sixteen stones.  She
was, indeed, extremely well fed. Very much butcher's meat,
to say nothing of bread, vegetables, and liquids, must she have
consumed to attain that breadth and height, that wealth of
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
dlo the work of two plain cooks; she could not plead a weak
spine; she ought to have been standing, or at least sitting bolt
upright.  She had no business to lounge away the noon on a
sota.  She ought likewise to have worn decent garments; a
gown covering her properly, which was not the case: out of
abundance of material, seven-and-twenty yards, I should say,
of drapery, she managed to make inefficient raiment.  Then,
for the wretched untidiness surrounding her, there could be no
excuse. Pots and pans, perhaps I ought to say vases and goblets, were rolled here and there on the foreground; a perfect
rubbish of flowers was mixed amongst them, and an absurd
and disorderly mass of certain Upholstery smothered the couch,
and cumbered the floor. On referring to the catalogue, I found
that this notable production bore name "Cleopatra."
Well, I was sitting wondering at it (as the bench was there,
I thought I might as well take advantage of its accommodation,) and thinking that while some of the details as roses,
gold cups, jewels, &c., were very prettily painted, it was on
the whole an enormous piece of clap-trap; the room, almost
vacant when I entered, began to fill.  Scarcely noticing this
circumstance, as, indeed, it did not matter to me, I retained
rmy seat, rather to rest myself than with a view of studying
this huge, dark-complexioned gipsy queen, of whom, indeed, I
soon tired and betook myself for -reficshment to the contempla




202                     VILLETTE
tion of some exquisite little picture of still life: wlld-flower
wild-fruit, mossy wood-nests, casketing eggs that looked like
pearls seen through clear green sea-water, all hung modestly
beneath that coarse and preposterous canvas.
Suddenly a light tap visited my shoulder.  Starting, turn-;ng, I met a face bent to encounter mine; a frowning, almost
a shocked face it was.
" Que faites-vous ici?" said a voice.
"Mais, monsieur je n'amuse."
"Vous vous amusez-et     quoi, s'il vous plait?  Maid
d'abord, faites-moi le plaisir de vous lever; prenez mon bras,
et allons de l'autre cbte."
I did precisely as I was bid.  M. Paul Emanuel (it was
he) returned from  Rome, and now a travelled man, was not
likely to be less tolerant of insubordination now, than before
this added distinction laurelled his temples.
"Permit me to conduct you to your party," said he, as we
crossed the room.
"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
would have bristled on his head.  Beginning now to per-.eive his drift, I had a certain pleasure in Keeping cool, and
working him up.
"Astounding insular audacity!" cried the Profetsor. "Singulieres femmes que ces Anglaises!"
" What is the matter, monsieur?"
" Matter! How dare you, a young p2rson, sit coolly down,
with the self-possession of a garcon, and look at that pioture?"
"It is a very ugly picture, but I cannot at all see why I
should not look at it.
" Bon! bon    Speak no more of it.  But you oighnt not to
-o here alone."
" If, however, I have no society-ro pary., as yov say 




THE CLEOPATRA.                       203
And then, what does it signify whether I am alone, or accompanied? nobody meddles with me."
"Taisezvous, et asseyez-vous la-la!"  Setting down a
chair with emphasis in a particular dull corner, before a series
of most specially dreary " cadres."
"Mais, monsieur."
"Mais, mademoiselle, asseyez-vous, et ne bougez pas, enten.
dez-vous? jusqu'" ce qu'on vienne vous chercher, ou que jo
aous donne la permission."
" Quel triste coin  " cried I, " et quels laids tableaux I 
And, " laids," indeed, they were, being a set of four, denominated in the catalogue " La vie d'une femme."  They
were painted rather in a remarkable style, flat, dead, pale
and formal.  The first represented a " 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-the image
of a most villanous little precocious she-hypocrite.  The second, a " Mariee " with a long white veil, kneeling at a priedieu in her chamber, holding her hands plastered together,
finger to finger, and showing the whites of her eyes in a most
exasperating manner.  The third, a " Jeune Mere," hanging
lisconsolate over a clayey and puffy baby 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 the
twain studiously surveying an elegant French monument, set
up in a corner of some Pere la Chaise.  All these four
" Anges " were grim and gray as burglars, and cold and vapid as
ghosts.  What women to live with! insincere, ill-humored,
bloodless, brainless nonentities  As bad in their way as the
indolent gipsy-giantess, the Cleopatra, in hers.
It was impossible to keep one's attention long confined to
these masterpieces, and so, by degrees, I veered round, and
surveyed the gallery.
A perfect crowd of spectators was by this time gathered
wound the Lionness, from whose vicinage I had been banishId; nearly half this crowd were ladies, but M. Paul after-.vards told me, these were " des dames," and it was quite pro
Jer ibr them to contemplate what no " demoiselle " ought to;anee LAt.  I assured him  plainly I could not agree in this
ioctrine, and did not see the sense of it: whereupop witn his
Jsual abb&lut'sm, he merely requested my silence, ana also




201                    VILLLTTE.
in the same breath, denounced my mingled rashness and ignrance.  A more despotic little man than M. Paul never filled
a professor's chair. I noticed, by the way, that he looked at
the picture himself quite 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, to make sure that I wag
obeying orders, and not breaking bounds.  By and by, 1t
again accosted me.
"Had I not been ill? " he wished to know, "he undexstood I had."
" Yes, but I was now quite well."
" WThere had I spent the vacation?"
"Chiefly in the Rue Fossette; partly with Madame Bret.
ton."
" He had heard that I was left alone in the Rue Fossette;
was that so?"
"Not quite alone: Marie Broc " (the cretin) "was with
me.
He shrugged his shoulders; varied and contradictory expressions played rapidly over his countenance.  Marie Broc
was well known to M. Paul; he never gave a lesson in the
third division (containing the least advanced pupils), that she
did not occasion in him a sharp conflict between antagonistic
impressions.  Her personal appearance, her repulsive manners, her often unmanageable disposition, irritated his temper,
and inspired him with strong antipathy; a feeling he was
too apt to conceive when his taste was offended or his will
thwarted.  On the other hand, her misfortunes constituted a
strong claim on his forbearance and compassion —such a claim
as it was not in his nature to deny; hence resulted almost
daily drawn battles between impatience and 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 former
feelings prevailed; when they did, however, M. Paul showed
a phase of character which had its terrors.  His passions
were strong, his aversions and attachments alike vivid; the
force he exerted in holding both in check, by no means mitigated an observer's sense of their vehemence.. With such
tendencies, it may well be supposed he often excited in ordi.
rary minds fear and dislike; yet it was an error to fear hin,
-— nothing drove him s nearly frantic as the tremor of an ap




THE  CLEOPATRA                       205
prehensive and distrustful spirit; nothing soothed nlm  like
confidence tempered with gentleness.  To evince these sentiments, however, required a thorough comprehension of his
nature, and his nature 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 Sister of Mercy."
[He was a religious little man, in his way:-the selfdenying and self-sacrificing part of the Catholic religion commanded the homage of his soul.]
"I don't know, indeed; I took as good care of her as I
could; but when her aunt came to fetch her away, it was a
great relief."
" Ah! you are an egotist.  There are women who have
nursed hospitals-full of similar unfortunates.  You could not
do that?"
" Could Monsieur do it himself?"
" Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to
surpass our coarse, fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to
perform such duties."
" I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse
her; but she 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 fell sick."
" 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 heroic mould; your courage will not avail to sustain
you in solitud: it merely gives you the temerity to gaze withi
sang-fioid at pictures of Cleopatra."
It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone of the little man.  I had never been angry with him
yet, however, and had no present disposition to begin.
"Cleopatra!" I repeated, quietly.  " Monsieur, too, has
been looking at Cleopatra: what does he think of her?"
K




206                   V ILLETT E.
"Cela ne vaut rien," he responded.  "IUne femme su.
perbe-une taille d'imperatrice, des formes de Junon, ma;i
une personne dent je ne voudrais ni pour femme, ni pour fille,
ni pour somur. Aussi vous ne jeterez plus un seul coup d'ceil de
sa c6te."
" But I have looked at her a great many times while Mon
sieur has been talking; 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
like them, allow me to vacate my seat and leave you to their
contemplation."
"Mademoiselle," he said, grimacing a half-smile, or what
he intended for a smile, though it was but a grim and hurried
manifestation.  "You nurslings of Protestantism  astonish
me.  You unguarded Englishwoman walk calmly amidst redhot ploughshares and escape burning.  I believe, if some of
you were thrown into Nebuchadnezzar's hottest furnace you
would issue forth untraversed by the smell of fire."
" Will Monsieur have the goodness to move an inch to onyL
side?"
"How! At what are you gazing now?  You are not recognizing an acquaintance amongst that group ofjeunes 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 any other than the redoubted Colonel de Hamnd
What a very finished, highly-polished little pate it waWhat a figure, so trim and natty! What womanish feet anu
hands! How daintily he held a glass to one of his optics!
with what admiration he gazed upon the Cleopatra! and
then, how engagingly he tittered and whispered a friend at
his elbow! Oh, the man of sense! Oh, the refined gentleman of superior taste and tact! I observed him for about
ten minutes, and perceived that he was exceedingly taken
with this dusk and portly Venus of the Nile. So much was
I interested in his bearing, so absorbed in divining his charac.
ter by his looks and movements, I temporarily forget M. Paul;.n the interim a party came between that gentleman and me,
ar possibly his scruples might have received another and
worse shock from my present abstraction, causing him  to




THE CLEOPATRA.                      207
withdraw  voluntarily; at arny rate, when I again looked
round, he was gone.
My eye, pursuant of the search, met not him, but another
and dissimilar figure, well seen amidst the crowd, for the
height as well as the port lent each its distinction. This way
came Dr. John, in visage, in shape, in hue, as unlike the
dark, acerb, and caustic little professor, as the fruit of the
llesperides might be unlike the sloe in the wild thicket; as
the high-couraged but tractable Arabian is unlike the rude
and stubborn " sheltie." He was looking for me, but had not
yet explored the corner where the schoolmaster had just put
me.  I remained quiet; yet another minute I wouid watch.
He approached de Hamal; he paused near him; I thought
he had a pleasure in looking over his head; Dr. Bretton, too,
gazed on the Cleopatra.  I doubt if it were to his taste: he
did not simper like the little count; his mouth looked fastidious, his eye cool; without demonstration he stepped aside,
leaving room for others to approach. I saw now that he was
waiting, and, rising, I joined him.
We took one turn round the gallery; with Graham it was
very pleasant to take such a turn. I always liked dearly to
hear what he had to say about either pictures or books; because, without pretending to be a connoisseur, he always
spoke his thought, and that was sure to be fresh; very often
it was also just and pithy. It was pleasant also to tell him
some things he did not know-he listened so kindly, so teachably, unformalized by scruples lest so to bend his bright handsome head to gather a woman's rather obscure and stammering explanation, should emperil the dignity of his manhood.
And when he communicated information in return, it was with
a lucid intelligence that left all his words clear graven on the
memory: no explanation of his 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 Emanual had sent me to the right-about, and taking him to
see the sweet series of pictures recommended to my attention).
" Pooh I" said he, " My mother is a better-looking woman.
I heard some French fops, yonder, designating her as'le type
du voluptueux;' if so, I can only say,'le voluptueux' is littli
to nmy liking.  Compare that mulatto with Ginevra!"




208                   VILLETTE
CHAPTER XX
THE CONCERT.
ONE morning, Mrs Bretton came promptly into my room
desired me to open my drawers and show her my dresses
which I did, without a word.
" That will do," said she, when she had turned them over' You must have a new one."
She went out. She returned presently with a dress-maker
She had me measured.  " I mean," said she, "to follow my
own taste, and to have my own way in this little matter."
Two days after came home-a pink dress!
"That's not for me," I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would
almost as 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 it this very evening."
I thought I should not; I thought no human force should
avail to put me into it.  A pink dress! I knew it not. It
knew not me. I had not proved it.
My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her
and Graham  to a concert that same night: which concert,
she explained, was a grand affair to be held in the large salle
or hall of the principal musical society. The most advanced
of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to perform: it was to
be followed by a lottery "au benefice des pauvres;" and to
crown all-the King and Queen and Prince of Labassecour
were to be present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined
attention to costume as a compliment due to royalty. He
also recommended punctual readiness by seven o'clock.
About six, I was ushered up-stairs.  Without any force at
all, I found myself led and influenced by another's will, unconsulted, unpersuaded, quietly over-ruled. In short the pink
dress went on, softened by some drapery of black lace. I was
pronounced to be en g-rande tenue, and requested to look in
the glass.  I did so with some fear and trembling: with




THE CONCERT.                       209
mlre fear and trembling, I turned away.  Seven o'clock
struck; Dr. Bretton was come; my godmother and I went
down.  She was clad in brown velvet; as I walked in her
shadow, how I envied her those folds of grave, dark majesty t
Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.
" I do hope he will not think I have been decking myself
out to draw attention," was my uneasy aspiration.
"Here, Lucy, are some flowers," said he, giving me a bouquet.  He took no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and satisfied nod, which calmed at once
my sense of shame and fear of ridicule.  For the rest, the
dress was made with extreme simplicity, guiltless of flounce or
furbelow; it was but the light fabric and bright tint which
scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing absurd, my
own eye consented soon to become reconciled.
I suppose people who go every night to places of public
amusement, can hardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with
which an opera or a concert is enjoyed by those for whom it
is a rarity. I am not sure that I expected great pleasure from
the concert, having but a very vague notion of its nature, but
I liked the drive there well. The snug comfort of the close
carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure of setting
out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of the
stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the
avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued
fbrth to the open chaussee, the passage through the city gates,
the lights there burning, the guards there posted, the pretence
of inspection to which we were submitted, and which amused
us so much-all these small matters had for me, in their
novelty, a peculiar exhilirating charm: how much of it lay
in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I know
not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood,
contending animatedly with each other the whole way, 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,
streets brightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon.
How brilliant seemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant, flowed the tide of life along the broad pavement!
While I looked, the thought of the Rue Fossette came across
me-of the walled-in garden and school-house, and of the
dark, vast " classes," where, at this very hour, it was my wont




210                    VILLETE   E.
to wander all sohtary, gaz:ng at the stars through the high,
blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the
reader in the refectory, monotonously exercised upon the " lecture pieuse."  Thus must I soon again listen and wander;
and this shadow of the future stole with timely sobriety across
the radiant present.
By this time we had got into a current of carriages all tend.
ing in one direction, and soon the fiont of a great illuminated
building blazed before us. Of what I should see within this
building, I had, as before intimated, but an imperfect idea,
for no place of public entertainment had it ever been my lot
to enter yet.
We alighted under a portico where there was a great bus
tie and a great crowd, but I do not distinctly remember farther details, until I found myself mounting a majestic staircase
wide and easy of ascent, deeply and softly carpeted with crimson, leading up to the great doors closed solemnly, 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 was disclosed a hall-grand, wide,
and high, whose sweeping circular walls, and domed hollow
ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus with nice art was
it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting and garlandry either
bright, like gold burnished, or snow-white like alabaster, or
white and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves and spotless lilies: wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were
spread, or cushions placed, the sole color employed was deep
crimson. Pendant from the dome, flamed a mass that dazzled me-a mass, I thought, of rock-crystal, sparkling with
facets, streaming with drops, ablaze with stars, and gorgeously
mtiged with dews of gems dissolved, or fragments of rainbows
shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for me it
seemed the work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a
huge, dark, cloudy hand-that of the Slave of the Lampwere not hovering in the lustrous and perfumed atmosphere
of the cupola, guarding its wondrous treasure.
We moved in-I was not at all conscious whither-but at
soine turn we suddenly encountered another party approaching
from the opposite direction. I just now see that group, as it
flashed upon me for one moment.  A handsome middle-aged,




TIIE CONCERT.                       211
ady in dark velvet; a gentleman who might be her son —'he best face, the finest figure, I thought, I had ever seen; a
third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle.
I noted them all-the third person as well as the cther twc.-and for the fraction of a moment, believed them  all ctran
gers, thus receiving an impartial impression of their ajpear.
ance. But the impression was hardly felt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I had faced a great mirror, filling
a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it: the party
was our own party.  Thus for the first, and perhaps only time
in my life, I enjoyed the " gift" of seeing myself as others see
me.  No need to dwell on the result.  It brought a jar of
discord, a pang of regret; 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 gen
eral view of that vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful
hall.  Already it was filled, and filled with a splendid assemblage.  I do not know that the women were very beautiful,
but their dresses were so perfect; and foreigners, even such
as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to possess the art
of appearing graceful in public: however blunt and boisterous
those every-day, and home movements connected with peignoir and papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the
head and arms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in
reserve for gala use-always brought out with the grande
toilette, and duly put on with the " parure."
Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar style of beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England;
a solid, firm-set, sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is almost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain still and stately sort.
They have such features as the Dutch painters give to their
madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but round,
straight but stolid, and for their depth of expressionless calm,
of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a
type.  Women of this order need no ornament, and they seldorn wear any; the smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a
sufficient contrast to the smoother cheek and brow; the dress
cannot be too simple; the rounded arm  and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain.
Vrith one of those beauties I once had the honor and rap



212                   VILLET T..
ture to be perfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deeip
settled love she bore herself, was wonderful; it could only be
surpassed by her proud impotency to care for any other living
thing.  Of blood, her cool veins conducted no flow; placid
lymph filled and almost obstructed her arteries.
Such a Juno as I have described, sat full in our view —
sort of mark for all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was,
but proof to the magnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold,
ounded, blonde, and beauteous as the white column, capitailed with gilding, which rose at her side.
Observing that Dr. John's attention was much drawn to.
wards her, I entreated him in a low voice "for the love of
heaven to shield well his heart. You need not fall in love with
that lady," I said, "because I tell you before-hand, you might
die at her feet, and she would not love you again."
" Very well," said he, " and how do you know that the spectacle of her grand insensibility might not with me be the
strongest stimulus to homage?  The sting of desperation is,
I think, a wonderful irritant to my emotions; but (shrugging
his shoulders) you know nothing about these things; I'll ad.
dress myself to my mother. Mamma, I'm in a dangerous way."
"As if that interested me! " said Mrs. Bretton.
"Alas! the cruelty of my lot! " responded her son. " Never
man had a more unsentimental mother than mine; she never
seems to think that such 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 over my 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 were well 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 or Esau, or any other patriarch, and take me a
wife, perhaps of these which 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 jealous old lady it is! But now just look at that
splendid creature in the pale blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with' reflets satines' as those of her robe. WVould
you not leel proud, mamma if I were to bring that goddes.,




THE  CONCERT.                     213
nome some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bietton
junior?
"You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little
chateau will not contain two mistresses, especially if the second be of the height, bulk, and circumference of that mighty
doll in wood, and wax, and kid and satin."
"' Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!"
"Fill my chair?  I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful
hair should it be for her; but hush, John Graham! Hold
your tongue, and use your eyes."
During the above skirmish, the hall which, I had thought,
seemed full at our entrance, continued to admit party after
party, until the semicircle before the stage, presented one
dense mass of heads, sloping from floor to ceiling. The stage,
too, or rather the wide temporary platform, larger than any
stage, desert half an hour since, was now overflowing with
life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre, a
white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire,
had noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while
Graham and his mother were engaged in discussing the belle
in blue satin, and had watched with interest the process of
arraying and marshalling them. Two gentlemen, in each of
whom  I recognized an acquaintance, officered this virgin
troop.  One, an artistic looking man, bearded, and with long
hair, was a noted pianist, and also the first music teacher in
Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck's pensionnat, to give lessons to the few pupils whose parents were
rich enough to allow their daughters the privilege of his instructions: his name wvas M. Joseph Emanuel, and he was
half-brotner to MI. Lau.. which potent personage was now visib.e In -te person of the second gentleman.
M. Paul amused me; X smiled to myself as I watched him,
he seemed so thoroughly in his element-standing conspicuous
in presence of a wide and grand assemblage, arranging, restialning, over-aweing about one hundred young ladies.  He
was, too, so perfectly in earnest-so energetic, so intent, and
above all, so absolute; and yet what business had he there 
What had he to do with music or the Conservatoire-he who
could hardly distinguish one note from  another?  I knew
that it was his love of display and authority which had brought
him there-a love not offensive only because so nai've.  it
K2




214                    VILLETT'fT
presently became obvious that his brother MI. Joseph was as
much under his control as were the girls themselves. Nevei
was such a little hawk of a man as that M. Paul! Ere long
some noted singers and musicians dawned upon the platform'
as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set.  Insufferablk
1o him were all notorieties and celebrities: where he could
not outshine, he fled.
And now all was prepared; but one compartment of the
hall waited to be filled-a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase and doors, furnished with stuffed
and cushioned benches, ranged on each side of two red rega,
chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy.
A signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly
stood up, the orchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a
choral burst, enter the King, the Queen, the Court of La
bassecour.
Till then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it
may consequently be conjectured how I strained my powers
of vision to take in these specimens. of European royalty.
By whomsoever majesty is beheld for the first time, there
will always be experienced a vague surprise bordering on dis.
appointment, that the same does not appear seated, en permanence, on a throne, bonneted with a crown, and furnished,
as to the hand, with a sceptre.  Looking out for a king and
queen, and seeing only a middle-aged soldier and rather a
young lady, I felt half cheated, half pleased.
Well do I recall that King-a man of fifty, a little bowed,
a little gray; there was no face in all that assembly which
resembled his.  I had never read, never been told anything
of his nature or his habits: and at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his brow, round his eyes
beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct. Ere long
however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of
those characters written without hard. There sat a silent
sufferer —a nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked
on the visits of a certain ghost-had long waited the comings
and goings of that strangest spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps
he saw her now on that stage, over against him, amidst ali
that brilliant throng.  Hypochondria has that wont, to liso
in the midst of thousands-dark as Doom, pale as Malady,
and well-nigh strong as Death.  Her comrade and victim




THE  CONCERT.                        215
t.hiks to be happy one moment-" Not so," says she, "I
come."  And she freezes the blood in his heart, and beclouds
the light in his eye.
Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the
King's brows which bent them to that peculiar and painful
fold; some might quote the effects of early bereavement
Something there might be of both these, but these as embittered by that darkest foe of. humanity-constitutional inelanholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it seemed to me, the
reflection of her husband's grief lay, a subduing shadow, on
her own benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman
chat princess seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the woman
of solid charms and marble feelings described a page or two
since.  Hers was a somewhat slender shape; her features,
though distinguished enough, were too suggestive of reigning
dynasties and royal lines to give unqualified pleasure.  The
expression clothing that profile was agreeable in the present
instance; but you could not avoid connecting it with remembered effigies, where similar lines appeared, under phase ignoble, feeble, or sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The
Queen's eye, however. was her own, and pity, goodness, sweet
sympathy, blessed it with divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a lady-kind, loving, elegant.  Her little son, the
Prince of Labassecour, and young Duc de Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother's knee, and, ever'and
anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her observant of
the monarch at her side, conscious of his beclouded abstraction, and desirous to rouse him from  it by drawing his attention to their son.  She often bent her lead to listen to the
boy's remarks, and would then smilingly repeat them  to his
sire.  The moody King started, listened, smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good angel ceased speaking.  Full
mournful and significant was that spectacle! Not the less so
because, both for the aristocracy and the honest bourgeoisie of
Labassecour, its peculiarity seemed to be wholly invisible.  I
could not discover that one soul present was either struck or
touched.
With the King and Queen had entered their court, corn
plising two or three foreign ambassadors, and with them
came the elite of the foreigners then resident in Villette
These took possession of the crimson benelies; the ladies were




216                   VILLETTE.
geated; most of the men remained standing; their sable rank
lining the back ground, looked like a dark foil to the splendor
displayed in front.  Nor was this splendor without varying
light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was filled
with matrons in velvets 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 Villette aristocracy.  There
were no jewels, no head-dresses, no velvet pile or silken sheen;
purity, simplicity, and aerial grace reigned in that virgin
band.  Young heads simply braided, and fair forms (I waF
going to write sylph forms, but that would have been quite
untrue); several of these "jeunes filles," who had not numbered more than sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours
as robust and solid as those of a stout Englishwoman of fiveand-twenty; fair forms robed in white, or pale rose, or placid
blue, suggested thoughts of heaven and angels.  I knew a
couple, at least, of these "rose et blanches " specimens of humanity.  Itere were a pair of Madame Beck's late pupilsMademoiselles Mathilde and Angelique-pupils, who, during
their last year at school, ought to have been in the first class,
but whose brains had never got them beyond the second division.  In English, they had been under my own charge, and
hard work it was to get them to translate rationally a page
of " The Vicar of Wakefield."  Also during three months I
had one of them for my vis-a-vis at table, and the quantity
of household bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she would habitually consume at "second dejefner" was a real world's wonder-to be exceeded only by the fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat.  Here be truths-wholesome
truths, too.
I knew another of these seraphs-the prettiest, or, at any
t. te, the least demure and hypocritical-looking of the lot:, she
was seated by the 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 at all like the forms of the foreign damsels 
her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a shell or a skull-cap
of satin; it looked like hair, and waved from her head, long,
cueled, and flowing.  She chatted away volubly, and seemed
full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and hey




THE CONCERT.                      217
position, I did not look at Dr. Bretton, but I know that he
too, saw Ginevra Fanshawe; he had become so quiet, he an
swered so briefly his mother's remarks, he so often suppresse(.
a sigh.  Why should he sigh?  He had coniessed a taste foi
the pursuit of love under difficulties; here was full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him from a
sphere above his own; he could not come near her: he was
not certain that he could win from her a look. I watched to
see if she would so far favor him. Our seat was not far from
the crimson benches; we must inevitably be seen thence by
eyes so quick and roving as Miss Fanshawe's, and very soon
those 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 to be immediately recognised: she looked quite
steadily at Dr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine
his mother; a minute or two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbor; upon the performance commencing, her
rambling attention was attracted to the platform.
On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not
care to have my impressions thereanent; and, indeed, it
would not be worth while to record them, as they were the
impressions of an ignorance crasse.  The young ladies of the
Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made rather a
tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Joseph
Emanuel stood by them while they played; but he had not
the tact or influence of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have compelled pupils of his to
demean themselves with heroism  and self-possession.  M
Paul would have placed the hysteric debutantes between
two fires-terror of the audience, and terror of himself-and
would have inspired them with the courage of desperation,
by making the latter terror incomparably the greater: M.
Joseph could not do this.
Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, fullgrown, sulky lady in white satin.  She sang.  Her singing
just affected me like the tricks of a conjuror.  I wondered how
she did it-how she made her voice run up and down, and
cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch melody,
played by a rude street ministrel, has often moved me more
Ieeply.
Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman who bending his




218                    VILLETTkE.
body a good deal in the direction of the King and Queen, aid
frequently approaching his white-gloved hand to the region
of his heart, vented a bitter outcry against a certain " fausss
Isabelle." I thought he seemed especially to solicit the Queen's
sympathy; but, unless I am equally mistaken, her majesty
lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than the
earnestness of interest.  This gentleman's state of mind was
very harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his inuaical exposition of the same.
Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the
evening's entertainment.  There were present deputies from
all the best provincial choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped,
native Labassecouriens.  These worthies gave voice without
mincing the matter; their hearty exertions had at least this
good result-the ear drank thence a satisfying sense of power.
Through the whole perfbrmance-timid instrumental duets,
conceited vocal solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses-my
attention gave but one eye and one ear to the stage, the other
being permanently retained in the service of Dr. Bretton; I
could not forget him, nor cease to question how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was amused or the
contrary. At last he spoke.
" And how do you like it all, Lucy?  You are very quiet, 
he said, in his own cheerful tone.
"' I am  quiet," I said, " because I am so very, very much
interested, not merely with the music, but with everything
about me."
He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so
much equanimity and composure that I began to think he hall
really not seen what I had seen, and I whispered" Miss Fanshawe is here; have you noticed 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 was in her train, and Mrs. Cholmondeley was
in Lady * * *'s train, who was in the Queen's train.  If
this were not one of the compact little minor European courts,
whose very formalities are little more imposing than familiarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homeliness in Sunday
array, it would sound all very fine."
"Ginevra saw you, I tlink- t"




TRUE CONCERT.                      219
"So do 1 think so.  I have Ihad my eye oil her several
times since you withdrew yours; and I have had the honoi
of witnessing a little spectacle which you were spared."
I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which
was presently given.
" Miss Fanshlawe," he said, " has a companion with hera lady of rank-I happen to know Lady Sara by sight; her
noble mother has called me in professionally. She is a proud
girl, but not in the least insolent, and I doubt whether Gine.
vra will have gained ground in her estimation by making a
butt of her neighbors."
-' What neighbors?"
" Merely myself and my mother.  As to me it is all very
natural: nothing, I suppose, can be fairer game than the
young bourgeois doctor; but my mother?  I never saw her
ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip, and sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious sensation?"
"Think nothing of it, Dr. John; it is not worth while. If
Ginevra were in a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night,
she would make no scruple of laughing at that mild, pensive
Queen, or that melancholy King.  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 Fanshawe in the light of a feather-brained school-girl
Was she not my divinity-the angel of my career?"
"Hem! There was your mistake."
" To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or as.
tumed romance, there actually was a moment, six months
ago, when I thought her divine.  Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite open with you
in discussing that subject; the warmth with which you took
it up amused me.  By way of having the full benefit of your
fervor, 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 hours ago, I was very much her slave
As she passed me to-night triumphant in beauty, my emotions
did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, 1 should yet be
the humblest of her servants.  She might have scoffed at ae,




220                   VIIJLETTE.
and, while wounding, she would not soon have alienated me 
through myself, she could not in ten years have done what, in
a moment, she has done through my mother."
lie held his peace awhile.  Never before had I seen so
much fire and so little sunshine in Dr. John's blue eye, as
iust now.
" Lu-.y," he recommenced, " look well at my mother and
say, without fear or favor, in what light she now appears to
you. "
" As she always does,-an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though gravely dressed, habitually independent
Df 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 mymy scorn-my antipathy-my-"
He stopped, and it was time-for he was getting excitedmore it seemed than the occasion warranted. I did not then
know that he had witnessed double cause for dissatisfaction
with Miss Fanshawe; the glow of his complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain gave his
well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase.
Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene,
is not a pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive
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.  "Ginevia is
neither a pure angel nor a pure-minded woman."
"Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm  in
her."
" Too much for me; Ican see where you are blind. Now,
dismiss the subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma;
I will assert that she is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself."
"John, I will certainly rouse you, if you are not better
conducted.  WVill you and Lucy be silent, that I may heax
the singing?"
They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of
which all the previous dialogue had taken place.
" You hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my
studi —which are genuine-against your paste brooch — "




'TRE  CONCERT.                      221
" My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know tha4
it is a stone of value."
"Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated
in the business.";' I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do
you happen to be acquainted with young Ladies of the court,
John?  I have observed two of them pay you no small atten
tion during the last half hour."
"I wish you would not observe them."
"WVhy not?  Because one of them  satirically levels hex
eye-glass at me? She is a pretty, silly girl; but are you apprehensive that her titter will discomfit th, old lady?"
" The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than ten wives yet."
" Don't be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you
will have to carry me out; and if that burden were laid upon
you, you would reverse your last speech, and exclaim,'Mother,
ten wives could hardly be worse to me than you are?'"
The concert over, the Lottery, "au benefice des Pauvres'
came next: the interval between was one of general relaxation, and the pleasantest imaginable stir and commotion. The
white flock was cleared from the platform; a busy throng of
gentlemen crowded it instead, making arrangements for the
drawing; and amongst these-the busiest of all-re-appeared
that certain well-known form, not tall but active, alive with
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 shoulder to the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants
were at his back to remove the pianos, &c.; no matter, he
must add to their strength his own.  The redundancy of his
alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous-in my mind I both
disapproved and derided most of this fuss. Yet, in the midst
of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching,
avoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naivete in all he
did and said; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous charac.
teristics of his physiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by
the contrast with a string of tamer faces; the deep, intent
keenness of his eye, the power of his forehead-pale broad,




222                   VILLETTE.
and full-the nobility of his most flexible mouth.  He lacked
the calm of force, but its movement and its fire he signally
possessed.
Meantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose
and remained standing for a change; some walked about, all
talked and laughed.  The crimson compartment presented a
peculiarly animated scene. The long cloud of gentlemen,
breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbow line of
ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King and
conversed with him.  The Queen, leaving her chair, glided
along the rank of young ladies, who all stood up as she passed;
and to each in turn I saw her vouchsafe some token of kindness-a gracious word, look or smile.  To the two pretty
English girls, Lady Sara and Ginevra Fanshawe, she addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, and especially the latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification.
They were afterwards accosted by several ladies, and a little
circle of gentlemen gathered round them, amongst these-the
nearest to Ginevra-stood the Count De Hamal.
This room is stifiingly hot;" said Dr. Bretton, rising with
sudden impatience.  " 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 take precedence of my own; I accompanied him.
We found the night air keen, or at least, I did; he did not
seem to feel it, but it was very still, and the star-sown sky
spread cloudless.  I was wrapped in a fur shawl.  We took
some turns on the pavement; 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, my persuasion is that it will not be of heart-comyiaint.  I may be stung, I may seem to droop for a time, but
no pain nor malady of sentiment has yet gone through my
whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at home?"
" Generally."
"I am glad she laughed at my mother.  I would not give
tne old lady for a dozen beauties.  That sneer did me all the




TIE CONCERT                        223
good in the world.  Thank you, Miss Fanshawe!"  And he
lifted his hat from his waved lock;s, and made a mock reverence.
" Yes," he said, " I thank her. She has made me feel that
nine parts in ten of my heart have always been sound as a
bell, and the tenth bled from a mere puncture, a lancet-prick
that will heal in a trice.
"You are angry just now, heated and indignant; you will
think and feel differently to-morrow."
" Iheated and indignant! You don't know me.  On the
contrary, the heat is gone; I am cool as the night-which,
by the way, may be too 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 was excited confusion; crowds blocked the sort of corridor along which we had to pass: it was necessary to pause
for a time.  Happening to glance round-indeed I half fancied I heard my na.me pronounced-I saw quite near, the
ubiquitous, the inevitable M. Paul. He was looking at me
gravely and intently-at me, or rather, at my pink dresssardonic comment on which gleamed in his eye.  Now it was
his habit to indulge in strictures on the dress, both of the
teachers and pupils, at Madame Beck's-a habit which the
former, at least, held to be an offensive impertinence; as yet
I had not suffered from it-my sombre daily attire not being
calculated to attract notice.  I was in no mood to permit any
new encroachments to-night; rather than accept his banter,
I would ignore his presence, and accordingly steadily turned
my face to the sleeve of Dr. John's coat, finding in that same
black sleeve a prospect more redolent of pleasure and comfort, more genial, more friendly I thought than was offered
by the dark little Professor's unlovely visage.  Dr. John
seemed unconsciously to sanction the preference by looking
down and saying in his kind voice" Aye, keep close to my side, Lucy; these crowding bu'gh.
ers are no respecters of persons."
I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some
irfluence, mesmeric or otherwise-an influence unwelcome,
displeasing, but effective, I again glanced round to see if M,
Paul was gone. No. there he stood on the same spot, looking




224                    VILLETTE.
still, but with a changed eye; he had penetrated iny thought
and read my wish to shun him.  The mocking but not ill.
humored gaze was turned to a swarthy frown; and when I
bowed with a view to conciliation, I only got the stiffest and
sternest of nods in return.
"Whom  have you made angry, Lucy?" whispered  ri.
Bretton, smiling.  "Who is that savage looking friend cA
yours?"
" One of the professors at Madame Beck's; a very cross
little man."
"lie looks mighty cross just now; what have you done to
him?  What is it all about?  Ah, Lucy, Lucy! tell me the
mcaning of this."
" No mystery, I assure you.  NM. Emanuel is very exigeant,
and because I looked 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 have added, for at that moment I was nearly thrown
down amongst the feet of the crowd.  M. Paul had rudely
pushed past, and was elbowing his way with such utter disregard to the convenience and security of all around him, that
a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence.
" I think he is what he himself would call' mechant,'"
said Dr. Bretton.  I thought so, too.
Slowly and with difficulty we made our way along the
passage, and at last regained our seats.  The drawing of the
lottery lasted nearly an hour; it was an animating and amusing scene; and as we each held tickets, we shared in the
alternations of hope and fear raised by each turn of the wheel
Two little girls, of five and six years old, drew the numbers,
and the prizes were duly proclaimed from the platform. These
prizes were numerous, though of small value.  It so fell out,
that Dr. John and I each gained one: mine was a cigar-case,
his a lady's head-dress-a most aiy sort of blue and silver
turban, with a streamer of plumage on one side, like a. light
snowy cloud.  He was excessively anxious to make an exehang e; but I could not be brought to hear reason, and to
this day I keep my cigar-case;'t serves, when I look at it, to
remind me of old times, and one happy evening.
Dr. John, for his part, held his turban at arm's length betwcen his finger and thumb, and looked at it with a mixture




TIE CONCERT.                      225
of reverence and embarrassment highly provocative cf laugh.
ter. The contemplation over, he was about coolly to deposit
the delicate fabric on the ground between his feet; he seemed
to have no shadow of an idea of the treatment or stowage it
ought to receive; if his mother had not come to the rescue, I
think he would finally have crushed it under his arm like an
opera-hat; she restored it to the bandbox whence it had
isued.
Graham was quite cheerful all the evening, and his cheer
fulness seemed natural and unforced.  His demeanor, his look
is not easily described; there was something in it peculiar and,
in its way, original. I read in it no common mastery of the
passions, and a fund of 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 professionally engaged amongst
the poor, the guilty, and the suffering in the Basse-Ville: he
looked at once determined, enduring, and sweet-tempered.
Who could help liking him? He betrayed no weakness which
harassed all your feelings with considerations as to how its
faltering must be propped; from  hlim  broke no irritability
which startled calm and quenched mirth; his lips let fall no
caustic that burned to the bone; his eye shot no morose shafts
that went cold and rusty and venomed through your head:
beside him  was rest and  refuge-around him, fostering
sunshine.
And yet he had neither forgiven nor forgotten Miss Fan
shawe.  Once angered, I doubt if Dr. Bretton were to be soon
propitiated-once alienated, whether he were ever to be reclaimed.  He looked at her more than 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 the discourse, mirth, and excitement with which the crimson seats were
as much astir as any plebeian part of the hall. In the course
of some apparently animated discussion, Ginevra once or twics
lifted her hand and arm; a handsome bracelet gleamed upon
the latter.  I saw that its gleam 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 of offerings; there, at any rate, it would be cevtain ta




226                    VILLETTE.
find favor; no grisette has a more facile faculty of acceptance
— strange  fbr after all, I know she is a girl of family."
"But you don't know her education, Dr. John," said I
"Tossed about all her life from one foreign school to another,
she may justly proffer the plea of ignorance in extenuation of
most of her faults. And then, from what she says, I believe
her father and mother were brought up much as she has been
brought up."
" I always understood she had no fortune, and once I had
pleasure in the thought," said he.
" She tells me," I answered, " that they are poor at home,
she always speaks quite candidly on such points; you never
find her lying as these foreigners will often lie. Her parents
have a large family: they occupy such a station and possess
such connections as, in their opinion, demand display; stringent necessity of circumstances and inherent thoughtlessness
of disposition combined, have engendered reckless unscrupulousness as to how they obtain the means of sustaining a
good appearance.  This is the state of things, and the only
state of things she has seen from her 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 in looking at her and De Hamal.  I felt it be.
fbre noticing the impertinence directed at my mother.  I saw
a look interchanged between them  immediately after their
entrance, which threw a most unwelcome light on my mind."
" How do you mean! You have long been aware of the
flirtation they keep up?"
"Ay, flirtation!  That might be an innocent girlish wile
to lure on to true love; but what I refer to was not flirtation 
it was a look marking mv tual and secret understanding-it
was neither girlish nor innocent.  No woman, were she as
beautiful as Aphrodite, who could give or receive such a glance
shall ever be sought in marriage by me: I would rather wed
a paysanne, in a short petticoat and high cap-and be sure
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.  I told him  so.  He shook his head, and
said he would not be the man to trust her with his honor.
The only thing," said I. " with which you may safely trust




THE CONCERT.                      227
her  She would unscrupulously damage a husbanL's purse
and property, recklessly try his patience and temper: I don't
think she would breathe or let another breathe on his honor."
"' You are becoming her advocate,' said he.  " Do you wish
me to resume my old chains?"
"No, I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will
long remain.  Yet be, at the same time, just,"
"I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy-when once I am
thoroughly estranged, I cannot help being severe. But look!
the King and Queen are rising.  I like that Queen: she has
a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is excessively tired; we
shall never get the old lady home if we stay longer."
" I tired, John?" cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated and as wide-awake as her son, " I would undertake to
sit you out yet.  Leave us both here till morning, and we
should see which would look the most jaded by sunrise."
" I should not like to try the experiment, for, in truth,
mamma, you are the most unfading of evergreens, and the freshest of matrons. It must then be on the plea of your son's
delicate nerves and fragile constitution that I found a petition
tor our speedy adjournment."
"Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no
doubt, and I suppose you must be humored.  There is Lucy,
too, looking quite done up. For shame, Lucy! At your age,
% week of evenings-out would not have made me a shade paler.
Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the old lady
as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge
of the band-box and turban,"
Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was
shaken off with kindly contempt; my god-mother opined that
I had enough to do to take care of myself.  Not standing on
ceremony now, in the midst of the gay "confusion worse confounded " succeeding to the King and Queen's departure, Mrs.
Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane through the
crowd.  Graham  followed, apostrophising his mother as the
most flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to
see charged with carriage of a band-box; he also desired me
to mark her affection for the sky-blue turban, and announced
his conviction that she intended one day to wear it.
The night was now very cold and very daik, but with little
delay we found the carriage.  Soon we were packed in it am




228                  VILLETTE.
warnt and as snug as at a fire-side; and the drive home was
I think, still pleasanter than the 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 time we passed at
the concert-drove us along the dark and solitary chaussee, far
past the turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who were oc.
cupied in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberrationtill at last, Mrs. Bretton intimated that though she had always
thought the chateau a retired spot, she did know it was situated
at the world's end, as she declared seemed now to be the case,
ibr she believed we had been an hour and a half en route, and
had not yet taken the turn down the avenue.
Then Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread
fields, with unfamiliar rows of pollards and limes ranged
along their else invisible sunk-fences, began to conjecture how
matters were, and calling a halt and descending, he mounted
the box and took the reins himself. Thanks to him, we arrived safe at home about an hour and a half beyond our time.
Martha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning,
and a neat supper spread in the dining-room: we were glad
of both.  The winter dawn was actually breaking before we
gained our chambers. I took off my pink dress and lace mantie with happier feelings than I had experienced in putting
them on. Not all, perhaps, who had shone brightly arrayed
at that concert could say the same, for not all had been
satisfied with friendship-with its calm comfort and modest
hope.
CHAPTER  XXI.
REACTION.
YET three days, and then I must go back to the Pensioimat,
I almost numbered the moments of these days upon the clock;
fain would I have retarded their flight; but they glided by
while I watched them; they were already gone while J yet
foared their departure.




REACTION.                        229
"Lucy will not leave us to-day," said Mrs. Bretton, coax,
s.ngly, at breakfast; "she knows we can procure a second
respite."
"I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word,"
said I.  "I long to get the good-bye over and to be settled in
the Rue Fossette again.  I must go this morning; I must go
directly; my trunk is packed and corded."
It appeared, however, that my going depended upon Granam; he had said he would accompany me, and it so fell out
that he was engaged all day, and only returned home at dusk
Then ensued a little combat of words.  Mrs. Bretton and her
son pressed me to remain one night more  I could have cried,
so irritated and eager was I to be gone.  I longed to leave
them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend-that is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished
it, they could not tell.  On these points, mine was a state of
mind out of their experience.
It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage
at Madame Beck's door. The lamp above was lit; it rained
a November drizzle, as it had rained all day: the lamplight
gleamed on the wet pavement.  Just such a night was it as
that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at this very
threshold; just similar was the scene.  I remembered the
very shape of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle
eye while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing
of that door at which I stood-a solitary and a supplicant.
On that night, too, I had briefly met him who now stood with
me. Had I ever reminded him of that rencontre, or explained
it?  I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to do so: it wan
a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept
there.
Graham  rung the bell.  The door was instantly opened,
for it was just that period of the evening when the halfboarders took their departure-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
Lhat " the water stood in my eyes," for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly shown such signs of r)rrow.  He
always wished to heal-to relieve-when, physician as ho
was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his power
L




230                    VILLE  T.
" Keep up your courage, Lucy.  Think of my mother and
myself as true friends.  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 content his 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 tell you what I'll do. I'll write-just any cheerful
nonsense that comes into 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 such task.  You write to  ze!-you'll not have
time."
" Oh! I will find or make time. Good-bye!"
He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had
fallen-the pang was experienced.
Allowing myself no time to think or feel-swallowing tears
as if they had been wine-I passed to madame's sitting-room
to pay the necessary visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly well-acted cordiality-was even demonstrative, though brief, in her welcome. In ten minutes
I was dismissed.  From the salle a manger I proceeded to the
refectory, where pupils and teachers were now assembled for
evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I think,
quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.
"And will Graham really write?" I questioned, as I sunk
tired on the edge 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 his nature, it may stimulate him for
once to make the effort.  But it cannzot be continued-it may
not be repeated.  Great were that folly which should build
on such a promise-insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught,
for the perennial spring, yielding the supply of seasons."
I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer.  Reasoi
still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered hatnd
and frostily touching my ear with the chil blue lips of eld.




REACTION.                        231
If,'' muttered she, " if he should write, what then? Do
you meditate pleasure in replying?  Ah, fool!  I warn you 
Brief be your answer.  Hope no delight of heart-no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling-give
holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly 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 for
discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there
can be no oblivion of inferiority-no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp your language..."
"But," I again broke in, " where the bodily presence is
weak and the speech contemptible, surely there cannot be
error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve?"
Reason only answered, "At your peril you cherish that
idea, or suffer its 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 piece of bread, to
await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond.  Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad
at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a
truant hour to Imagination-her soft, bright foe, our sweet
Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at
intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return
Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me, she was always en.
venomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has been
chiefly with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I
should have died of her ill-usage, her stint, her chill, her
barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows, but fox
that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance.
Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on
cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had
ibrsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more
ior rme —harshly denied mv right to ask better things.




232                    VILLETTE.
Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky & head amidst cir
cling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest lent a
ray sympathetic and attent: a spirit, softer and better than
Human Reason, has ascended with quiet flight to the waste
-bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal
summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fadefragrance of trees whose fruit is libi; bringing breezes pure
fiom  a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it.  My
hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet and
strange, gathered amongst gleaming angels, garnering their
dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day
-tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable tears which
weep away life itself-kindly given rest to deadly weariness-generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair.
Divine, compassionate, succorable influence! When I bend
the knee to other than God it shall be at thy white and
winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples
have been reared to the Sun-altars dedicated to the Moon.
Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate; but hearts through ages are faithful to thy worship.
A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls-too high for dome
-a temple whose floors are space-rites whose mysteries
transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds!
Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great
army of martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies.  Deity unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!
This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she
saw me weep and she came with comfort: " Sleep," she said.
"Sleep, sweetly-I gild thy dreams!"
She kept her word, and watched me through a night's rest,
but at dawn Reason relieved the guard.  I awoke with a sort
of start; the rain was dashing against the panes, and the
wind uttering a peevish cry at intervals; the night-lamp was
dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory, day had already broken. How I pity those whom mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of
waking snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant's
gripe.  How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn!
Hlow deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe I Thia
was always my cordial to which, like other dram-drinkers, I
had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin




REACTION.                         233
Ere long the bell rang its revcillrc to the whole sclool.
Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the
stove was lit and the air was warm; through the rest of the
house it was cold, with the nipping severity of a continental
winter: though now but the beginning of November, a north
wind had thus early brought a wintry blight over Europe. I
remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first
-ame; but now I began to associate with them  a sense of
ulllfbrt, and liked them, as in England, we like a fireside.
Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell
into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances,
on destiny and her decrees.  My mind, calmer and stronger
now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules,
prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect of happiness past, commanding a patient journeying through the
wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith, a
watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they
guide, and awe while they illumine-hushing the impulse to
iond idolatry, checking the longing out-look for a far-offpromised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be reached, save
in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but
from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.
By degrees a composite feeling of blended strength and pain
wound itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its throbbings, 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
wall beneath the refectory and the carre, and thus sufficing
to heat both apartments.  Piercing the same wall, and close
beside the stove, was a window, looking also into the carre;
as I looked up, a cap-tassel, a brow, two eyes filled a pane of
that window; the fixed gaze of those two eyes hit right
against my own glance; they were watching me.! had not
till that moment known that tears were on my cneek, but I
felt them now.
This was a strange house, where no comer was sacred from
intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was at hand to note and to divine. And
th:3 new, this out-door, this male spy, what business had
brought him to the premises at this unwonted hour?  What.ossibla right had he to intrude on me thus 1  No other pro



24         L           VILLETTE.
f(ssor would have dared to cross the carre before the class-beP
rang.. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims:
mhere was some book of reference in the first class library
which he had occasion to consult-he had come to seek it:
on his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his
habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side of him:
he had seen me through the little window-he now opened
the refectory door, and there he stood.
"Mademoiselle, vous etes triste."
" Monsieur, j'en ai bien le droit."
"Vous etes malade de cseur et d'humeur," he pursued. " You
are at once mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two
tears which I know are as hot as two sparks, and salt as two
crystals of the sea.  While I speak you eye me strangely.
Shall I tell you of what I am  reminded while watching
you?"
" Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my
time for conversation is very scant and brief at this hourexcuse    "
"I excuse everything," he interrupted, "my mood is so
meek, neither rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You
remind me, then, of a young she wild creature, new caught,
untamed, viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first
entrance of the breaker-in."
Unwarrantable accost!-rash and rude if addressed to a
pupil; to a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a
warm reply; I had seen him vex the passionate to explosion
before now. In me his malice should find no gratification; 1
sat silent.
"You look," said he, "like one who would snatch at a
draught of sweet poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with
disgust."
"Indeed, I never liked bitters, nor do I believe them whole.
some.  And to whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you
cannot, at least, deny its own delicious quality-sweetness.
Better, perhaps, to die quickly a pleasant death, than drag on
long a charmless life."
"Yet," said he, " you should take your bitter dose duly and
daily if I had the power to administer it, and as to the wellbeloved poison, I would, perhaps, break the very cup which
held it."




RE AC TI ON.                    235
I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence
utterly displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun
questions lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering
should overmaster self-command.
" Come," said he, more softly, "tell me the truth-you
grieve at being parted from friends-is it not so?"
The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the
inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room,
sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered long and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into
conversation-attempts necessarily unavailing because I could
not talk.  At last I entreated to be let alone.  In uttering
the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my arms and
the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat awhile
longer. I did not look up nor speak till the closing door and
his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears
proved a relief.
I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose
I appeared at that meal as serene as any other person; not,
however, quite so jocund-looking as the young lady who
placed herself in the seat opposite mine, fixed on me a pail
of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully, and frankly
stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken.  Miss
Fanshawe's travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with her
mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as
found as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire.
I don't know that she looked less charming now in her schooldress, a kind of careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly
and dingily plaided with black.  I even think this dusky
wrapper gave her charms a triumph, enhancing by contrast
the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her bloom, the golden
beauty of her tresses.
"I am glad you are come back, Timon," said she.  Timon
was one of her dozen names for me.  " You don't know how
often I have wanted you in this dismal hole."
" Oh! have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you
have something for me to do; stockings to mend, perhas?"
I never gave Ginevra a minute's or a farthing's credit for disinterestedness.
"Crabbed and crusty as ever!" said she.  "I expe ted aa
much; it would not be you if you did not snub me   But




236                    V ILLETTE.
now, come, grandmother: I hope you like cofiee as mn ch and
iistolets as little as ever; are you disposed to barter?"
" Take your own way."
This way consisted in a habit she had of making me con.
venient   She did not like the morning cup of coffee; its
school brewage not being strong or sweet enough to suit her
palate; and she hid an excellent appetite, like any other
healthy school-girl, for the morning pistoiets or rolls, which
were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance was served to each.  This allowance being more than I
needed, I gave half to Ginevra, never varying in my preference,
though many others used to covet the superfluity, and she in
return would sometimes give me a portion of her coffee. This
morning I was glad of the draught; hunger I had none, and
with thirst I was parched.  I don't know why I chose to
give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why,
if twvo had to share the convenience of one drinking vessel, as
sometimes happened; for instance, when we took a long walk
into the country, and halted for refreshment at a farm, I always contrived that she should be my convive, and rather
liked to let her take the lion's share, whether of the white
beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk; so it was, however, and
she knew it: and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were
never alienated.
After breakfast my custom  was to withdraw  to the first
classe, and sit and read and think (oftenest the latter) there
alone till the nine o'clock bell threw open all doors, admitted
the gathered rush of externes and demi-pensionnaires, and
gave the signal for entrance on that bustle and business to
which, till five r.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, and having taken from her desk some necessary book or
paper, she withdrew on tip-toe, murmuring, as she passed me,
" Que mademoiselle est applique I"
Appliquee, indeed! The means of application were spread
before me, but I 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 Beck herself deemed me a
regular bas-bleu, and often and solermnrly used to warn me not
to study too mut h, lest " the blood should all go to my head."




R E ACT I 0 N.                    237
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, had obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my
real qualifications, and used to take quiet opportunities of
chuckling in my ear his malign glee over their scant measure.
For my part, I never troubled myself about this penury, I
dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure
in reading a few  books, but not many-preferring always
those in whose style or sentiment the writer's individual
nature was painly stamped-flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and meritorious, perceiving well
that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited
its powers and its action —thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, nor yet rest.
less for higher culture.
The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously,
without tap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I
should have known who this was.  A constitutional reserve
of manner had by this time told with wholesome and, for me,
commodious effect on the manners of my co-inmates; rarely
did I now suffer from  rude or intrusive treatment.  Vhen I
first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt Garman would clap me on the shoulders, and ask me to run a
race, or a riotous Labassecourienne, seize me by the arm and
drag me towards the play-ground; urgent proposals to take a
swing at the " Pas de Geant," or to join a certain romping
hide-and-seek game called "Un, deux, trois," were formerly
also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had
ceased some time ago-ceased, too, without my finding it
necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them
short.  I had now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one quarter, and as that was English I could
bear it.  Ginevra Fanshawe made no scruple of-at timescatching me as I was crossing the carr6, whirling me round
ltl a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the mental and
physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra Fanbhawe it was who broke in upon my "learned leisure."  She
carried a huge music-book under her arm.' Go to your practising," said I to her at once; " away with
you to the little saloon!"
L2




2'8                    VILLETTE.
Not till I have had a talk with you, chere amie. I knov
where you have been spending your vacation, and how you
have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life
like any other belle. I saw you at the concert the other night
dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse?"
" Tittle-tattle; how pretty 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 little reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci!
we know how to manoeuvre with our gifted compatriotethe learned'ourse Britannique.' And so, Ourson, you know
Isidlore?"
" I know John Bretton."
" Oh, hush! (putting her fingers in her ears) you crack my
tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our wellbeloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must
be in a sad way.  What did he say to my behavior the other
night?  Wasn't I cruel?"
" Do you think I noticed you?"
" It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine De Hanal 
And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the dis.
tance, and the old lady-my future mamma-in law! but I am
afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude 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 surv  re your sneer."
"She may; old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers!
Do tell me what he said; I saw he was terribly cut up"
" He said you looked as if; at heart, you were already Mad
ame De Haral."
"Did he?" she cried, with delight.  "He noticed that?
How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy."
"Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? I 
you want him to give you up?"
"Oh! you know he can't do that; ]hut 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 mothei
and me?  Fancy us holding him tight lown in the carriage
and he raving between us, fit to drive everybody delinriou




RtEACTION.                       239
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
ride outside."
"And afterwards?'
"Afterwards-when we did reach home-the scene tranmcends description."
" Oh, but describe it-you know it is such fun!"
" Fun for you, Miss Fanshawe; but (with stern gravity)
you know the proverb-' What is sport to one may be death
to another.' "
" Go on, there's a darling Timon."
" Conscientiously, I can not, unless you assure me you have
some heart."
"I have-such an immensity, you don't know I"
" Good! In that case you will be able to conceive Dr.
Graham Bretton rejecting his supper in the first instancethe chicken, the sweet-bread prepared for his refreshment left
on the table untouched.  Then      but it is of no use dwelling at length on harrowing details.  Suffice it to say, that
never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy, had
his mother such work to tuck the sheets about 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 I  Can't you imagine him  demanding his divine
Ginevra, anathematizing that demon, De Hamal-raving
about golden locks, blue eye, white arms, glittering bracelets?"' No, did he?  He saw the bracelet?"
"Saw thi3 bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it, and, perhaps, for the first time, he saw  also the brani-mark with
which its pressure has circled you'r arm.  Ginevra," (rising,
and changing my tone), " come, we will have an end of this
Go away to your practising."  And I opened the door
" But you've not told me ali "




240                    VILLETTEB
" You lad better not wait until I clo tell you all.  Suce
txtra communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!"
"Cross thing!" said she; but she obeyed, and indeed, the
irst classe is my territory, and she could not there legally re.
sist a notice of quittance from me.
Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied
with her than I was then.  There was pleasure in thinking
of the contrast between the reality and my description-to
remember Dr. John enjoying the drive home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with Christian composure.
it was only when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really
vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.
A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the
harness of school, and lapsing fiom  the passionate pain of
change to the palsy of custom.  One afternoon in crossing the
carre, on my way to the first class, where I was expected to
assist at a lesson of " style and literature," 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, whereof
Miademoiselle Olive coolly perused the address, and deliberately studied the seal.
A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain to its very core for seven days past.  I had
dreamed of a letter last night.  Strong magnetism drew me
to that letter now; yet, whether I should have ventured to
demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white 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 rebufi
from Disappointinent; my heart throbbed now as if I already
heard the tramp of her approach.  Nervous mistake! It was
the rapid step of the Professor of Literature measuring the
eorridor.  I fled before him.  Could I but be seated quietly
at my desk before his arrival, with the class under my orders
all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt me
from  notice; but, if caught lingering in the carre, I should
be sure to come in for a special harangue.  I had time to gel




REACTION..                       2'S
seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my woi,^, and tc
commence it amidst the profoundest and best trained nush,
ere M. Emanuel entered with his vehement burst of latch and
panel, and his deep, redundant bow, prophetic of choler.
As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but ii^
stead of flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade,
his career halted midway at my desk.  Setting his face towards me and the window, his back to the pupils and the
rooin —he gave me a look-such a look as might have licensed
me to stand straight up and demand what he meant-a look
of scowling distrust.
"Voila, pour vous," said he, drawing his hand from  his
waistcoat, and placing on my desk a letter-the very letter 1
had seen in Rosine's hand-the letter whose face of enamelled
white and single Cyclop's-eye of vermillion-red had painted
themselves so clear and perfect in the retina of an inward
vision.  I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my hope, the
fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom
from my terror.  This letter:l[. Paul, with his unwarrantably
interfering habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.
I might have been angry, but had.iot a second for the
sensation. Yes: I held in my hand not a slight note, but an
envelope which must, at least, 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, deftly dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut irpress of initials, " J.. G.B."  I experienced a happy feeling,
a. glad emotion which went warm to my heart and ran lively
through all my veins. For once a hope was realized. I held
in my hand a morsel of real solid joy, not a dream, not an image
of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination
pictures, and on which humanity starves, but cannot live;
not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago,
which, indeed. at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable
and preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls
fill surely loathe, longing deliriously for natural and earthgrown food, wildly praying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their
own spirit-dew and essence, an aliment divine, but for mortals
deadly.  It was neither sweet hail, nor small coriander seed;




242                    VILLETTE.
neither slight wafer, nor luscious honey, I ha I lighted or; it
was the wild savory mess of the hunter, nourishing and salu.
brious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthfil, and
life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising him in requital the blessing oi
his last breath.  It was a godsend, and I inwardly thanked
the God who had vouchsafed it.  Outwardly I only thanked
man, crying, " Thank you, thank you, Monsieur!"
Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the
eye, and strode to his estrade.  M. Paul was not at all a good
man, though he had good points.
Did I read my letters there and then?  Did I consume the
venison at once and with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every
day 
I knew better.  The cover with its address; the seal, with
its three clear letters, was bounty and abundance for the
present. I stole from the room, I procured the key of the
great dormitory which was kept locked by day.  I went to
my bureau, with a sort of haste and trembling lest Madame
should creep up stairs and spy mre, I opened a drawer, unlocked a box and took out a case, and having feasted my eyes
with one more look, and approached the seal, with a mixture
of awe and shame and delight, to my lips; I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair and inviolate, in silver paper,
committed it to the case, shut up box and drawer, reclosed,
relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as it
fairy tales were true and fairy gifts no dream.  Strange, sweet
insanity; and this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet
read, did not yet know the number of its lines.
When I re-entered the school-room, behold M. Paul raging
like a pestilence 1 Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to suit his ear and taste, and now she and
others were weeping, and he was raving from  his estrade
almost livid.  Curious to mention, as I appeared, he fill
on mre.': Was I the mistress of these girls?  Di:l I profess to teach
them  the conduct befitting ladies?-and did I permit, and,
he doubted not, encourage them  to strangle their mothertongue in their throats, to mince and mash it between their
teeth, as if they had some base cause to be ashamed of the
words they uttered'? W\as this modesty    lie knew better




REACTION.                         243
it was a vil  pseudo-sentiment-the offspring or the forerunner of evil.  Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing,
this mincing and grimacing, this grinding of a noble tongue,
this general affectation and sickening stubbornness of the
pupils of the first class, he would throw them up for a set of
insupportable petites maitresses, and confine himself to teaching the A B C to the babies of the third division.
What could I say to all this?  Really nothing; anti 
hoped he would allow me to be silent.  The storm  recommenced.
" Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed
to be considered in that place-that conceited boudoir uf a
filst class, with  its portentous book-cases, its green-baized
desks, its rubbish of flower-stands, its trash of frame pictures
and maps, and its foreign surveillante, forsooth!-it seemed
to be the fashion to think the-e that the Professor of Literature was not worthy of a reply!  These were new  ideas;
imported, he did not doubt, straight from'la Grande Bret-gne;' they savored of island-insolence and arrogance."
Lull the second-the girls, not one of whom was ever known
to weep a tear for the rebukes of any other master, now all
melting like snow-statues before the intemperate heat of M.
Emanuel: I, not yet much shaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work.
Something-either in my continued silence or in the movement of my hand, stitching-transported M. Emanuel beyond
the last boundary of patience, he actually sprung from  his
estrade.  The stove stood near my desk, and he attacked it;,
the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel
was made to fly.
" Est-ce que vous avez lintention de m'insulter?" said he
to me in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pre.
tence of arranging, the fire.
It was time to soothe him a little if possible.
" Mais, monsieur," said I, " I would not insult you for tht
world.  I remember 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 present iear.  Still there certainly was something in M.
Paul's anger-a kind of passion of emotion-that specially




244                    VILLETTE.
tenaud to draw tiar'.  I was not unhappy, nor much afraid,
yet I wept.
"Allons, allons!" said he presently, looking round and see.
ing the deluge universal.  "Decidedly I am a monster and a
ruffian.  I have only one pocket-handkerchief," he added,
"but if I had twenty, I would offer you each one.  Your
teacher shall be your representative. PHre, Miss Lucy."
And he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now a person who did not know M. Paul, who wat
unused to him and his impulses, would naturally have bun.
gled at this offer-declined accepting the same-etcetera.
But I too plainly felt this would never do; the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipient treaty of peace.
I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received it with
decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat,
and retaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap,
took especial care during the remainder of the lesson to touch
neither needle nor thimble, scissors nor muslin.  Many a
jealous glance did M. Paul cast at these implements; he
hated them mortally, considering sewing a source of distraction from the attention due to himself. A very eloquent lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close.
Ere he had done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out-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 )
was a boy, I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?"
The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a,uddenly-rising warmth in my face from revealing as much.
"You promise yourself a pleasant moment," said he, " in
reading that letter; you will open it when alone-n'est-ce
pas?  Ah! a smile answers.  Well, well! one should not
he too harsh;  la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps.'"
Monsieur, monsieur!" I cried or rather whispered aftei
him, as he turned to go, "do not leave me under a mistake.
This is merely a fiiend's letter. Without reading it, I can
vonchI for that."
" J   concois: on sait c(. que c'est qu'un ami, bon-jour.
-mademoiselle "'




TIIE  LETTER                       245' But, monsieur, here is your handkerchief."
" Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it m.e. shall read the billet's tenor in your eyes."
rWhen he was gone, the pupils having already poured out
ef the school-room into the bureau, and thence into the garden
and court to take their customary recreation before the five
O'clock dinner, I stood a moment thinking, and absently
twi.sting the handkerchief round my arm.  For some reason
— gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the golden glimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of its
buoyancy, made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and,
above all, solaced at heart by the joyous consciousness of that
treasure in the case, box, drawer up-stairs,-I fell to playing
with the handkerchief as if it were a ball, casting it into the
air and catching it as it fell. The game was stopped by
another hand than mine-a hand emerging from  a paletotsleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught the extemporized plaything and bore it away with these sullen words:
" Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mres
effets."
Really that little man was dreadful: a mere spirit of
caprice and ubiquity: one never knew either his whim or hiq
whereabo t.
CHAPTER  XXII.
THE LETTER.
WHEN all was still in the house; when dinner was over
and the noisy recreation-hour past; when darkness had set in,
and the quiet lamp of study was in the refectory; when the
externes were gone home, the clashing door and clamorous
bell were hushed for the evening; when madame was safely
settled in the salle a manger in company with her mother
and some friends; I then glided to the kitchen, begged a
bougie for one half hour for a particular occasion, found ac.
ceptance. of my petition at the hands of my frtend Goton,




246                    VILLETTE.
who answered:' mais certainoment, chou-chore, vous en aurea
deux, si vous volez."  And, light in hand, mounted noiseless
to the dormitory.
Great was my chagrin to find in that apartment a pupil
gone to bed indisposed,-greater when I recognized amid the
muslin night-cap borders, the " figure diffonee" of Mistress
Ginevra Fanshawe-supine at this moment, it is true-but
certain to wake and overwhelm  me with chatter when the
interruption would be least acceptable; indeed, as I watched
her, a slight twinkling of the eyelids warned me that the preient appearance of repose might be but a ruse assumed to:over sly vigilance over " Timon's" movements; she was not
to be trusted. And I had 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 in its casket, I descended. Ill-luck pursued me. The
classes were undergoing sweeping and purification by candlelight according to hebdomadal custom.  Benches were piled
on desks, the air was dim with dust. damp coffee-grounds (used
by Labassecourien housemaids instead of tea-leaves) darkened
the floor; all was hopeless confusion. Baffled, but not beaten,
I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever on finding solitude
somewhere.
Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted
three staircases in succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent
landing, opened a worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep,
black, cold garret.  Here none would follow me-none interrupt-not madame herself.  I shut the garret door; I placed
my light on a doddered and mouldy chest of drawers; 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 across my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave,
south wind shower.
It was long.
" Will:t be cool? Will it be kind? 
It was Vind.
To my checked, brzJled, disciplined expectation, it seemed
very kind; to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perbaps, kinder than it was
So little had I hoped,. o I nch had I feared.  There was a




TIIE  LETTER.                      247
rullness of delight in this taste of fruition —such, peinaps, as
many a human being passes through life without ever knowing The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by
a dim candle guttering in the wintry air, a letter simply good
natured-nothing more-though that good nature then seemed
to me god-like, was happier than most queens in palaces.
Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could but be
brief; yet while it lasted, it was genuine and exquisite: a
bubble-but a sweet bubble-of real honey-dew.  Dr. John
had written to me at length; he had written to me with pleasare; he had written in benignant mood, dwelling with sunny
satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine,
-— on places we had visited together-on conversations we had
h3ld —on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few
halcyon weeks.  But the cordial core of the delight was, a
conviction the blithe, genial language generously imparted
that it had been poured out-not merely to content me-but
to gratify himself. A gratification he might never more desire,
never more seek-an hypothesis 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 have
rested Beside me, leaned towards my heart, and reposed on its
throb a softening, cooling, healing, hallowing wing. Dr. John,
you pained me afterwards: forgiven be every ill-freely forgiven-for the sake of that one dear remembered good!
Are there wicked things, not human, which envy human
bliss? Are there evil influences haunting the air, and poisoning it for man?  What was near me?
Something in that vast solitary garret sounded strangely.
Most surely and certainly I heard, as it seemed, a stealthy
foot on that floor, a sort of gliding out forn the direction of
the black recess haunted by the 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 figure all black
or white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the head bandaged, veiled, white.
Say what you will, reader-tell me I was nervous or mad;
affirr that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter;
declare that I dreamed: this I vow-I saw there-in that
room —on that ni ghtan image like —a NUN.




248                    VIL LETTE.
I cried not; I sickened.  Had the shape approached me X
might have swooned.  It receded; I made for the door. HGI descended all the stairs I know not.  By instinct I shunned
the refectory, and shaped my course to Madam's sitting-roomL:
I burst in.  I said"There is something in the grenier: I have been there:.,aw something. Go and look at it, all of you!"
i said, " All of you;" for the room seemed to me full of peoo
pie, though, in truth, there were but four present: Madame
Beck, her mother, Madame Kint, who was out of health, and
now staying with her on a visit, her brother M. Victor Kint.
and another gentleman, who, when I entered the room, was
conversing with the old lady, and had his back towards the
door.
My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly
pale.  I felt cold and shaking.  They all rose in consternation; they surrounded me.  I urged them to go to the grenier,
thOe sight of thb  gentlemen did me good and gave me courage 
it seemed as if there was some help and hope with men at
hand.  I turned to the door, beckoning them to follow. They
wanted to stop me; but I said they must come this way; they
must see what I had seen-something strange, standing in the
middle of the garret.  And, now, I remembered my letter,
left on the drawers with the light.  This precious letter!
Flesh or spirit must be defied for its sake. I flew up stairs,
hastening the faster as I knew I was followed: they were
obliged to come.
Lo! When I reached the garret-door, all within was dark
as a pit: the light was out.  Happily, some one, madame, I
think, with her usual calm sense, had brought a lamp from
the room; speedily, therefore, as they came up, a ray pierced
the opaque blackness; there stood the bougie quenched on
the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked fos
that now, and not for the nun.' My letter! my letter!" I panted arid plained, almost be.
side myself.  I groped on the floor, wringing my hands wildly.
Cruel, cruel doom  To have my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me ere I had well tasted its virtue!
I don't know what the others were doing; I could not watch
them; they asked me questions I did not answer; they rarn
aacked all corners; they prattled about this and that, disatr




THE LETTER.                        249
rangement of cloaks, a breach or crack in the sky-light —
know not what.  "Something or somebody has been 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 in my ear.  Could I believe that ear?  No:
and I looked up.  Could I trust my eyes?  Had I recognized
the tone?  Did I now look on the face of the writer of that
very letler?  Was this gentleman near me in this dim garret
— John Graham-Dr. Bretton himself?
Yes; it was.  He had been called in that very evening to
prescribe for some access of illness in old Madame Kint; he
was the second gentleman present in the salle a manger when
I entered.
"Was it mzy letter, Lucy?"
"Your own: yours-the letter you wrote to me.  I had
come here to read it quietly.  I could not find another spot
where it was possible to have it to myself.  I had saved it
all day-never opened it till this evening: it was scarcely
glanced over; I cannot bear to lose it.  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 the police now to examine further; we need
alOt stay here —come, we will go down."
A warm  hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a
room where there was a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the
stove.  He talked to me and soothed me with unutterable
goodness, promising me twenty letters for the one lost.  If
there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep-inflicted
lacerations never heal-cutting injuries and insults of serrated
and poison-dripping edge-so, too, there.are consolations of
tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their
echo-caressing kindnesses-loved, lingered over, through a
whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering
the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing death himself.  I have been told since that Dr.
Bretton was not so nearly perfect as I thought him; that his
actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed in my creed. I don't know: he was as
good toQ me as the well is to the parched wayfarer —as tha




250                    VILLETTE.
sun to the shivering jail-bird.  I remeriber nirn hecaio,
Heroic at this moment will I hold him to be.
He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very
much.  I thought, 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.
"  am  sure you did not read it," said he, " or you would
thiqk northing of it."
"  read it, but only once.  I want to read it again.  I am
sorry it is lost."  And I could not help weeping afresh.
"Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such a
relationship), here-here is your letter.  VWhy is it not better
worth such tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith!"
Curious, characteristic manceuvre! His quick eye had seen
the letter on the floor when I sought it: his hand, as quick,
had snatched it up.   He had hidden it in his waistcoat
pocket.  If my trouble had wrought with a whit less stress
and reality, I doubt whether he would ever have acknowledged or restored it. Tears of temperature one degree cooler
than those I shed would only have amused Dr. John.
Pleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for
the teasing torment; my joy was great; it could not be concealed; yet I think it broke 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 you growing calmer?  Not much; for you tremble like
a leaf still."
It seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently calm, at
least I felt no longer terrified.  I expressed myself composed.
" You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw?
Your account was quite vague, do you know?  You looked
white as the wall, but you only spoke of'something,' not defining what.  Was it a man?  Was it an animal?  Wh;at
was it?"
"I never will tell exactly what I saw," said I, "unless
some else sees it too, and then I will give corroborative testi.
mnony; but otherwise, I shall be discredited and accused of
dreaming."
"Tell me," said Dr. Bretton, " I will hear it in my profe&




THE  LETTER.                       251
gionmtl charac;: I look on you now from a professional point
of view, and I read, perhaps, all you would conceal-in you)
eye, which is curiously vivid and restless; in your cheek,
which the blood has forsaken; in your hand, which you cap
not 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 wTill again take away that single epistle; being mine, I
think I have a right to reclaim it."
I felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet, but
I folded up the letter and covered it from sight.
"You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose.
You don't know my skill in sleight of hand.  I might prac.
tise as a conjuror if I liked.  Mamma says sometimes, too,
that I have an harmonizing property of tongue and eye-but
you never saw that in me-did you Lucy?"
" Indeed-indeed-when you were a mere boy I used te
see both, far more then than now-for now you are strong,
ind strength dispenses with subtlety. But still, Dr. John, you
tave what they call in this country'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 mood must not be humored too far. Just now there
was a new sort of smile playing about his lips-very sweet,
but it grieved me somehow-a new sort 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 of his-felt in a moment the unspoken complaintthe scarce-thought reproach. He asked quietly if I was offended.  I shook my head as implying 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 apparent in your look and manner, however well-controlled-that whilst alone this evening in that dismal, peish
ing, sepulchral garret-that dungeon under the leads, smelling
of damp and mould, rank with pthisis and catarrh-a place




25 2                   VILLETTE.
you never ought to enter-that you saw, or thought y ou saw,
some appearance peculiarly calculated to impress the iragi.
nation. I know you are not, nor ever were, subject to material
terrors, fears of robbers, &c.-I am  not so sure that a visitation, bearing a spectral character, would not shake your very
mind.  Be calm  now.  This is all a matter of the nerves, I
see; but just specify the vision."
"You will tell nobody?"
" Nobody —most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly
as you did Pere Silas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer
confessor of the two, though he has not gray hair."
" You will not laugh?"
" Perhaps I may, to do you good, but not in scorn.  Lucy,
I feel as a friend towards you, though your timid nature is
slow to trust."
He now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and
sparkle were gone; those formidable arched curves of lip,
nostril, eyebrow were Jepressed; repose marked his attitudeattention sobered his aspect.  Won to confidence, I told him
exactly what I had seen: ere now I had narrated to him the
legend of the house-whiling away with that narrative an
hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when he and I rode
through Bois l'Etang.
He sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them
all coming down stairs.
"Are they going to interrupt?" said he, glancing at the
door with an annoyed expression.
" They will not come here," I answered, for we were in the
little salon where Madame never sat in the evening, and
where it was by mere chance that heat was still lingering in
the stove.  They passed the door and went on to the salle a
manger.
"Now," he pursued, "they will talk about thieves, burglars, and so oni: let them do so-mind you say nothing, and
keep your resolution of describing your nun to nobody. She
may appear to you again: don't start."
"You think then," I said, with secret horror, "she came
out of my brain, and is now gone in there, and may glide out
again at an hour and a day when I look not for her?"
"I think it a case of spectral illusion; I fear following a]
&tl restltirc from long-continued mental conflict."




THE LETTER.                      253
- Oh, )octor John -I shudder at the thought of being liable to such an illusion! It seemed so real. Is there no cume 
— no preventive?"
" Happiness is the cure-a cheerful mind the preventivecultivate both."
No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as
that of being told to cultivate happiness.  What does such
advice mean?  Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in
mould and tilled with manure.  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 of
Paradise.
"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 dogged me.  Adversity gave me and my mother one
passing scowl and brush, but we 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 beaming and healthy energy, could attest that he was
better, better he certainly 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 give gold on the spot just to see you
snap your fingers. Try the maneuvre."
"IfI were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just
now?"
"I vow, Lucy, she should not move me; or, she should
move me but by one thing-true, yes, and passionate love. I
would accord forgiveness at no less a price."
" Indeed! a smile of her's would have been a fortune tc fcu
awhile since."
M




254                   VILLETTE.
"Transformed, Lucy, transformed! iRemember, you oiLCe
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, in his beaming eye and mien, revealed itself a liberty
which was more than ease-a mood which was disdain of his
past bondage.
"Miss Fanshawe," he pursued, "has led me through a
phase of feeling, which is over: I have entered another condition, and am now much disposed to exact love for lovepassion for passion-and good measure of it too."
"Ah, Doctor! Doctor  you said it was your nature to pursue Love under difficulties-to be charmed by a proud insensibility!"
"He laughed, and answered, " My nature varies: the mood
of one hour is sometimes the mockery of the next.  Well,
Lucy (drawing on his gloves), will the Nun come again tonight, think you?"
" I don't think she will."
" Give her my compliments, if she does-Dr. John's cormpliments-and entreat her to have the goodness to wait a
visit from him.  Lucy, was she a pretty nun?  Had she a
pretty face?  You have not told me that yet; and that is the
really important point."
"She had a white cloth over her face," said I, "but her
eyes glittered."
" Confusion to her goblin trappings!" cried he, irreverently, "but at least she had handsome eyes-bright and soft."
" Cold and fixed," was my reply.
"No, no, we'll none of her; she shall not haunt you, Lucy.
Givo her that 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 the smile which matched-it, and accompanied his
Good night.'
And had there been anything in the garret?  WVhat did
they discover? I believe, on the closest examination, their discoveries amounted to very little.  They talked, at first, of the
cloaks being disturbed; but Madame Beck told me afterwards




VA SHT.                      255
she thought they hung much as usual: and as for the broker
pane in the skylight, she affirmed that aperture was rarely
without one or more panes broken or cracked: and besides,
a heavy hail-storm had fallen a few days ago.  Madarn
questioned me very closely as to what I had seen, but I only
described an obscure figure clothed in black; I took care not
to breathe the word " nun," certain that this word would at
once suggest to her mind an idea of romance and unreality
She charged me to say nothing on the subject to any servant,
pupil, or teacher, and highly commended my discretion in
coining to her private salle a manger, instead of carrying the
tale of horror to the school refectory.  Thus the subject
dropped.  I was left secretly and sadly to wonder, in my own
minld, whether that strange thing was of this world, or of a
realm beyond the grave, or whether indeed it was only the
child of malady, and 1 of that malady the prey.
CHAPTER XXIII.
VASHTI.
To wonder sadly, did I say?  No: a new influence, began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was
held at bay. Conceive a dell, deep hollowed in forest secrecy;
it lies in dimness and mist; its turf is dank, its herbage pale
and humid.  A storm or an axe makes a wide gap amongst
the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks down;
the sad, cold dell, becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summer
pours her blue glory and her golden life 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 possessed in that case-box-drawer up stairs, casketed with
that first letter, four companions like to it, traced by the same
firm pen, sealed with the same clear seal, full of the same
vital comfort. Vital comfort it seemed to me then: I read
them in after years; they were kind letters enough-pleasing
letters, because composed by one well-pleased; in the twa




256                    VILLETTE,
last there were three or four closing -ines half-gay, half-ten
der, "by feeling touched, but not subdued."  Time, dea;
reader, mellowed them to a beverage of this mild quality, but
when I first tasted their elixir, fresh from the fount so honored,
it seemed juice of a divine vintage, a draught that Hebe might
fill, and the very gods approve.
Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages
hack, care to ask how I answered these letters: whether, under
the dry, stinting check of Reason, or according to the full,
liberal impulse of Feeling?
To speak truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters; 1 bowed down in the house of Rimmon, and lifted the
heart at another shrine.  I wrote to these letters two answers
-one fbr my own relief, the other for Graham's perusal.
To begin with, Feeling and I turned Reason out of doors,
drew against her bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread our
paper, dipped in the ink an eager pen, and, with deep enjoyment, poured out our sincere heart.  When we had donewhen two sheets were covered with the language of a stronglyadherent affection, a rooted and active gratitude (once, for all,
in this parenthesis, I disclaim, with the utmost scorn, every
sneaking suspicion of what are called " warmer feelings;"
women do not entertain these "warmer feelings," where, fiorn
the commencement, through the whole progress of an as
quaintance, they have never once been cheated of the conviction that to do so would be to commit a mortal absurdity:
no body ever launches into Love unless he has seen or dreamed
the rising of Hope's star over Love's troubled waters)-when,
then, I had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeplyhonoring attachment-an attachment that wanted to attract
to itself and take into its own lot all that was painful in the
destiny of its object; that would, if it could, have absorbed
and conducted away all storms and lightnings from  an existence viewed with a passion of solicitude-then, just at that
moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt and bar
would yield, Reason would leap in, vigorous and revengeful,
snatch the full sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write,
tbld, seal, direct, and send a terse, curt missive of a page. Sht
did right.
I did not live on letters only: I was visited, I was looked
alter; once a week I was taken out to La Terrasse, always I




VAS  T I.                       257
Was made much of.  Dr. Bretton failed not tell r.e wiy he
wa5 so kind: " To k,;ep away the nun," he said; " he was
determined to dispute with her her prey.  He had taken," he
declared, " a thorough dislike to her, chiefly on account of that
white face-cloth, and those cold grey eyes; the moment he
heard of those odious particulars," h.e affirmed, " consummate
lisgust had incited him to oppose her; he was determined to
try whether he or she was the cleverest, and he only wished
ihe would once more look in upon me when he was present,"
bat that she never did.  In short, he regarded me scientifically
in the light of a patient, and at once exercised his professional
skill, and gratified his natural benevolence, by a course of
cordial and attentive treatment.
"One evening, the first in December, I was walking by
myself in the carr; it was six o'clock; the classe-doors were
closed; but within, the pupils, rampant in the license of evening recreation, were counterfeiting a miniature chaos.  The
carre was quite dark, except a red light shining under and
about the stove, the wide glass doors and the long windows
were frosted over; a crystal sparkle of starlight, here and
there spangling this blanched winter veil, and breaking with
scattered brilliants the paleness of its embroidery, proved it a
clear night, though moonless.  That I should dare to remain
thus alone in darkness, showed that my nerves were regaining
a healthy tone: I thought of the nun, but hardly feared her,
though the staircase was behind me, leading up, through blind.
black night, from landing to landing, to the haunted grenier.
Yet I own my heart quaked, my pulse leaped, when I sud
denly heard breathing, and rustling: and turning, saw in the
deep shadow of the steps a deeper shadow still-a shape that
moved and descended.  It paused a while at the classe door,
and then it glided before me.  Simultaneously came a clangor
of the distant door-bell.  Life-like sounds bring life-like feelings: this shape was too round and low for my gaunt nun:
it was only Madame Beck on duty.
Mademoiselle Lucy I" cried Riosine, bursting in, lamp in
hand, from the corridor, "On est la pour vous au salon."
Madame saw  me, I saw  madame, Rosine saw us both.
There was no mutual recognition; I made straight for the
Bslon. There I found what I own I anticipated I should find
-Dr Bretton; but he was ii. evening-dress.




253                    VILL ETT E.
" The carriage is at the door," said h;  nmy mother has
sent it to take you to the theatre; she was going herself but
an arrival has prevented her: she immediately said,'Take
Lucy in my place.' Will you go?"
"Just now?  I am not dressed," cried I, glancing despai 
ingly at my lark merino.
"You have half an hour to dress.  I should have given
you notice, but I only determined on going since five o'clock,
when I heard there was to be 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 are all still; she who bore it went years
ago to her rest; night and oblivion long since closed above
her; but then her day —a day of Sirius-stood at its full
height, light and fervor.
" 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 this moment checks you, namely, that to
go anywhere with Graham  and without Mrs. Bretton could
be objectionable. I could not have conceived, much less have
expressed, to Graham  such thought-such scruple-without
risk of exciting a tyrannous self'contempt, of kindling an inward fire of shame so quenchless, and so devouring, that I
think it would soon have licked up the very life in my veins.
Besides, my godmother, knowing her son, and knowing me,
would as soon have thought of chaperoning a sister with a
brother, as of keeping anxious guard over our incomings and
outgoings. The present was no occasion for showy array; my
dun-mist crape would suffice, and I sought the same in the
great oak-wardrobe in the dormitory, where hung no less than
forty dresses. But there had been changes and reforms, and
some innovating hand had pruned this same crowded wardrobe, and carried divers garments to the grenier —my crape
amongst the rest.  I must fetch it.  I got the key, snd went
aloft fearless, almost thoughtless. I unlocked the door, I
plunged in. The reader may believe it or not, but when I
thus suddenly entered, that garret was not wholly dtrrk as it
should have been; fram one point there shone a solerm  light,
like a star, but broader.  So plainly it shone that it revealed
the deep alcove with a portion of the tarnished scarlet curltair




VASHTI                         259
drawn ov er it.  Instantly, silently, before my eyes, it vanished; so d. the curtain and alcove; all that end of the garret
tecame black as night.  I venture I no research; I had not
time nor will; snatching my dress which hung on the wall
(lappily near 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 ar.
range hair or fasten hooks-and-eyes with such fingers, so I
called Rosine and bribed her to help me. Rosine liked a bribe,
so she did her best, smoothed and plaited my hair as well as
a coiffeur would have done, placed the lace collar mathematically straight, tied the neck-ribbon accurately-in short, did
her work like the neat-handed Phillis she could be when she
chose.  Having given me my handkerchief and gloves, she
took the candle and lighted me down stairs. After all, I had
forgotten my shawl; she ran back to fetch it; and I stood
with Dr. John in the vestibule, waiting.
" What is this, Lucy?" said he, looking down at me narrowly. " Here is the old excitement.  Ha! the nun again?"
But I utterly denied the charge: I was vexed to be suspected of a second illusion.  He was sceptical.
" She has been as sure as I live," said he; "her figure
crossing your eyes leaves on them a peculiar gleam and expression not to be mistaken."
" She has not been," I persisted, for, indeed, I could deny
her apparition with truth.
" The old symptoms are there," he affirmed; "a particular
pale, and what 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 effect of the same cause-it was all optical illusion
-nervous malady, and soon. Not one bit did I believe him,
but I dared not contradict; doctors are so self-opinionated, so
immovable in their dry, materialist views.
Rosine brought the shawl, and I was bundled into the
sarriage.
The theatre was full-crammed to its root: royal and noble were there; palace and hotel had emptied their inmates




2GO                    VILLETTE
into those tiers so thronged and so hushed.  D:ceply did 1 tce
myself privileged in having a place before that stage; I longed
to see a being of whose powers I had heard report that made
me conceive peculiar anticipations. I wondered if she would
justify her renown: with strange curiosity, with feelings severe and austere, yet of riveted interest, I waited. She was
a study of such nature as had not encountered my eyes yet;
great and new planet she was, but in what shape?  I
iwaited her rising.
She rose at nine that December night: above the horizon
I saw her come.  She could shine yet with pale grandeur
and steady might, but that star verged already on its judg.
ment-day.  Seen near, it was a chaos-hollow, half-consumed
-an orb perished or perishing-half lava, half glow.
I had heard this woman termed " plain," and I expected
bony harshness and grimness-something large, angular, sallow. What I saw was the shadow of a royal Vashti; a
queen fair as the day once, turned pale now like twilight,
and wasted like wax in a flame.
For a while-a long while-I thought it was only a woman,
though an unique woman, that moved in might and grace
before the multitude. By-and-by I recognized my mistake.
Behold! I found upon her something neither of woman nor
of man; in each of her eyes sat a devil.  These evil forces
bore her through the tragedy, kept up her feeble strengthfor she was but a frail creature-and as the action rose and
the stir deepened, how wildly they shook her with their passions of the pit! They wrote HELL on her straight, haughty
brow.  They tuned her voice to the 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, make a
weaker vision for the public-a milder condiment for a people's palate, than Vashti torn by seven devils-devils which
cried sore and rent the tenement they haunted, but still refused to be exorcised.
Suffering had struck tnat s-tage empress, and she stood t e
fire her audience neither yielding to, nor enduring, not rA




VASHTI.                         261
finite measure, resenting it.  She stood locked in struggle,
rigid in resistance. She stood, not dressed, but draped in pale
antique folds, long and regular like sculpture.  A background
and entourage and flooring of deepest crimson threw her out,
white like alabaster-like silver-rather be it said, like Death.
Where was the artist of the Cleopatra?  Let him  come
and sit down and study this different vision. Let him seek
here the mighty brawn, the muscle, the abounding blood, the
iill-fed flesh he worshipped: let all materialists draw nigh
and look on.
I have said that she does not resezt her grief.  No; the
weakness of that word would make it a lie.  To her, what
hurts becomes immediately embodied; she looks on it as a thing
that can be attacked, worried down, torn in shreds. Scarcely
a substance herself, she grapples to conflict with abstractions.
Before calamity she is a tigress; she rends her woes, shivers
them in convulsed abhorrence. Pain, for her, has no result
in good; tears water no harvest of wisdom; on sickness, on
death itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel.  WVicked, perhaps, she is, but also she is strong, and her strength has conquered Beauty, has overcome Grace, and bound both at her
side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile as fair. Even in the
uttermost frenzy of energy is each menad movement royally,
imperially, inccdingly upborne.  Her hair, flying loose in
revel or war, 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, and discloses 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 Saladin clove the down cushion. Let Paul Peter
Rubens wake from the dead, let him rise out of his cerements
and bring into this presence all the army of his fat women;
the magian power or prophet-virtue gifting that slight rod of
Moses, could at one waft, release and reinngle a sea spellparted, whelming the heavy host with the down-rush of overthrown sea-ramparts.
Vashti was not good, I was told; and I have said she did
not look good; though a spirit, she was a spirit out of Tophet,
Well, if so much of unholy force can arise from below may not
an cqllal efflux of sacred essence descend one (ay from afbove?
MIT 2




262                   VILLETTE.
What thought Dr Graham of this being?
For long intervals I forgot to look how he demeaned Him
self; or to question what he thought.  The strong magnetism
of genius drew my heart out of its wonted orbit; the sunflower turned from the south to a fierce light, not solar-a
rushing, red, cometary-light-hot to vision and to sensatior
i had seen acting before, but never anything like this; nevei
anything which astonished Hope and hushed Desire, which
outstripped Impulse and paled Conception, which, instead of
merely irritating 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 in cataract, and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on
the steep and steely sweep of its descent.
Miss Fanshawe, with her usual ripeness of judgment, pronounced Dr. Bretton a serious, impassioned man, too grave
and too impressible.  Not in such light did.I ever see him,
no such faults would I lay to his charge.  His natural atti
tude was not the meditative, nor his natural mood the senti
mental; impressionable he was as dimpling water, but, al
most as water, unimpressible: the breeze, the sun, moved himl
-metal could not grave, nor fire brand.
Dr. John cozld think, and think well, but he was rather
a man of action than of thought; he could feel, and feel
vividly in his way, but his heart had no chord for enthusiasm:
to bright, soft, sweet influences his eyes and lips gave bright,
soft, sweet welcome, beautiful to see as dyes of rose and silver,
pearl and purple, embuingr summer clouds; for what belonged
to storm, what was wild and intense, dangerous, sudden.
and flaming, he had no sympathy, and held with it no comnmunion. When I took time and regained inclination to glance
at him, it amused and enlightened me to discover that he was
watching that sinister and sovereign Vashti, not with wonder,
nor worship, nor yet dismay, but simply with intense curiosity.
Her agony did not pain him, her wild moan-worse thar. a
shriek-did not much move him; her fury revolted him somewhat, but not to the point of horror. Cool young Briton! The
pale cliffs of his own England do n( t look down on the tides
of the channel more calmly than he watched the Pythian
inspiration of that night.
Looking at his face, I longed to know his exact opinions




A SH T 1                         2G3
and at last I put a question tending to elicit them.  At the
sound of my voice he awoke as if out of a dream; for he had
been thinking, and very intently thinking, his own thoughts,
after his own manner.  "How did he like Vashti?" I wished
to know.
" Hm-r-m," was the first scarce articulate but expressive
answer; and then such a strange smile went wandering round
his lips, a smile so critical, so almost callous! I suppose that
for natures of that order his sympathies were callous.  In a
few terse phrases he told me his opinion of, and feeling towards,
the actress: he judged her as a woman, not an artist: it was
a branding judgment
That night was already marked in my book of life, not with
white, but with a deep-red cross.  But I had not done with
it yet; and other memoranda were destined to be set down
in characters of tint indelible.
Towards midnight, when the deepening tragedy blackened
to the death scene, and all held their breath, and even Graham bit in his under lip, and knit his brow, and sat still and
struck-when the whole theatre was hushed, when the vision
of all eyes centred in one point, when all ears listened towards
one quarter-nothing being seen but the white form sunk on
a seat, quivering in conflict with her last, her worst-hated,
her visibly-conquering foe-nothing heard but her throes, her
gaspings, breathing yet of mutiny, panting still defiance: when,
as it seemled, an inordinate will, convulsing a perishing mortal
frame, bent it to battle with doom  and death, fought every
inch of ground, sold dear every drop of blood, resisted to the
latest the rape of every faculty, wcoucl see, would hear, would
breathe, would live, up to, within, well nigh beyond the mo.
ment when death says to all sense and all being" Thus far and no further! "
Just then a stir, pregnant with omen, rustled behind the
scenes-feet ran, voices spoke. What was it? demanded the
whole house.  A flame, a smell 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, came panic, rushing, crushing —a blind, selfish, cruel
ch aos.
And Dr. John?  Reader, I see him yet, with his look of
auniely courage and cordial calm.




2G1t'i  VILLETTE.
"Lucy will sit still, I know," said he, glancing down at ma
with the same serene goodness; the same repose of firmness
that I have seen in him when sitting at his side amid the se
cure peace of his mother's hearth.  Yes, thus adjured, I think
I would have sat still under a rocking crag: but, indeed, to
sit still in actual circumstances was my instinct; and at the
price of my very life, I would not have moved to give him
troible, thwart his will, or make demands on his attention.
Wt were in the stalls, and for a few minutes there was a most
terrible, ruthless pressure about us.
" How  terrified are the women!" said he; "but if the
men were not almost equally so, order might be maintained.
This is a sorry scene: I see fifty selfish brutes at this moment,
each of whom, if I were near, I could conscientiously knock
down.  I see some women braver than some men.  There is
one yonder-Good God!"
While Graham was speaking, a young girl who had been
very quietly and steadily clinging to a gentlemen standing
before us, was suddenly struck from her protector's arm by a
big, butcherly intruder, and hurled under the feet of the crowd.
Scarce two seconds lasted her disappearance. Graham rushed
forwards; he and the gentleman, a powerful mall though
gray-haired, united their strength to thrust back the throng;
her head and long hair fell back over his shoulder: she seemed
u.nconcious.
" 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 nor incumbrance."
He summoned me with his eye: we were separated. Resolute, however, to rejoin him, I penetrated the living barrier
creeping under, where I could not get between or over.
" Fasten on me, and don't leave go," he said; and I obeyeld
him.
Our pioneer proved strong and adroit; he opened the dense
mass like a wedge; with patience and toil he at last bored
through the flesh-and-blood-rock-so solid, hot, and suffocating
-and brought us to the fresh, freezing night.
"You are an Englishman!" said he, turning shortly on Pr
Bretton, when we got into the street.




VA S H'.                     265
"An Englishman.  And I speak to a countryman 7" was
the reply.
"Right. Be good enough to stand here two minutes, whilsi
I find a carriage."
"Papa, I am not hurt," said a girlish voice, "am  I with
ppap?"
"You are with a friend, and'our father is close at hand!"
"Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder.  Oh
mly shoulder. They trode just here."
" Dislocation, perhaps! " muttered the Doctor: " let us hope
there is no worse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant."
And I assisted while he made some arrangement:)f draper)
and position for the ease of his suffering burdei.  She sup
pressed a moan, and lay in his arms quietly and patiently.
" She is very light," said Graham, " like a child!" and he
asked in my ear, " Is she a child, Lucy?  Did you notice hei
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; I get anxious."
The carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but
in the exchange from one bearer to another she was hurt, and
moaned again.
"My darling!" said the father tenderly; then turning to
Graham, " You said, 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 ad
dress: " The Hotel Crecy, in the Rue Crecy."
We followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Gra.
ham were silent.  This seemed like an adventure.
Some little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we
reached the hotel, perhaps, about ten minutes after these
strangers. It was an hotel in the foreign sense: a collection of
dwelling-houses, not an inn-a vast, lofty pile, with a huge
arch to its street-door, leading through a vaulted covered way,
into a square all built round.
We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase
ani  stopped at Nvmero 2 on the second landing; the first




26G                    VILLETTE.
floor comprising the abode of I know  not what " prince
Russe," as Graham informed me. On ringing the bell at a sece
nid great door, we were admitted to a suite of very handsome
apartments.  Announced by a servant in livery, we entered a
drawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, and
whose walls gleamed with foreign mirrors.  Near the hearth
appeared a little group; a slight form  sunk in a deep armchair, one or two women busy about it, the iron-gray gentleman
anxiously looking on.
"'Where is Harriet?  I wish Harriet would come to rne,"
said the girlish x,ice, faintly.
" WThere is Mrs. Hurst?" demanded the gentleman impa.
tiently and somewhat sternly of the man-servant who had admitted us.
"'I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young
lady gave her leave till to-morrow."
" Yes-I did-I did.  She is gone to see her sister; I said
she might go: I remember now," interposed the young ladyi
"but I am sorry, for Manon and Louison cannot understand a
word I say, and they hurt me without meaning to do so."
Dr, John and the gentleman now interchanged greetings;
and while they passed a few minutes in consultation, I approached the easy-chair, and seeing what the faint and sink
ing girl wished to have done, I did it for her.
I was still occupied in the arrangement, whep Grahan
drew near; he was no less skilled in surgery than medicine,
and on examination found that no further advice than his owin
was necessary to the treatment of the present case.  Ile o
dered her to be carried to her chamber, and whispered tc
me:" Go with the women, Lucy; they seem but dull: you can
at least direct their movements, and thus spare her some pain.
She must be touched very tenderly."
The chamber was a room  shadowy with pale-blue hangings, vaporous with curtainings and veilings of musli,, the
bed seemed to me like snow-drift and mist-spotless, soft, and
oauzy.  Making the women stand apart, I undressed their
mistress, without their well-meaning and clumsy aid.  I wa&
not in a sufficiently collected mood to note with separate d(is
tinlctness every detail of the attire I removed, but I received
a general impressiom  of' refliernent, delicacy, and perfect pey




V AS I TI.                      227,onal cul1tivation; which, in a period of after-thought, offired
in my reflections a singular contrast to notes retained of Miss
Ginevra Fanshawe's appointments.
This girl was herself a small, delicate creature, but made
Ske a model.  As I folded back her plentiful yet fine hair, so
shining and soft, and so exquisitely tended. I had under m)
observation a young, pale, weary, but high-bred face. The
brow was smooth and clear; the eyebrows were distinct, but
soft, and melting to a mere trace at the temples; the eyes
were a rich gift of nature-fine and full, large, deep, seeming
to hold dominion over the slighter subordinate features-capa.
ble, probably, of much significance at another hour and i;ider
other circumstances than the present, but now languid and
suffering.  Her skin was perfectly fair, the neck and hands
veined finely like the petals of a flower; a thin glazing of the
ice of pride, polished this delicate exterior, and her lip wore
a curl —  doubt not inherent and unconscious, but which, if
I had seen it first with the accompaniments of health and
state, would have struck me as unwarranted, and proving in
the little lady a quite mistaken view of life and her own consequence.
Her demearor under the Doctor's hands at first excited a
smile: it was not puerile-rather, on the whole, patient and
firm-but yet, once or twice she addressed him with suddenness and sharpness, saying that he hurt her, and must contrive to give her less pain; I saw her large eyes, too, settle
on his face like the solemn eyes of some pretty, wondering
child.  I know not whether Graham  felt this examination:
if he (lid, he was cautious not to check or discomfit it by any
retaliatory look. I think he performed his work with extreme
"are and gentleness, sparing her what pain he could; and
she acknowledged as much, when he had done, by the
words.
"Thank you, Doctor, and good night," very gratefully pro
nouncetd: as she uttered them, however, it was with a repetition of the serious, direct gaze, I thought, peculiar in its
giavity and intentness.
The injuries, it seems, were not dangerous: an assurance
which her father received with a smile that almost made one
his friend-it was so glad and gratified.  He now expressed
his obligations to Graham  with as much earnestness as was




268                    VILLETT.,
befitting an Englishman addressing one who has served him
but is yet a stranger; he also begged him to call the next day.
"Papa," said a voice from  the veiled couch, "thank the
lady, too: is she there?"
I opened the curtain with a smile, and looked in at her.
She lay now at comparative ease; she looked pretty, though
pale; her face was delicately designed, and if at first sight it
appeared proud, I believe custom might prove it to be soft.
"I thank the lady very sincerely," said her father: "I
fancy she has been very good to my child. I think we scarcely
dare tell Mrs. Hurst who has been her substitute and done
her work; she will feel at once ashamed and jealous."
And thus, in the most friendly spirit, parting greetings were
interchanged; and refreshment having been hospitably offered,
but by us, as it was late, refused, we withdrew from the Hotel
Crecy.
On our way back we repassed the theatre. All was silence
and darkness: the roaring, rushing crowd all vanished and
gone-the lamps, as well as the incipent fire, extinct and forgotten.  Next morning's papers explained that it was but
some loose drapery on which a spark had fallen, and which
had blazed up and been quenched in a moment.
CHAPTER  XXIV.
Al. DE. BASSOMPIERRE.
THOSE who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid.he seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded
dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while
dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens ol' a
ireer world.  Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some
space of unusually fiequent intercourse-some congeries of
rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel
would rather seem  to be the quickeningl than the suspension
)f communication —there falls a stilly pause, a wordless
aience, a long blank of oblivion   Unbroken always is this




M. DE BASSOMPIERRE.                     2C9
blank; alike entire and unexplained.  The letter, the mes
sage once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical,
ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indica.
ted remembrance, comes no more.
Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the
crmit but knew them.  Though he is stagnant in his cell,
his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life.
That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the
very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by
in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestonesthat same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants
with hurry for his friends.
The hermit-if he be a sensible hermit-will swallow hir
own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during theJe
weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed
him  to imitate, on occasions, the dormouse, and he will be
conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of
life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in
and soon blocks himr u, preserving him in ice for the season.
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 softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach
him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds and sing
ing of liberated streams will call 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 his dormouse
bones.  Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be
supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one
day go the way of all flesh, "As well soon as syne."
Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came foi
me seven weeks as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: ne
word was written on one of them; not a visit, not a token.
About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that
something had happened to my friends at La Terrasse   The
mid-blank is always a beclouded point for the solitary: his
nerves ache with the strain of long expectancy; the doubts
hitherto repelled gather now to a mass and-strong in accumulation-roll back upon him with a force which savors oi
vindictiveness.  Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and
sleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and strug




270                     VI LLET T.
gles harass his couch; the sinister band of bad dreams, with
horror of calamity, and sick dread of entire desertion at their
head, join the league against him.  Poor wretch    i He does
his best to bear up, but he is a poor, pallid, wasting wretch,
despite that best.
Towards the last of those long seven weeks I admitted,
what through the other six I had jealously excluded-the
conviction that these blanks were inevitable: the result of
circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part of my life's lot, andabove all-a matter about whose origin no question must ever
be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur ever uttered.
Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God
I had a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile
extravagances of self-accusation; and as to blaming others
for silence, in my reason I well knew them blameless, and in
my heart acknowledged them so: but it was a rough and heavy
road to travel, andt I longed for better days.
I tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence: I
commenced an elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German
pretty hard, I undertook a course of regular reading of the
driest and thickest books in the library; in all my efforts I
was as orthodox as I knew how to be. Was there error somewhere?  Very likely.  I only know the result was as if I had
gnawed a file to satisfy hunger, or drank brine to quench thirst.
My hour of torment was the post-hour.  Untortunately
knew it too well, and tried as vainly as assiduously to chea.
myself of that knowledge; dreading the rack of expectation,
and the sick collapse of disappointment which daily preceded
and followed upon that well-recognized ring.
I suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily fed as to b6
always upon 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 to sustain, outwears nature's endurance.  I
underwent in those seven weeks bitter fears and pains, strange
inward trials, miserable defections of hope, intolerable encroachments of despair.  This last came so near me sometimes that her breath went right through me.  I used to feel
it, like a baleful air or sigh, penetrate deep, and make motion
pause at my heart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression.  The letter-the well-beloved letter-would not
come; and it was all of sweetness in life I had to look for.




M. DE BASSOMPIERRE.                      271
tn the very extremity of want, I had recourse again, and,'t again, to the little packet in the case-the five letters.
Hfow splendid that month seemed whose skies had beheld the
rising of these five stars  It was always at night I visited
them, and not daring to ask every evening for a candle in the
kitchen, I bought a wax-taper and matches to light it, and at
the study-hour stole up to the dormitory, and feasted 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 to read was leaving me-for the letters from  incessant perusal were losing all sap and significance: my gold
was withering to leaves before my eyes, and I was sorrowing
over the disillusion-suddenly a quick tripping foot ran up the
stairs.  I knew Ginevra Fanshawe's step: she had dined in
town that afternoon; she was now returned, and would come
here to replace her shawl, &c., in the wardrobe.
Yes: in she came, dressed in bright silk, with her shawl
falling from her shoulders, and her curls, half-uncurled in the
(lamp of night, drooping careless and heavy upon her neck
I had hardly time to recasket my treasures and look them up
when she was at my side: her humor seemed none of the
best.
"It has been a stupid evening: they are stupid people," she
oegan.
" Who? Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found
her house charming."
"I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley's."
" Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance? 
" My uncle de Bassompierre is come."
" Your uncle de Bassompiere! Are you not glad? —-I thought
hle was a favorite."
"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, goodgess knows; and had an English name till three or four years
ago; but his mother was a foreigner, a de Bassompierre, and
mrae of her family are dead and have left him estates, a title
aid this name: ne m luite a great man now"




272                    VILLETT'.
" Do ycu hate him for that reason?"
Don't I know what mamma says about him? lie is not rna
own uncle, but married mamma's sister. Mamma detests hinm,
she says he killed aunt Ginevra 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 into a room alone,
and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, and after a
few minutes' conversation actually turning his back upon me,
and then abruptly going out of the room.  Such odd ways! 1
dare say his conscience smote him, for they all say at home I
am the picture of Aunt Ginevra.  Mamma often declares the
likeness is quite ridiculous."
W-" Were you the only visitor?".''.'he only visitor? Yes, then there was missy, my cousin:
lint; spoiled, pampered thing."
" M. de Bassompierre has a daughter?"' Yes, yes: don't tease me with questions. Oh dear  I amn
so tired."
She yawned.  Throwing herself without ceremony on my
bed, she added, " It seems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to
ajelly in a hubbub at the theatre some weeks ago."
"Ah  indeed.  And they live at a large hotel in the Rue
Crecy?"
"Justement.  Ho v do yozu know?"
" I have been there."
"Oh you have?  Really! You go everywhere in these
days.  I suppose Mother Bretton took you? She and Esculapius have the entree of the de Bassompierre apartments: it
seems'my son John' attended missy on the occasion of her
accident-accident?  Bah! All affectation! I don't think
she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her airs.
And now there is quite an intimacy struck up; I heard some.
thing about "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
fnd her boy."
"Dr. and Mrs. Bretton were at M. de Bassompierre's this
evening?
" Ay, ay! as large as life: and missy played the hostess
What a conceited doll it is 




M. DE  BASSOMPIERRE.                     273
Soured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was teginning to dis.
close the causes of her prostrate condition.  There had been
a retrenchment of incense, a diversion or a total withholding
of homage and attention; coquetry had failed of effect, vanity
had undergone mortification.  She lay fuming in the vapors.
" 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 see the old dowager making her recline on a couch,
and'my son John' prohibiting excitement, etcetera-faugh t
the scene was quite sickening."
" It would not have been so if the object of attention had
been changed: 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's mother 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 patience is now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire
you to rise from that bed, and vacate this room."
"Passionate thing I Your face is the color of a coquelicot.
\ wonder what always makes you so mighty testy a l'endroit
du gros Jean?'John Anderson, my joe, John'  Oh! the
distinguished name I"
Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been
sheer folly to have given vent-for there was no contending
with that unsubstantial feather, that mealy-winged moth1extinguished my taper, 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 had withdrawnto the first classe.  The dreaded
hour, the post-hour, was nearing, and I sat waiting it, much
as a ghost-seer might wait his spectre. Less than ever was a
letter probable; still, strive as I would, I could not forget that
it was possible. As the moments lessened, a restlessness and
fear almost beyonct the average assailed me. It was a day of
winter east wind. and I had now for some time entered into
that dreary fellowship with the winds and their changes, so
little known, so incomprenensible to the healthy.  The north




f2l74                     rij eLETTiE.
anld east owned a terrific influence, rmaking all pain mars
poignant, all sorrow 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 leav.
ing the classe, and running down without bonnet to the bot.
torn of the long garden, and then lingering amongst the stripped
ihrubs; in the forlorn hope 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 or nerves, almost gnawed
through with the unremitting tooth of a fixed idea, were becomingi  wholly unfit to support.  I lingered as long as I dared
without fear of attracting attention by my absence.  I mulf
fled my head in my apron, and stopped my ears in terror of
the torturing clang, sure to be followed by such blank silence,
such barren vacuum fi':ne.  At last I ventured to re-enter
the first classe, where, as it was not yet nine o'clock, no pupils
had been admitted.  The first thing seen was a white object
on my black desk, a white, flat object. The post had, indeed,
arrived; by me unhea-d.  Rosine had visited my cell, and,
like some angel, had left behind her a bright token of her
presence.  That shining thing on the desk was indeed a letter, a real letter; I saw so much at the distance of three yards,
and as I had but one correspondent on earth, from that one
it must come.  He remembered me yet.  How deep a pulso
of gratitude sent new life through my heart.
Drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but almost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was
my lot to find, on the contrary, an autograph for the moment
deemed unknown-a pale female scrawl, instead of a firm
masculine character. I then thought fate was too hard fo:'
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 of what pleases be wholly withdrawn
and the sound of what consoles be quite silenced.
I opened the billet: by this time I had recognized't
handwriting as perfectly familiar.  It was dated " La TerIu1sse," and it ran thus  -




i. DE BASSOMPIERRE.                    275
" DEAP LutrY,-It occurs to me to inquire what you have
been doing with yourself fbr the last month or two?  Not
that I suspect you would have the least difficulty in giving an
account of your proceedings.  I daresay you have been just as
busy and happy as ourselves at La Terrasse.  As to Graham,
his professional connection extends daily; he is so much sought
after, so much engaged, that I tell him  he will grow quite
conceited. Like a right good mother, as I am, I do my best
to keep 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 of him.  After being hurried here and
there the whole day, and passing the ordeal of' fifty sorts of
tempers, and combating a hundred caprices, and sometimes
witnessing cruel sufierings-perhaps, occasionally, as I tell
him, inflicting them-at night he still comes home to me in
such kindly, pleasant mood, that, really, I seem to live in a
sort of moral antipodes, and on these January evenings my
day rises when other people's nights sets in.
"Still he needs keeping in order, and correcting, and repressing, and I do him  that good service; but the boy is so
elastic there is no such thing as vexing him  thoroughly.
When I think I have at last driven him to the sullens, he
turns on me with jokes for retaliation: but yo'i know him
and all his iniquities, and I am but an elderly simpleton te
make him the subject of this epistle.
"As for me, I have had my old Bretton agent here on a
visit, and have been plunged over head and ears in business
matters.  I do so wish to regain for Graham  at least some
part of what his father left him.  He laughs to scorn my
anxiety on this point, bidding me look and see how he can
provide for himself and me too, and asking what the old lady
can 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 amor.gst
the English clan in Villette.
Talking of sky-blue turbans, I wished you had been with
us the othel evening. He had come in really tired, and afte,
I had given him his tea, he threw himself into my chair with
his customary presumption. To my great delight he dropped
asleep.  (You know how he teases me about being drowsy;
I, who never, by any chance, close an eye by daylight)




276                   VILLETTE.
While he slept, I thought he looked very bonny, Lucy: fce
as I am to be so proud of him: but who can help it? Show
me his peer.  Look where I will I see nothing like him in
Villette.  Well, I took it into my head to play him a trick;
so 1 brought out the sky-blue turban, and handling it and
him with gingerly precaution, I managed to invest his broaw
with this grand adornment.  I assure you it did not at all
misbecome him; he looked quite Eastern, except that he is
so fair.  Nobody, bhwever, can accuse him  of having red
hair now-it is genuine chestnut-a dark, glossy chestnut;
antd when I put my large Cashmere about him, there was as
fine a young bey, dey, or pacha improvised as you 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
fhre-place soon intimated to him his plight: as you may ima.
gine, I now live under threat 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."
lNow, a letter like that sets one to rights! I might still be
rad after reading that letter, but I was more composed; not
exactly cheered, perhaps, but relieved. My friends, at least,
were well and happy: no accident had occurred to Graham;
no illness had seized his mother-calamities that had so long
been my dream and thought.  Their feelings for me too were
-as they had been.  Yet, how strange it was to look on
Mrs. Brefton's seven weeks and contrast them with my seven
weeks! Also, how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional position to hold their tongues and not rashly declare
how such position galls them    The world can understand
well enough the process of perishing for want of food: perhaps few persons can enter into or follow out that of going
mad from  solitary confinement.  They see the long-buried
prisoner disinterred, a maniac or an idiot! —how his senses




M. DB BASSOMPIER1IE.                   277,eft him-how his nerves, first inflamed, underwent namelesa
agony, and then sunk to palsy-is a subject too intricate for
examination, too abstract for popular comprehension. Speak
of it! you might almost as well stand up in an European
market-fiace, and propound dark sayings in that language
and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperial hypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans. And long, long
may the minds to whom such themes are no mystery-by
whom their bearings are sympathetically seizedb-e few in
number, and rare of rencounter.  Long may it be generally
thought that physical privations alone merit compassion, and
that the rest is a figment. WVhen the world was younger and
haler than now, moral trials were a deeper mystery still:
uerhaps in all the land of Israel there was but one Saulcertainly but one David to soothe or comprehend him.
The keen, still cold of the morning was succeeded, later'the day, by a sharp breathing from Russian wastes: the cCiad
zone sighed over the temperate zone, and froze it fast. A:eavy firmament, dull, and thick with snow, sailed up from
-ne north, and settled over expectant Europe. Towards afternoon began the descent.  I feared no carriage would comethe white tempest raged so dense and wild. But trust my
godmother! Once having asked, she would have her guest.
hbout six o'clock I was lifted from the carriage over the
already blocked-up front steps of the chateau, 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 been twice as cold as I was, her kind
iiss and cordial clasp would have warmed me. Inured now
for so long a time to rooms with bare boards, black benches.
desks, and stoves, the blue saloon seemed to me gorgeous. I,
its Christmas-like fire alone there was a clear and crimson
splendor which quite dazzled me.
When my godmother had held my hand for a little while,
and chatted with me, and scolded me for having become
thinner than when she last saw me, she professed to discover
that the snow-wind had disordered my hair, and sent ri,; up.,tairs to make it neat, and remove my shawl.
N




278                   -VILLETTE.
Repairing to ir.y own little sea-green room, these alsol 
found a bright fire, and candles too were lit: a tall wax-light
stood on each side the great looking-glass, but between the
candles. and before the glass, appeared something dressing
itself —an airy, fairy thing-small, slight, white-a wintec
spirit.
I declare, for one moment I thought of Graham  and his
spectral illusions.  With distrustful eye I noted the details of
this new vision.  It wore white sprinkled slightly with drops
of scarlet; its girdle was red; it had something in its hair
leafy, yet shining-a little wreath with an evergreen gloss.
Spectral:r not, here truly was nothing frightful, and I advanced.
Turning quick upon me, a large eye, under long lashes,
flashed over me, the intruder: the lashes were as dark as
long, and they softened with their pencilling the orb they
guarded.
"Ah! you are come!' she breathed out, in a soft, quiet
voice, and she smiled slowly, and gazed intently.
I knew her now.  Having only once seen that sort of face,
with that cast of fine and delicate featuring, I could not but
krow her.
" Miss de Bassompierre," I pronounced.
"No," was the reply, "not Miss de Bassompierre for yout."
i did not inquire who then she might be, but waited voluntary
information.
"You are changed, but still you are yourself," she said, approaching nearer. "I remember you well-your countenance,
the color of your hair, 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 expressive of thought and feeling, till at last a dim.
ness quenched her clear vision.
"It makes me almost cry to look so far back," said she;
"but as to being sorry, or sentimental, don't think it; on the
contrary, I am quite pleased and glad."
Interested, yet altogether at fault, I knew not what to say.
At last I stammered, " I think I never met you till that night,
some weeks ago, when you were hurt....?"
She smiled.  "You have forgotten tlPon that I have sat on
yon'r kee, been lifted in your arms, ev,; shared your pillow 3




M. DE LASSOMPIERRE.                      279
fon no longer remember the night when I came crying, like
a naughty little child as I was, to your bedside, and you took
me in? You have no memory for the comfort and protection
by which you soothed an acute distress?  Go back to 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 of interest and grace; but Paulina Mary was become
beautiful-not with the beauty that strikes the eye like a. rose
-orbed, ruddy, and replete; not with the plump, and pink,
and flaxen attributes of her blond cousii; ( Ginevra; bat her
seventeen years had brought her a refined and tender charm
which did not lie in complexion, though hers was fair and
clear; nor in outline, though her features were sweet, and
her limbs perfectly turned; but, I think, rather in a subdued
glow from the soul outward. This was not an opaque vase,
of material however costly, but a lamp chastely lucent, guarding from extinction, yet not hiding from worship, a flame vital
and vestal. In speaking of her attractions, I would not ex.
aggerate language; but, indeed, they seemed to me very real
and engaging. What though all was on a small scale, it was
the perfume which gave this white violet distinction, and
made it superior to the broadest camelia-the fullest dahlia
that ever bloomed.
"Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?"
"Better," said she, "better, perhaps, than you.  I remem
her it with minute distinctness: not only the time, but the
days of the time, and the 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 ere this, have outgrown the impressions with which
ioy and grief, affection and bereavement, stamped your mind
ten years ago?"
"You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what
degree I liked them when a child?"
The sharpness must be gone-the point, the poignancy.the deep imprint must be softened away and effaced?"
" I have. oood memory for those days."




280                    VILLETTB.
She looked as if she had.  Her eyes were the eyes of one
who can remember; one whose childhood does not fade like a
dream, nor whose youth vanish like a sunbeam.  She would
not take life, loosely and incoherently, in parts, and let one
season slip as she entered on another: she would retain and
add; often review from the commencement, and so grow in
harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still I could
not quite admit the conviction that all the pictures which
now crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her.  Hei
fond attachments, her sports and contests with a well-loved
playmate, the patient, true devotion of her child's heart, her
fears, her delicate reserves, 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," said she.
"You used to be excessively fbnd 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 her, as 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"There are several things here that used to be at Bretton.
I remember that pincushion 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
olive complexion, 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 that he appeared to you as a stranger."
" That first night I was puzzled," she answered.
"How did the rccognition between him  and your father
come about?"
"They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and
iHoe do p.*i".apierre gave rise to questions and explanations




M. DE BASSOMPIERRE.                     281
That was on the second day; but before then I was begin
ning to know something."'How-know something?"
" Why," she said, " how strange it is that most people seem
so slow to feel the truth-not to see, but feel'  When Dr.
Bretton had visited me a few times, and sat near and talked
to me; when I had observed the look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form 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 by association to think of
Graham  Bretton?  Graham  was slighter than he, and not
grown so tall, and had a smoother face, and longer and lighter
hair, and spoke-not so deeply-more like a girl; but yet he
is Graham, just as I am little Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe."
I thought the same, but I wondered ta find my thoughts
hers: there are certain things in which we so rarely meet,w.th our double that it seems a miracle when that chance
ot;  ills.'You and Graham were once playmates."
i And do you remember that?" she questioned in Lcr tar-' No doubt he will remember it also," said I.
"I  have not askPe  him: few things would surprise me so
much as to find that ne did.  I suppose his disposition is stilI
gay and careless?"
"Was it so formerly?  Did it so strike you?  Do you thlu
remember him?"
" I scarcely remember him in any other light,  Sometimes
he was studious; sometimes he was merry: but whether busy
with his books or disposed for play, it was chiefly the books
or game he thought of; not much heeding those with whoi
he read or amused himself."
" Yet to you he was partial."
"Partial to me?  Oh, no! he had other play-mates-h.
school-fellows; I was of little consequence to him, except oir
Sundays: yes, he was kind on 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 still he was on
Eunday evenings! So mild for such a proud, lively boy; se
patient with all my blunders in reading; and so wonderfully
to be depended on, for he never spent those evenings from
home' I had a constant fear that he would accept some inv.




282                    VILLETTE.
tation and forsake us; but he never did, nor se.tned ev(r to
wish to do it. Thus, of course, it can be no more.  I suppose
Sunday will now be Dr. Bretton's dining-out day...?"
"Children, come down!" here called Mrs. Bretton from
below.  Paulina would still have lingered, but I inclined to
iescend: we went dowvn.
CHAPTER XXV.
TIlE LITTLE COUNTESS.
CHEERFUL as my godmother naturally was, and entertaining as, for our sakes, she made a point of being, there was no
true enjoyment that evening at La Terrasse, till, through the
wild howl of the winter-night, were heard the signal sounds
of arrival. How often, while women and girls sit warm at
snug fire-sides, their hearts and imaginations are doomed to
divorce from  the comfort surrounding their persons, forced
out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare stress of
weather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely
gates and stiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to seec
and hear the father, the son, the husband coming home.
Father and son came at last to the chateau: for the
Count de Bassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton.
I know not which of our trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of the weather warranted our running
down into the hall to meet and greet the two 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 carpeted staircase till they had severally put off that mask
of Old Christmas they now affected.  Into the kitchen, however, we could not help following them: it was a large old
Dutch kitchen, picturesque and pleasant. The little white
Countess danced in a circle about her equally white sire,
clapping her hands and crying," Papa, papa, you look like an enormous Polar bear."




~11E LITTLE B OUNTESS.                   283
The bear shook himself, and the little sprite fld far from
the frozen shower.  Back she came, however, laughing, and
eager to aid in removing the 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 was playfully advanced above her head, bounding
out of reach like some little chamois.
1ter movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace
of a kitten; her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver
and crystal: as she took her sire's cold hands and rubbed them,
and stood on tiptoe to reach his lips for a kiss, there seemed
to shine round her a halo of loving delight. The grave and
reverend signior 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 or daughterling of mine?  She neither grows in
wisdom nor in stature.  Don't you find her pretty nearly as
much the child as she was ten years 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 dress she deemed advisable, and which he
resisted. He stood leaning against the Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arms' length.
" Come, mamma," said he, " by way of compromise, and
So secure for us inward as well as outward wtrrmth, let us
tave a Christmas wassail-cup, and toast 0Old   alal:d here,
on the hearth."
So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary
still danced to and fro-happy in the liberty of the wide halllike 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, steaming hot, by means
of a small silver vessel, which I recognized as Graham's
christening-cup.
"Here's to Auld Lang Syne!" said the Count; holding
the glancing cup on 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 lang syne."




284                    VILLETTE.
"And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,
As 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 Scotch he is, partly. We are Home and De
Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic."
"And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland
airy?" asked her father.  " Mrs. Bretton, there will be a
green ring growing up in the middle of your kitchen shortly.
I would not answer for her being quite cannie: she is a
strange little mortal."
"Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa: there is Lucy Snowe"
Mr. Horne (there was still quite as much about him of
plain Mr. Home as of proud Count de Bassompierre) held
his hand out to me, saying kindly, " he remembered me well;
and, even had his own memory been less trustworthy, my
name was so often on his daughter's lips, and he had listened
to so many long tales about me, I should seem  like an old
acquaintance."
Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina,
whose pas de f6e, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so profanatory a draught; but she was not to
be overlooked, nor baulked of her mortal privileges.
"Let me taste," said she to Graham, as he was putting
the cup on the shelf of the dresser out of her reach.
Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation.  Dr. John had not been unobservant of the fairy's
dance; he had watched it, and he had liked it. To say
nothing of the softness and beauty of the movements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his mother's house charmed him, for it set him at ease: again she
seemed a child for him-again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would speak to her; I had not yet seen him
address her; his first words proved that the old days of
"little Polly" had been recalled to his mind by this evening'a
childlike 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."




THE LITTLE  COUNTESS.                    285
Why?  I am quite well now: it can't break my collar.
buine again, or dislocate iny 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, yerhaps, 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 this mighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme
contentment with 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 that longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doc
tor relented, took it down, and indulging himself in the gratirication of letting her taste from  his hand; his eyes, always
expressive in the revelation of pleasurable feelings, luminously
and smilingly avowed that it was a gratification; and he
prolonged it by so regulating the position 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 hand with her forefinger, to make him incline the cup
more generously and yieldingly.  "It smells of spice and
sugar, but I can't taste it; your wrist is so stifT, and you are
so stingy."
He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity:
"Don't tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn't approve."
"Nor do I," said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if
it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: " I find it anything but sweet;
it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no more."
And, with a slight bend-careless, but as graceful as hey
dance-she glided from him and rejoined her father.
I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the
girl of eventeen.
N2




286                   VILLE T T.
Graham  looked after her a little baffled, a litle puzzle;d
his eye was on her a good deal the rest of the evening, bau
she did not seem to notice him.
As we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her,ather's arm: her natural place seemed to be at his side; her
eyes and her ears were dedicated to him.  He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our little party, and Paulina was
Lheir best listener, attending closely to all that was said,
rompting the repetition of this or that trait or 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 drew him out.
She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the
infantine sparkle was exhaled for the night: she was soft,
thoughtful, and docile.  It was pretty to see her bid goodnight; her manner to Graham was touched with dignity: in
her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke the Countess, and
Graham  could not but look grave, and bend responsive.  I
saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the
dancing fairy and delicate dame.
Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast
cable, shivering and fresh from the morning's chill ablutions,
Mrs. Bretton pronounced 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 lower panes of the casement, and, on looking out, one saw
the sky and air vexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry
conflict.  There was no fall now, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled round by brief
shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundred fantastic forms.
The Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.
"Papa shall not go out," said she, placing a seat for herself
beside her father's arm chair.  " I will look after him. You
won't g) into town, will you, papa?"
" Aye, and No," was the answer.  "If you and Mrs. Bret.
ton are very good to me, Polly-kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in a very nice manner, and make
nnuch of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an hour after
breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles. But,
you see, you give me no breakfst; you offer me nothing: you
\tt me starve."




THEI  LITTL   COU NT SS.                 287
quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coiTle," entreated Paulina, " whilst I take care of the Count de Bassom.
pierre in other respects: since he grew into a Count, he has
needed so much attention."
She separated and prepared a roll.
"There, papa, are your'pistolets' charged?" said she.
"And there is some marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at Bretton, and which you said was
as good as if it had been conserved in Scotland -"
"And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boydo you remember that?" interposed Mrs. Bretton.  "Have
you forgotten how you would come to my elbow and touch
my sleeve with the whisper,'please ma'am, something good
for Graham-a little marmalade, or honey, or jam?'"
" No, mamma," broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddc;,. —g;
"it surely was 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 them myself yet, and always did. And Polly showed
her sense in catering for a friend's material comforts: it was
I who put her into the way of such good manners-nor do I
let her forget them.  Polly, offer me a small slice of that
tongue."
"There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon
with this assiduity, on condition of bting persuadable, and recGnt!!ing yourself to.La Terrasse for the day."
"Mrs. Bretton," said the Count, " I want to get rid of my
daughter, to send 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 of saying this.  For a little while I had been feeling
as if placed in a false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew
ny circumstances; but the Count and his daughter did not.
They might choose to vary by some shades their hitherto cor.
dial manner towards me, when aware of my grade in society.
I spoke then readily. but a swarm of thoughts, I had not an
ticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sigh




283                    VILLETTE
nvoluntarily.  M1r. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate for about two minutes, nor did he speak, perhaps he
had not caught the words-perhaps he thought that on a con"
fession 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, I have all along
intimated that he was not without his share of the national
quality.  Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity?  I
leave the question undecided in its wide sense.  Where it
concerned me individually I can only answer: then, and
always, he showed himself a true-hearted gentleman.
By nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions
and his reflections spread a mellowing of melancholy; more
than a mellowing: in trouble and bereavement it became a
cloud.  He did not know much about Lucy Snowe; what he
knew, he did not very accurately comprehend: indeed his
misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but he
saw my walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill;
he gave me credit for doing my endeavor 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
lie 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
and strength to win in it-success.
His fair little daughter did not take the information quite
so composedly: she fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with won
der-almost with dismay.
" Are you a teacher?" cried she.  Then, having paused on
the unpalatable idea, " Well, I never knew what you were,
nor ever thought of asking: ifr me, you were always Lucy
Snowe."
"And what am I now? " I could not forbear inquiring.
"Yourself, of course.  But do you really teach lere, 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 he only said," Proceed, Polly, proceed with that:atechisr~




TIIE LITIfL   GCUN TESS.                 289
-— prove yourself the little wiseacre you are.  If Miss Snaw
were to blush and look confused, I should have to bid you hold
your tongue; and you and I would sit out the present meal in
some disgrace, but she only smiles, so push her hard, multiply
the cross-questions. Well, Miss Snowe, 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 clinging to that hypothesis, as the most lenient way of
accounting for your eccentricity."
" No-no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep over my head; and for the comfort of mind it
gives me to think that while I can work for myself, I am spared
the pain of being a burden to anybody."
"Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy."
" Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre: take it up in
both hands, as you might a little callow gosling squattering out
of bounds without leave; put it back in the warm nest of a
heart whence it issued, and receive in your ear this whisper.
If my Polly ever came to know by experience the uncertain
nature of this world's goods, I should like her to act as Lucy
acts: to work for herself, that she might burden neither kith
nor kin."
"Yes, papa," said she, pensively and tractably. But pooi
Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends."
" You thought like a simpleton: I never thought so. When
I 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 not be served; and this lot has, I imagine,
helped her to an experience for which, if she live long enough
to realize its full benefit, she may yet bless Providence.  But
this school," he pursued, changing his tone from grave to gay:' Would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss
Lucy?"
I said, there needed but to try madame; it would soon be
seen: she was fond of English pupils   "If you, sir," I added,
"will but take Miss de Bassompierre in your carriage this
very afternoon, I think I can answer for it that Rosine, the
portress, will not be very slow in answering your ring; and
madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves te
come into the salon to receive you."




290                    VILLETTE.
"In that case," responded Mr. Home, " I see no sort of n&
cessity there is for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send, what she
calls, her young lady's'things' after her; Polly can settle
down to her horn-book before night; and you, Miss Lucy, I
trust, will not disdain to cast an occasional eye upon her, and
let me know, from  time to time, how she gets on.  I hope
you approve of the arrangement, Countess de Bassompierre?"
The Countess hemmed and hesitated.  "I thought," said
she, " I thought I had finished my education —
" That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our
thoughts: I hold a far different opinion, as most of those will
who have been auditors of your profound knowledge of life
this morning.  Ah, my little girl, thou hast much to learn;
and papa ought to have taught thee more than he has done!
Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; and
the 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 you in your great coat, 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.
Miss Lucy, 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 take papa 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 twelve years old, he took
it into his head that he was spoiling me; that I was growing
unfitted for the world, and I don't know what, and nothing
would serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried,
and so on; but M. de Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite
firm and flinty, and to school I went. What was the result?
ht the most admirable manner, papa came to school likewise:
every other day he called to see me.  Madame Aigredonu
grumbled, but it was of no use; and so, at last, papa and 1
were both, in a manner, expelled.  Lucy can just tell Mad.
amne Beck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what
she has to expect."




THE LITTLE  COUlNTESS.                    291:
Mrs. Bretton asked Mr. Home what he had to say in answer to this statement.  As he made no defence, judgment
was given against him, and Paulina triumphed.
But she had other moods besides the arch and naive. Aftel
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 were, for a short time, alone together —all the child left her; with us, more nearly her com
panions in age, she rose at once to the little lady: her very
face seemed to alter; that play of feature, and candor 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 some minutes near the window, looking out at the
snow; presently he approached the hearth, and entered into
conversation, but not quite with his usual ease: fit topics did
not seem to rise to his lips; he chose them fastidiously, hesitatingly, and consequently infelicitously: he spoke vaguely of
Villette-its inhabitants, its notable sights and buildings. He
was answered by Miss de Bassompierre in quite womanly
sort; with intelligence, with a manner not indeed wholly disindividualized: a tone, a glance, a gesture, here and there,
rather animated and quick than measured and stately, still
recalled little Polly; but yet there was so fine and even a
polish, so calm and courteous a grace, gilding and sustaining
these peculiarities, that a less sensitive man than Graham
would not have ventured to seize upon them as vantage points,
leading to franker intimacy.
Yet while Dr. Bretton continued subdued, and, for him
sedate, he was still observant. No one of those pretty impulses and natural breaks escaped him.  He did not miss one
characteristic movement, one hesitation in language, or one
lisp in utterance.  At times, in speaking fast, she still lisped;
but colored whenever such lapse occurred, and in a painstaking, conscientious manner, quite as amusing as the slight
error, repeated the word more distinctly.
%Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled.  Gradually, as
they conversed. the restraint on each side slackened; might
the conference have but been prolonged, I believe it would
xon have become genial  already to Paulina's lip and cheek




292                    VILLETTE.
returned the wreathing, dimpling smile; she lisped once, and
forgot to correct herself.  And Dr. John, I know not how he
changed, but change he did.  He did not grow gayer-no
raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect-but his position
seemed to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he
spoke his augmented comfort in readier language, in tones
more suave.  Ten years ago, this pair had always found abun
dance to say to each other; the intervening decade had not
narrowed the experience or impoverished the intelligence of
either: besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual
influence is such, that the more they say, the more they have
to say.  For these, out of association grows adhesion, and out
of adhesion, amalgamation.
Graham, however, must go: his was a profession, whose
claims are neither to be ignored, nor deferred.  He left the
room; but before he could leave the house there was a return.
I am sure he came back-not for the paper, or card in his
desk, which formed his ostensible errand-but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina's aspect was really
such as memory was bearing away: that he had not been
viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making
a fond mistake.  No! he found the impression true-rather.
indeed, he gained, than lost, by this return: he took away
with him a parting look-shy, but very soft-as beautiful, as
innocent, as any little fawn could 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 both took out some work, and plied a mute and diligentask. The white-wood work-box of old days, was now replaced
by one inlaid with precious mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling fingers that could
scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now swift and
skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow,
the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and
movements-now to replace a stray tress; and anon to shake
from the silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust-some clinging fibre of thread.
That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury
of the winter-day, had on me an awing, hushing influence.
That passion of January, so white and so bloodless, was not
yet spent; the storrm hadl raax d itself hoarse, but seemed no




THE LITTLE  COUNTESS                     293
nearer exhaustion.  Had Ginevra Fanshawe been my cornpanion in that morning-room, she would not have suffered me
to muse and listen undisturbed.  The presence just gone
from us would have been her theme; and how she would
have rung the changes on one topic! how  she would have
pursued and pestered me with questions and surmises-worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I did
not want, and longed to avoid.
Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet, but
penetrating glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened,
as if to the impulse of coming utterance * but she saw  and
delicately respected my inclination for silence.
"This will not hold long," I thought to myself, for I was
not accustomed to find in women or girls any power of selfcontrol, or strength of self-denial.  As far as I knew them,
the chance of a gossip about their usual trivial secrets, their
often very washy and paltry feelings, was a treat not to be
readily foregone.
The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed, till
she was tired of sewing, and then she took a book.
As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton't
own compartment of the book-case; and it proved to be an
old Bretton book-some illustrated work of natural history.
Often had I seen her standing at Graham's side, resting that
volume on his knee, and reading to his tuition; and, when
the lesson was over, begging, as a treat, that he would tell
her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly: here was
a true test of that memory she had boasted: wou'l]  her
recollections now be faithful?
Faithful?  It could not be doubted.  As she turned the
leaves, over her face passed gleam after gleam of expression,
the least intelligent of which was a full greeting to the Past.
And then she turned to the title-page, and looked at the name
written in the schoolboy hand.  She looked at it long; nor
was she satisfied with merely looking: she gently passed over
the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted
the touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the
peculiarity of this little scene was, that she said nothing: sne
could feel, without pouring out her feelings in a fl  c ol
words.




294                    VILLETTE.
She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly
hour; taking down volume after volume, and renewing hey
acquaintance with each.  This, done, she seated herself on a
low stool, rested her cheek on her hand, and thought, and still
was mute.
The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of colt
wind, and her father's voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the
hall, startled her at last. 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 Mi. de Bassompierre showing to her how
he was well provided against the weather; and how he was
going to have the carriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered;
and, in short, proving that she need not fear for his comfort.
" But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it is quite dark;-you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fit to ride."
" Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid
on him  her commands to take care of his precious health,
and come home early under my escort."
"Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his
mother, and be obedient.  And, papa, mind to come soon, for
I shall watch and listen."
The door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the
snow; and back returned the Countess, pensive and anxious.
She did listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it
was in stillest sort: walking the drawing-room  with quite
noiseless step.  She checked at intervals her velvet march;
inclined her ear, and consulted the night sounds: I should
rather say, the night silence; for now, at last, the wind was
fallen.  The sky, relieved of its avalanche, lay naked and
pale: through the barren boughs of the avenue we could see
it well, and note also the polar splendor of the new-year moon
arn orb, white as a world of ice.  Nor was it late when we
saw also the return of the carriage.
Paulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was
wij h a sort of gravity that she took immediate possession of
her father, as he entered the room; but she at once made him
ber entire property, led him to the seat of her choice, alnd




A B URIAL.                      295
while soilly showering round him honeyed words of conmmen.
dation for being so good and coming home so soon, you would
have thought it was entirely by the power of her little hands
he was put into his chair, and settled and arranged; for the
strong man seemed to take pleasure in wholly yielding himself to this dominion-potent only by love.
Graham did not appear till some minutes after the Count.
Paulina half turned when his step was heard: they spoke,
but only a word or two; their fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact.  Paulina remained beside her
father; Graham  threw himself into a seat on the other side
of the room.
It was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great
deal to say to each other-almost an inexhaustible fund of
discourse in old recollections; otherwise, I think, our party,
would have been but a still one that evening.
After tea, Paulina's quick needle and pretty golden thimble
were busily plied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested,
and her eyes seemed reluctant to raise often their lids so
smooth and so full-fringed. Graham too must have been tired
with his day's work: he listened dutifully to his elders and
betters, said very little himself, and followed with his eye the
gilded glance of Paulina's thimble, as if it had been some
bright moth on the win,, or the golden head of some darting
little yellow serpent.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A BURIAL.
FnoM this date my life did not want variety; I went out a
good deal, with the entire consent of Madame Beck, who periectly approved the grade of my acquaintance. That worthy
directress had never from the first treated me otherwise than
with respect; and when she found that I was liable to frequent invitations from a chateau and a great hotel, respect
improved into distinction.




296                    VILLETT1.
Not that she was fulsome about it: madame,:a all things
worldly, was in nothing weak; there was measure and sense
n her hottest pursuit of self-interest, calm  and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain; without, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server and a toadie, she
marked with tact that she was pleased people connected with
her establishment should fiequent such associates as must
cultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate and depress.  She never praised either me or my friends;
only once, when she was sitting in the sun in the garden, a
cup of coffee at her elbow and the Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up and asked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in this gracious
sort:" Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de
ceur et de gre.  Votre travail dans ma maison a toujours eto
admirable, rempli de zele et de discretion: vous avez bien le
droit de vous amuser.  Sortez done tant que vous voudrez.
Quant a votre choix de connaissances, j'n suis contente;
c'est sage, digne, louable."
She closed her lips and resumed the Gazette.
The reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance that about this time the triply-enclosed packet of five
letters temporarily disappeared from my bureau.  Blank dismay was naturally my first sensation on making the discovery;
but in a moment I took heart of grace.
"Patience!" whispered I to myself. " Let me say nothing.
but wait peaceably; they will come back again."
And they did come back: they had only been on a short
visit to madame's chamber; having passed their examination,
they came back duly and truly: I found them all right the
next day.
I wonder what she thought of my correspondence.  What
estimate did she form of Dr. John Bretton's epistolary powers?
In what light did the often very pithy thoughts, the generally
sound, and sometimes original opinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spirited style, appear to her? How
did she like that genial, half-humorous vein, which to me
gave such delight?  What did she think of the few kind
words scattered here and there-not thickly, as the diamonds
were scattered in the valley of Sindbad, but sparsely, as thos




A BURIAL,                       297
gerls lie in unfabl il beds?  Oh, Madame Beck! now seemed
these things to you?
I think in Madame Beck's eyes the five letters found a certain favor.  One day after she had borrowed them of me (in
speaking of so suave a little woman, one ought to use suave
terms), I caught her examining me with a steady contenplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at all malevolent. It
was during that brief space between lessons, when the pupils
turned out into the court for a quarter of au hour's recreation; she and.. remained in the first classe alone: when I met her
eye, her thoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.
"  I y a," said she, "quelque chose de bien remarquable
dans le caractere Anglais."
" How, Madame?"
She gave a little laugh, repeating the word "how" In
English.
"Je ne saurais vous dire' how;' mais, enfin, les Anglais
unt des idees a eux, en amitie, en amour, en tout.  Mais au
moins il n'est pas besoin de les surveiller," she added, getting
up and trotting away like the compact little pony she was.
"Then I hope," murmured I to myself, "you will graciously let alone my letters for the future."
Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly their vision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the gar.
den, the bright winter sun, as I remembered that never more
would letters, such as she had read, come to me. I had seen
the last of them.  That goodly river on whose banks I had
sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops had trickled
to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving my
little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of
waters far away.  The change was right, just, natural; not
a word could be said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had
almost worshipped my Ganges, and I grieved that the grand
tide should roll estranged, should vanish like a false mirage.
Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic; drops streamed fast
on my hands, on my d sk I wept one sultry shower, heavy and
brief.
But soon I said to myself, "the Hope I am  bemoaning
suffered and made me suffer much: it did not die till it was
full time: following an agony so lingering, death ought to
be welcome'




298                   VIL LET IE.
Welcome I endelt ored to make it.  Indeed, long pain had
made patience a habit.  In the end I closed the eyes of my
dead, covered its face, and composed its limbs with great
cairn.
The letters, however, must be put away, out of sight:
people who have undergone bereavement always jealously
gather together and lock away mementos; it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each moment by sharp revival
cf regret.
One vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my
treasure, with intent to consider its final disposal, I perceived
-and this time with a strong impulse of displeasure-that
it had been again tampered with: the packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had been untied and
retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer had
been visited.
This was a little too much.  Madame Beck herself was
the soul of discretion, besides having as strong a brain and
sound a judgment as ever furnished a human head; that she
should know the contents of my casket, was not pleasant, but
might be borne. Little Jesuit inquisitress, as she was, she
could see things in a true light, and understand them in an
unperverted sense; but the idea that she had ventured to
communicate information, thus gained, to others; that she,
had, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over docu.
ments, in my eyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly.  Yet,
that such was the case I now saw reason to fear: -I even
guessed her confidant.  Her kinsman, M. Paul Emanuel, had
spent yesterday evening with her: she was much in the
habit of consulting him, and of discussing with him  matters
she broached to no one else. This very morning, in class, that
gentleman had favored me with a glance, which he seemed to
have borrowed from Vashti, the actress; I had not at the
moment comprehended that blue, yet lurid, flash out of his
angry eye, but I read its meaning now.  He, I believed, was
not apt to regard what concerned me from a fair point of
view, nor to judge me with tolerance and candor: 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 very
aoul.




A BURIAL.                       299
What should I do to prevent this?  In what comner of
this strange house was it possible to find security or secrecy 2
Where could a key be a safeguard, or a padlock a barrier?
In the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides,
most of the boxes and drawers there were mouldering, and
did not lock. Rats, too, gnawed their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests among the litter of their
contents: my dear letters (most dear still, though Ichabod
was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin,
certainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp.
No; the grenier would not do-but where then?
While pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory
window-seat.  It was a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun,
already setting, gleamed pale on the tops of the garden-shrubs
in the " allee defendue."  One great old pear-tree-the nun's
pear-tree-stood up a tall dried skeleton, gray, guant, and
stripped. A thought struck me-one of those queer fantastic
thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary people.  I put on
my bonnet, cloak and furs, and went out into the city.
Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town,
whose hoar and overshadowed precincts I always sought by
instinct in melancholy moods, I wandered on from street to
street, till, having crossed a half-deserted " place" or square,
I found myself before a sort of broker's shop; an ancient
place, full of ancient things.
What I wanted was a metal box which might be soldered
or a thick glass jar or bottle which might be stoppered ano
sealed hermetically.  Amongst miscellaneous 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 old Jew broker to stopper, seal, and make
it air-tight. While obeying my directions, he glanced at me
now and then, suspiciously, from under his frost-white eyelashes.  I believe he thought there was some evil deed on
hand. In all this I had a dreary something-not pleasure —
hut a sad, lonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I
acted, the mood controlling me, were similar to the impulse
and the mood which had induced me to visit the confessional
With quick walking I regained the pensionnat just at dark,
aud in time for dinner




300                    VILLETTE.
"At seven o'clock the moon rose. At half-past seven when
the pupils and teachers were at study, and Madame Beck waa
with her mother and children in the salle a manger, when the
half-boarders were all gone home, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still-I shawled myself; and, taking the
sealed jar, stole out of the first-classe door, into the bercean
and thence into the " allee ddfendue."
Methusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this
walk, near my seat; he rose up, dim and gray, above the
lower shrubs round him.  Now Methusaleh, though so very
old, was of sound timber still; only there was a hole, or rather
a deep hollow, near his root. I knew there was such a hollow,
hidden partly by ivy and creepers growing thick round; and
there I meditated hiding my treasure. But I was not only
going to hide a treasure-I meant also to bury a grief. That
grief over which I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it
in its winding-sheet, must be interred.
WVell, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was
large enough to receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a
tool-shed at tie bottom of the garden, lay the relics of building-materials, left by masons lately employed to repair a part
of the premises.  I fetched thence a slate and some mortar,
put the slate on the hollow, secured it with cement, covered the
whole 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 peculiax
mist, which changed the moonlight into a luminous haze. In
this air, or this mist, there was some quality-electrical, perhaps-which acted in strange sort upon me.  I felt then as I
had felt a year ago in England-on a night when the aurora
borealis was streaming and sweeping round heaven, when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watch that mustering oa
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, but strong with reinforced strength.
If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single.
handed.  I pondered now how to break up my winter-quar
ters —to leave an encampment where food and forage failed
Perhaps, to effect this change, another pitched ba.ttle mnet be




A BURIAL.                        301
fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to the incounter;
too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain.  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 before me, and a shadow became distinct and
marked.  I looked more narrowly, to make out the cause of
this well-defined contrast appearing a little suddenly in the
obscure alley: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: it took
shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about three
yards 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 2'
She stood mute.  She hadno face-no features: all below
her brow was masked with a white cloth; but she had eyes,
and they viewed me.
I felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation
will often suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage.
I advanced one step.  I stretched out my hand, for I meant
to touch her.  She seemed to recede.  I drew nearer: her
recession, still silent, became swift. A mass of shrubs, fullleaved evergreens, laurel and dense yew, intervened between
me and what I followed.  Having passed that obstacle, I
looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said,-" If you have any
errand to me, come back and deliver it."  Nothing spoke or
re-appeared.
This time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse:
there was no one to whom I dared whisper the words, " I have
again seen the nun."
Paulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue
Crecy.  In the old Bretton days, though she had never pro.
fessed herself fond of me, my society had soon become to her
a sort of unconscious necessary.  I used to notice that if I
withdrew to my room, she would speedily come trotting after
me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with her little
peremptory accent," Come down.  Why do you sit here by yourself?  You
must come into the parlor."




302                   VILLETTE.
In the sanme spirit she urged me now"' Leave the Rue Fossette," she said, " and come and lire
with us.  Papa would give you far more than Madame 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 with scantier fund of resource, more stinted narrowness of future prospect. I had not
that vocation.  I could teach; I could give lessons; but to
be either a private governess or a companion was unnatural
to me. Rather than fill the former post in any great house,
I would deliberately have taken a housemaid's place, bought
a strong pair of gloves, swept bedrooms and staircases, and
cleaned stoves and locks, in peace and independence.  Rather
than be a companion, I would have made shirts, and starved.
I was no bright lady's shadow-not Miss de Bassompierre's.
Overcast enough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued
habit I was: but the dimness and depression must both be
voluntary-such as kept me docile at my desk, in the midst
of my now well-accustomed pupils in Madame Beck's first
classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, or in
the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden
my qualifications were not convertible, not adaptable; they
could not be made the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any
beauty, the appendage of any greatness in Christendom. Madame Beek and I, without assimilating, understood each other
well.  I was not her companion, nor her children's governess;
she left me free: she tied me to nothing-not to herself-not
even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnight been
called from home by a near relation's illness, and on her return, all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest
something in her absence should have gone wrong-finding
that matters had proceeded much as usual, and that there was
no evidence of glaring neglect-she made each of the teachers
a present, in acknowledgment of steadiness. To my bedside
she came at twelve o'clock at night, and told me she had no
present for me.  "I must make fidelity advantageous to the
St. Pierre," said she; " if I attempt to make it advantageous
to you, there will arise misunderstanding between us-perhaps separation.  One thing, howcver, I cant do to pleas




A BURIAL.                       303
you —leave you alone with your liberty: c'est-ce que je
ferai."
She kept her word. Every slight shackle she had ever laid
on me, she, from that time, with quiet hand removed. Thus
I had pleasure in voluntarily respecting her rules; gratification in devoting double time, in taking double pains with the
pupils she committed to my charge.
As to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure,
though I would not live with her.  My visits soon taught mo
that it was unlikely even my occasional and voluntary society
would long be indispensable to her.  M. de Bassompierre, for
his part, seemed impervious to this conjecture, blind to this
possibility; unconscious as any child to the signs, the likelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew to an end,
he might not approve.
Whether or not, he would cordially approve, I used to spec
ulate.  Difficult to say.  He was much taken up with scientific interests; keen, intent, and somewhat oppugnant in what
concerned his favorite pursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful
in the ordinary affairs of life.  From all I could gather, he
seemed to regard his " daughterling" as still but a child, and
probably had not yet admitted the notion that others might
look on her in a different light: he would speak of what
should be done when " Polly " was a woman, when she should
be grown up; and "Polly," standing beside his chair, would
sometimes smile and take his honored head between her little
hands, and kiss his iron-gray locks; and, at other times, she
would pout and toss her curls: but she never said, " Papa, I
amn grown up."
She had different moods for different people.  With her
father she really was still a child, or child-like, affectionate,
merry, and playful.  With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought and feeling could make her.  With Mrs.
Bretton she was docile and reliant, but not expansive. With
Graham  she was shy, at present very shy; at moments she
tried to be cold; on occasion she endeavored to shun him.
His step made her start; his entrance hushed her; when he
spoke, her answers failed of fluency; when he took leave, she
remained self-vexed and disconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanor in her.' My little Polly," he said once. "you live too retired a




304                   VILLETT E.
life; if you grow to be a woman with these shy manners, yoJ
will hardly be fitted for society.  You really make quite a
stranger of Dr. Bretton: how is this?   Don't you remember
that, as a little girl, you used to be rather partial to him."
"Rather, papa," echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet genLie and 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
tranlge to each other."
"Then rub it off, Polly: rub the rust and the strangeness
off.  Talk away when he is here, and have no fear of him!"
" lie does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think,
papa?"
" Oh, to be sure! W5hat man would not be afraid of such
a little silent lady?"
"Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent.
Say that it is my way, and that I have no unfriendly inten
tion."
"Your way, you little chatter-box?   So far from  being
your way, it is only your whim I"
" Well, I'll improve, papa."
And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day,
she tried to keep 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 a pleasurable glow; he met her
with caution, and replied to her in the softest tones, as if there
was a kind of gossamer happiness hanging in the air which
ne feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath. Certainly,
in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could not be
denied that there wtas 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 if this improvement continues. By and by we
shall see her receiving my guests with quite a calm, grand
manner.  Miss Lucy and I will have to look about us, and
polish up all our best airs and graces lest we should be thrown.
into the shade.  Still, Polly, there is a little flutter, a ittle
tendency to stammer now and then, and even to lisp af you
lhsped when you were six years old."




A BURIAL.                        305
"No, papa,' interrupted she, indignantly, "that;an't be
true."
" I appeal to Miss Lucy.  Did she not, in answering Dr.
Bretton's question as to whether she had ever seen the palace
of the Prince of Bois l'Etang, say'yeth,' she had been there
theveral' times."
" Papa, you are satirical, you are m6chant! I can pro.
nounce all the letters of the alphabet as clearly as you can
But tell me this: you are very particular in making me be
civil to Dr. Bretton, do you like him yourself?"
" To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then
he is a very good son to his mother; besides being a kindhearted fellow and clever in his profession: yes, the callant
is well enough."
" Callant! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh
or the Aberdeen accent you have?"
"Both, my pet, both; and doubtless the Glaswegian into
the bargain: it is that which enables me to speak French so
well: a gude Scots tongue always succeeds well at the
French."
"The French! Scotch again:' incorrigible, papa! You,
too, need schooling."
" Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake
both you and me; 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 contradictory attributes of character we sometimes find
ascribed to us, according to the eye with which we are viewed!
Madame Beck esteemed me learned and blue; Miss Fanshawe,
caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a model teacher, the
essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhat conventional
perhaps, too strict, limited and scrupulous, but still the pink
and pattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person,
Professor Paul Emanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of
irtimating his opinion that mine was rather a fiery and rash
nature-adventurous, indocile, and audacious. I smiled at
them all.  If any one knew me it was little Paulina Mary.
As I would not be Paulina's nominal and paid companion,
genial and harmonious as I began to find her intercourse she,;rsuaded me to join hler in some study, as a reg alar and set.




3C6                    VILL E TTE.
tied nielis of sustaining communication: she proposed the
German language, which, like myself, she found difficult oi
mastery.  We agreed to take our lessons in the Rue Crecy
of the same mistress; this arrangement threw  us togethel
for some hours of every week.  M. de Bassompierre seemed
quite pleased: it perfectly met his approbation that Madamc
Minerva Gravity should associate a portion of her leisure witL
that of his fair and dear child.
That other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the
Rue Fossette, discovering by some surreptitious, spying means
that I was no longer so stationary as hitherto, but went out
regularly at certain hours of certain days, took it upon himsell
to place me under surveillance.  People said M. Emanuel
had been brought up among Jesuits.  I should more readily
have credited this report had his manceuvres been better masked.  As it was I doubted it.  Never was a more undisguised
schemer, a franker, looser intriguer.  He would analyze his
own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith
indulge in explanatory boasts of' their skill.  I know  not
whether I was more amused or provoked, by his stepping up to
me one morning and whispering solemnly that he " had his
eye on me: he at least would discharge the duty of a friend
and not leave me entirely to my own devices.  My proceedings seemed at present very unsettled: he did not know what
to make of them: he thought his cousin Beck very much to
blame in suffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a
teacher attached to her house. What had a person devoted
to a serious calling, that of education, to do with Counts and
Countesses, hotels and chateaux? To him, I seemed altogether'en lair.'  On his faith, he believed I went out six days
in the seven."
I said, " Monsieur exaggerated.  I certainly had enjoyed
the advantage of a little change lately, but not before it had
become necessary; and the 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 ht
thus spoke, but it was one which provoked him: he accused




A BURIAL.                        307
me of being reckless, worldly, and epicurean; ambitious of
greatness and feverishly athirst for the pomps and vanities of
life.  It seems 1. had no " devouement," no " recueillement"
in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice, oi selfabasement.  Feeling the inutility of answering these charges,
I mutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises
"He could see in me nothing Christian: like many other
Protestants, I revelled in the pride and self-will of paganism."
I slightly turned from  him, nestling still closer under the
wing of silence.
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 the word sacre.  Grievous to relate, the same
word was repeated, with the unequivocal addition of  uille
something, when I passed him about two hours afterwards in
the corridor, prepared to go and take my German lesson in
the Rue Crecy.  Never was a better little man, in some
points, than iM. Paul: never in others, a more waspish little
despot.
Our German mistress, Fraiilein Anna Braun, was a worthy,
hearty woman, of about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to
have lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, as she habitually
consumed, for her first and second breakfasts, beer and beef;
also, her direct and downright Deutsch nature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint of what she called our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordial with
her: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented to kiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any
explosive smack.  These omissions oppressed and depressed
her considerably; still, on the whole, we got on very well
Accustomed to instruct foreign girls, who hardly ever will
think and study for themselves-who have no idea of grappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it by dint of reflection
or application-our progress, which, in truth, was very leisurely, seemed to astound her.  In her eyes, we were a pair
of glacial prodigies, cold, proud, and preternatural.
The young Countess was a little proud, a little fastidious:
and perhaps, wil h her native delicacy and beauty, she had a




308                    V IL LE T TE.
right to these feelings; but I think it was a total mistake ut
ascribe them  to me.  I never evaded the morning salute,
which Paulina would slip when she could; nor was a certain
little manner of still disdain a weapon known in my armory
of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine and
bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once its
steely glisten.
Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference;
nd while she half-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort
f,' dainty nymph-an Undine-she took refuge with me, as a
being all mortal, and of easier mood.
A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller's
Ballads; Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully: the
Fraulein would listen to her with a broad smile of pleasure,
and say her voice sounded like music.  She translated them
too with a facile flow of language, and in a strain of kindred
and poetic fervor: her cheek would flush, her lips tremblingly
smile, her beauteous eyes kindle or melt as she went on. She
learnt the best by heart, and would often recite them when
we were alone together. One she liked well was " Des Madchens Klage:" that is, she liked well to repeat the words, she
found 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 murfick
Ich babe genossen das irdische Gliick,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet 1"' Lived and loved!" said she, "is that the summit ot
earthly happiness, the end of life-to love?  I don't think it
is.  It may be the extreme of mortal misery, it may be sheer
waste of time, and fruitless torture of feeling. If Schiller
had said to be loved-he might have come nearer the truth.
Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?"
" I suppose it may be: but why consiler the subject 
What is love to you?  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 for papa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus view me; but yo 0  know and shall
learn to acknowledge that I am  verging on my nineteenJil
year."




A BURIAL                        809
"No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we wilt anticipate no feelings by discussion and conversation; we will not
talk about ]ove."
" Indeed, indeed!" said she-all in hurry and heat-" you
may think to check and hold me in, as much as you please;
but I have talked about it, and heard about it too; and a
great deal and lately, and disagreeably and detrimentally:
and in a way you wouldn't approve."
"And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed
I could not discern what she meant, and I would not ask her:
I was nonplussed.  Seeing, however, the utmost innocence in
her countenance-combined with some transient perverseness
and petulance-I said at last," Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such
matters?  Who that has near access to you would dare to
do it?"
" Lucy," replied she more softly, " it is a person who makes
me miserable sometimes; and I wish she would keep awayI don't want her."
" But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much."
"It is-it is my cousin Ginevra.  Every time she hat'cave to visit Mrs. Cholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she begins to talk about her admirers.
Love, indeed! You should hear all she 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 be regretted, it is all right. Yet surely, Ginevra's
mind cannot influence yours.  You can look over both her
head and her heart."
"She does influence me very much.  She has the art of
disturbing my happiness and unsettling my opinions. She
hurts me through the feelings and people dearest to me."
" What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There,nay be counteraction of the damage done."
"The people I have longest and most esteemed are degrsaded by her.  She does not spare Mrs. Bretton —she does
not spare.... Graham."
" No, I dare say: and how does she mix up these with ler
sentiment and her.... love?  She does mix them  i
suppose?"
02




310                    VILLETTE.
"IItuc, 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 ever mean or slavish?  Day after
day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet, pursuing her
like her shadow.  She-repulsing him  with insult, and he
imploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any
of it true?"
"It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does
he give him out as still her suitor?"
"She says she might marry him  any day: he only waitl
her consent."
" It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your
manner towards Graham which your father noticed."
" They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character.  As Ginevra speaks, they do not carry with them the
sound of unmixed truth: I believe she exaggerates-perhaps
invents-but I want to know how far."
" Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof.  Give
her an opportunity of 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 among the 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 put in peril.  You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my
sake; Ginevra, at a word, will join you."
" Yes; then I will carry a messnage of invita tion, and she
Ehbis have the chance of j stifying her character ter veracity.'




THE HOTEL CRECY.                      311
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE HOTEL CRECY.
TImE morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than
we —or than I, at least-had anticipated.  It seerns it was
the birthday of one of the young princes of Labassecour-the
oldest, I think, the Due de Dindonneaux-and a general holiday was given in his honor at the schools, and especially at
the principal " Athenee," or college.  The youth of that institution had also concocted, and were to present a loyal address; for which purpose they were to be assembled in the
public building where the yearly examinations were conducted, and the prizes 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 less connected with the Athenee, they were expected
to attend on this occasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. le Chevalier Staas, the burgo-master,
and the parents and kinsfolk of the Athenians in general. M.
de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends to accompany
them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party, and
she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us come
early that we might join her.
As Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing in the dormitory
of the Rue Fossette, she (Miss F.) suddenly burst into a
laugh.
" What now?" I asked; for she had suspended the opera.
tion of arranging her attire, and was gazing at me.
"It seems 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 con.
nections you chiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs Cholmondo.
ley and Co. would never have' suited me at all."
" Who are you, Miss Snowe?" she inquired, in a tone of




312                   T ILLETTE.
such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me
laugh in my turn.
"You used to call yourself a nursery-governess; when you
tirst came here you really had the care of the children in this
house: I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms,
like a bonne-few  governesses would have condescended so
far-and now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy
than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and that proud
chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!"
"Wonderful!" I agreed, much amused at her mystificae
lion. " Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise.
Pity I don't look the character."
I wonder you are not more flattered by all this," she went
on: "you take it with strange composure.  If you really are
the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand."
" The nobody you once thought me!" I repeated, and my
face grew a little 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; and asked " what she
saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever of confusion?"' 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, to intimate approbation of your dress and general
appearance: I meant it as a compliment."
"You did?  You meant, in short, to express that you are
not ashamed to be seen in the street with me?  That if
Mrs. Cholmondeley should be fondling her lap-dog at some
window, or Colonel de Hamal picking his teeth in a balcony,
and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not quite blush
for your companion?"
"Yes," said she, with that directness 7which was her best
point —which gave an honest plainness to her very fibs when




TIIE HOTEL CRECY.                     313
he told them-which was, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of a character 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
leelings expressed in the look I gave her.
" Scornful, sneering creature!" she went on. as we crossed
a great square, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our
nearest way to the Rue Crecy.  " Nobody in this world was
ever such a Turk to me as you are!"
"You bring it on yourself: let me alone: have the sense
to be quiet: I will let you alone."
" As if one could let you alone, when you are so peculiar
and so mysterious!"
"The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your own brain-maggots-neither more nor less, be
so good as to keep them out of' my sight."
" But aore you anybody?" persevered she, pushing her hand,
in spite of me, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself
with inhospitable closeness against my side, by way of keep
ing out the intruder.
" 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 incognito she had got hold of; and she squeezed the arm
of which she had now obtained full, possession, and coaxed and
conjured till I was obliged to pause in the park to laugh.
Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changes on
this theme; proving, by her obstinate credulity, or incredulity,
her incapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered up by
birth or wealth, not supported by some consciousness of name
or connection, could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity.  As for me, it quite sufficed to my mental tranquillity
that I was known where it imported that known I should be;
the rest sat on me easily: pedigree, social position, and recondite intellectual acquisition, occupied about the same space and
place in my interests and thoughts; they were my third class
lodgers —to whorn could be assigned only the small sitting-room
Rand the little back bed-room: even if the dining and draw.




314                    VILLETTE.
ing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinking
minor accommodations better suited to their circumstances.
The world, I soon learned, held a different estimate: and I
make no doubt, the world is very right in its view, yet believe
also that I am not quite wrong in mine.
There are people whom  a lowered position degrades morally, to whom loss of connection costs loss of self-respect: are
not these justified in placing the highest value on that station
and association which is their safeguard from debasement? If
a man feels that he would become contemptible in his own
eyes were it generally known that his ancestry were simple and
not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and not capitalists, would
it be right severely to blame him for keeping these fatal facts
out of sight-for starting, trembling, quailing at the chance
which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more our
experience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbor's conduct, to question the world's wisdom: wherever an
accumulation of small defences is found, whether surrounding
the prude's virtue or the man of the world's respectability.
there, be sure, it is needed.
W5e reached the Hotel Crecy; Paulina was ready; Mrs
Bretton was with her; and, under her escort and that of M.
de Bassompierre, we were soon conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at a convenient distance from
the Tribune. The youth of the Athenee were marshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were in places
of honor, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied a conspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded
with the aristocracy and first burghers of the town.
Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the " discours" was to be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither
care nor question.  Some vague expectation I had that a
savant would stand up and deliver a formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the princes.
The Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten
minutes after it was filled.; suddenly, in a second of time, a
head, chest and arms, grew  above the crimson desk.  This
head I knew; its color, shape, port, expression, were familiar
both to me and Miss Fanshawe; the blackness and closeness
of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, the blueness
and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in the nmem




TILE H1OTEL CRECY.                    315
ory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by this their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh.
Indeed, I confess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm,
but then I bent my head, and made my handkerchief and a
lowered veil the sole confidants of my mirth.
I think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rathei
pleasant than otherwise, to behold him set up there, fierce
and frank, dark and candid, testy and fearless, as when regrant on his estrade in class.  His presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expecting him, though I
knew  he filled the chair of Belles Lettres in the college.
With him in that Tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism
nor flattery would be our doom; but ior what was vouchsafed
us, 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 the
burghers, with just the same ease, with almost the same point
ed, choleric earnestness, with which he was wont to harangue
the three divisions of the Rue Fossette.  The collegians he
addressed, not as school-boys, but as future citizens and embryo
patriots.  The times which 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 and fat soil of Labas.
secour could yield political convictions and national feelings,
such as were now strongly expressed?  Of the bearing of his
opinions I need here give no special indication; yet it may be
permitted me to say that I believed the little man not more
earnest than right in what he said: with all his fire he was
severe and sensible; he trampled Utopian theories under his
heel; he rejected wild 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 he spoke of injustice, his
voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the
band-trumpet, ringing at twilight from the park.
I do not think his audience were generally susceptible ot
sharing his flame in its purity; but some of the college youth
caught fire as he eloquently told them what should be their
path and endeavor in their country's and in Europe's future.
They gave him a long, loud, ringing cheer, as he concluded.
with all his fierceness, he was their favorite professor.
As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he




316                      ILLETTE.
saw and knew me, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in
passing, and uttered the words " Qu'en dites-vous?"  ques.
tion eminently characteristic, and reminding me, even in this
his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive restlessness, that
absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which
were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then
to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought; but he did
care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. WVell! if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked
his naivete.  I would have praised him: I had plenty of
praise in my heart; but, alas! no words on my lips.  Who
has words at the right moment?  I stammered some lame
expressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming
up with profuse congratulations, covered my deficiency by
their redundancy.
A gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre; and
the Count, who had likewise been highly gratified, asked him
to join his friends (for the most part M. Emanuel's likewise),
and to dine with them at the Hotel Crecy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shy in meeting the
advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdy independence in the stringing of his sinews-not obtrusive, but
pleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of
his character; 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 material charms, but the latter shone preeminent for attractions more subtle and spiritual: for light
and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, for winning variety
of expression. Ginevra's dress of deep crimson relieved well
her light curls, and harmonized with the rose-like bloom.
Paulina's attire-in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but
in texture clear and white-made the eye grateful for the
delicate life of her complexion, for the soft animation of hey.ountenance, for the tender depth of her eyes, for the brown
shadow and bounteous flow of her hair-darker than that of'
her Saxon cousin, as were also her eye-brows, her eye-lashes,
her full irids, and large mobile pupils. Nature having traced
all these details slightly, and with a careless hand in Mis




THE  HOTEL  CRECY                     317
Fanshawe's case; and in Miss de Bassoinpierre's wrought
them to a high and delicate finish.
Paulina was awed by the sivtants, but not quite to mutism:
she conversed modestly, diffidently; not without effort, but
with so true a sweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense,
that her father more than once suspended his own discourse to
listen, and fixed on her an eye of proud delight. It was a polite
Frenchman, M. Z-, a very learned, but quite a courtly
aman, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmed with
her French; it was faultless-the structure correct, the idioms
true, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her life
on the Continent, could do nothing like it: not that words
ever failed Miss Fanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she
neither possessed, nor in any number of years would acquire.
Here, too, M. de Bassompierre was gratified; for, on the point
of language, he was critical.
Another listener and observer there was; one who, detained
by some exigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies were quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the
moment of taking his seat at the table; and that guarded
survey was more than once renewed. His arrival roused Miss
Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless; she now became smiling and complacent, talked-though what she said
was rarely to the purpose-or rather, was of a purpose some.
what mortifyingly below the standard of the occasion.  Her
light, disconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once;
perhaps it pleased him still: perhaps it was only fancy which
suggested the thought that, while his eye was filled and his
ear fed, his taste, his keen zest, his lively intelligence, were
not equally consulted and regaled. It is certain that, restless
and exacting as seemed the demand on his attention, he
yielded courteously all that was required: his manner showed
neither pique nor coolness: Ginevra was his neighbor, and to
her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice.
She appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in
very good spirits.
Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than
she again becane flat and listless: throwing herself on a
couch, she denounced both the " discours" and the dinner as
stupid affairs, and inquired of her cousin how she could hear
such a set of prosaic "gros-bonnets" as he. father gathered




318                    VILLETTE
about him. TLe moment the gentlemen were heard to move,
her rai.ings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, and
dashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the
first, took up his station beside her. I thought he would not
long maintain that post: there was a position near the hearth
to which I expected to see him attracted: the position he
only scanned with his eye; while he looked, others drew in.
The grace and mind of Paulina charmed these thoughtful
Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of
her manner, her immature, but real and inbred tact, pleased
their national taste; they clustered about her, not indeed to
talk science, which would have rendered her dumb, but to
touch on many subjects in letters, in arts, in actual life, on
which it soon appeared that she had both read and reflected.
I listened.  I am sure that though Graham stood aloof, he
listened too: his hearing as well as his vision was very fine,
quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation;
I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him exquisitely-pleased him almost to pain.
In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character, than most people thought-than Graham himself imagined-than she would ever show to those who did not wish
to see it. To speak truth, reader, there is no excellent beauty,
no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement, without strength
as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well might you
look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless tree,
as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature.
For a little while, the blooming semblance of beauty may
flourish round weakness; but it cannot bear a blast: it soon
fades, even in serenest sunshine. Graham would have started
had any suggestive spirit whispered of the sinew and the
stamina sustaining 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 the firm soil of reality.
While Dr. Bretton listened, and waited an opening in the
magic circle, his glance, restlessly sweeping the room at intervals, lighted by chance on me; where I sat ir a quiet nook not
far from my godmother and M. de Bassompierre, who, as usual,
were engaged in what Mr. Home called " a two-handed crack''
what the Count would have interpreted as a tete-a-tete.
Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me how




TIHE HOTEL CRECY.                    319
I was, told me I looked pale.  I also had my own SLiile at
my own thought: it was now about three months since Dr.
John had spoken to me-a lapse of which he was not even
conscious.  He sat down and became silent.  His wish was
rather to look than converse. Ginevra and Paulina were now
opposite to him: he could gaze his fill: he surveyed both
forms-studied both faces.
Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had en.
tered the room since dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation; and amongst the gentlemen, I may incidently
observe, I had already noticed by glimpses, a severe, dark
professoral outline, hovering aloof in an inner saloon, seen only
in vista.  M. Emanuel knew many of the gentlemen present,
but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting
myself; in looking towards the hearth, he could not but see me,
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 with holding back, he puckered up his eye-brows,
protruded his lip, and looked so ugly that I averted my eyes
from the displeasing spectacle.  M. Joseph Emanuel had arrived, as well as his austere brother, and at this very moment
was relieving Ginevra at the piano.  What a master-touch
succeeded her school-jingle! In what grand, grateful tones
the instrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist!
"Lucy," began Dr. Bretton, breaking silence and smiling,
as Ginevra glided before him, casting a glance as she passed
by, "Miss Fanshawe is 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, in taste, 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 girlmy mother's god-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-ilonic, shone aslant in his eye.  Ah, Graham! I hava
given more than one solitary moment to thoughts and calca




320                    VILLETTE.
lations of your estimate of Lucy Snowe: was it always kni
or just?  Iad Lucy been intrinsically the same, but possessing
the additional advantages of wealth and station, would your
manner to her, your value for her have been quite what they
actually were?  And yet by these questions 1 would not seriously infer blame.  No; you might sadden and trouble me
sometimes; but then mine was a soon-depressed, and easilyderanged temperament-it fell if a cloud crossed the sun.
Perhaps before the eye of severe equity, I should stand more
at fault than you.
Trying then to keep down the unreasonable pain which
thrilled my heart, on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote to others the most grave and earnest, the
manliest interest, he had no more than light raillery for Lucy,
the friend of lang syne, I inquired calmly," On what points are we so closely in accordance?"
" We each have an observant faculty.  You, perhaps, don't
give me credit for the possession; yet I have it."
" But you were speaking of tastes: we may see the same
objects, yet estimate them differently?"
" Let us bring it to the test.  Of course, you cannot but
render homage to the merits of Miss Fanshawe: now, what
do you think of others in the room?-my mother, for instance;
or the lions, yonder, Messieurs A-   and Z; or, let us
say, that pale little lady, Miss de Bassompierre?"
"You know what I think of your mother.  I have not
thought of Messieurs A -  and Z-."
"And the other?"
"I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady-pale, certainly, just now, 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
mnenmory, may, under certain conditions, certain aspects of your,iwn or another's mind, 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 one of a fancy, that the testimony of a witness
becomes necessary for corroboration.  Were you not a guest




TIHE HOTEL CRECY.                      321
at Bretton ten years ago, when Mr. Home brought his little
girl, whom we then called' little Polly,' to stay with marlma?''  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.  WVas I fond of children in those days?  Was
there anything gracious or kindly about me-great, reckless,
vnhool-boy as I was?  But you don't recollect me, of course?"
"' You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like
you personally.  In manner, you were almost the same yes
terday as to-day."
" But, Lucy, how is that?  Such an oracle really whets
my curiosity.  What am I to-day?  What was I the yester
day 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
yout, for instance."
"A brute! No, Graham: I should never have patiently
endured brutality."
" This, however, I do remember: quiet Lucy Snowe tasted
nothing of my grace."
"As little of your cruelty."
" Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a being inoffensive as a shadow."
" I smiled; but I also hushed a groan.  Oh!-I wished he
would just let me alone-cease allusion to me.  These epithets-these attributes I put from  me.  His'' quiet Lucy
Snowe," his " inoffensive shadow," I gave him back; not with
scorn, but with extreme weariness: theirs was the coldness
and the pressure of lead; let him wheln me with no such
weight.  Happily, he was soon on another theme.
" On what terms were'little Polly' and I?  Unless my
recollections deceive me, we were not foes~"
"You speak very vaguely.  IDo you think little Polly's
memory not more definite?"
"Oh! we don't talk of "little Polly' now. Pray say, Miss
Bassompierre; and, of course, such a stately personage remembers nothing of Bretton.  Look at her large eyes, Lucy;
tan they read a word in the page of memory?  Are they tlhd




322                    VILLETTE.
same which I used to direct to a horn-book?  Site does n1,)
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 little restless, anxious countenance was hers.  What
a thing is a child's preference-what a bubble! Would you
beiieve it? that lady was fond of me!"
"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;
or rather, I wish some one, you fbr instance, would go behind
and whisper it all in her ear, and I could have the delighthere, as I sit-of watching her look under the intelligence.
Could you manage that, think you, Lucy, and make me ever
grateful?"
"Could I manage to make you ever grateful?" said 1.
"No, I coultd not."  And I felt my fingers work and my
hands interlock: I felt, too, an inward courage, warm and resistant. In this matter I was not disposed to gratify Dr.
John: not at all.  With now welcome force, I realized his
entire misapprehension of my character and nature.  He
wanted always to give me a role not mine.  Nature and I
opposed him.  He did not at all guess what I felt: he did not
read my eyes, or face, or gestures; though, I doubt not, all
spoke.  Leaning towards me coaxingly, he said, softly, " Do
content me, Lucy."
And I would have contented, or, at least, I would clearly
have enlightened him, and taught him well never again to
expect of me the part 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, soumise, reveue,
mais vous ne l'etes pas; c'est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage ~
la flamme a l'ame, l'eclair aux yeux!"
Oui; j'ai la fiamme a l'ame, et je dois l'avoir!' retorted




THE HOTEL CRECY                      323,, turning il just wrath; but Professor Emanuel had hissed
his insult and was gone.
The worst of the matter was, that Dr. Bretton, whose ears,
as I have said, were quick and fine, caught every word of
this apostrophe; he put 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 beieve it is: you redden to the color
of Miss Fanshawe's gown.  And really, by my word, now I
examine him, that is the same little man who was so savage
with you at the concert: the very same, and in his soul he is
frantic at this moment because he sees me laughig.  Oh! I
must tease him."
And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed,
jested, and whispered on till I could bear no more, and my
eyes filled.
Suddenly he was sobered: a vacant space appeared near
Miss de Bassompierre; 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, crossed the room, and made
the advantage his own.  Dr. John, throughout his whole life,
was a man of luck-a man of success.  And why?  Because he had the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to
prompt to well-timed action, the nerve to consummate a pertect work.  And no tyrant-passion dragged him  back; no
enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way. How well he
looked at this very moment! When Paulina looked up as he
reached her side, her glance mingled at once with an encountering glance, animated, yet modest; his color, as he
spoke to her, became half a blush, half a glow.  He stood
in her presence brave and bashful: subdued and unobtrusive,
yet decided in his purpose and devoted in his ardor.  I gathered all this by one view.  I did not prolong my observation-time failed me, had inclination served: the night wore
late; Ginevra and I ought already to have been in the Rue
Fossette, I rose, and bade good-night to my godmother and
M. de Bassompierre.
I know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my relactant acceptance of Dr. Bretton's badinage, or whether he




324                    VILLETTE.
perceived that I was pained, and that, on the whole, the
evening had not been one flow of exultant enjoyment for the
volatile, pleasure-loving, Mademoiselle Lucie; but, as I was
leaving the room, he stepped up and inquired whether I had
any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette. The professor now
spolie politely, and even deferentially, and he looked apologetic
and repentant; but I could not recognise his civility at a
word, nor meet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion.
Never hitherto had I felt seriously disposed to resent his brusqucries, or freeze before his fierceness; what he had said tonight, however, I considered unwarranted: my extreme disapprobation of the proceeding must be marked, however
slightly. I merely said:"I am provided with attendance."
WVhich 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 to be saluted in classe by pupils
crossing his estrade.
Having sought my shavl I returned to the vestibule.
M. Emanuel stood there as if waiting. He observed that the
night was fine.
" Is it?"  I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness and fiostiness I could not but applaud.  It
was so seldom I could properly act out my own resolution to
be reserved and cool where I had been grieved or hurt, that I
felt almost proud of this one successful effort. That " Is it?"
sounded just like the manner of other people.  I had heard
hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, from the
pursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficirg,
misses and mesdemoiselles.  That M. Paul would not stand
any prolonged experience of this sort of dialogue I knew;
but he certainly merited a sample of the curt and arid. I
believe he thought so himself, for he took thb  dose quietly.
He looked at my shawl and objected to its lightness.  I decidedly told him  it was as heavy as I wished.  Receding
aloof, and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the.tairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a
dreary religious painting darkening the wall.
Ginevra was long in coming: tedious seemed her loitering
aM. Paul was still there, my ear expected from  his lips an
angry tone.  He came nearer.  "Now  for another hiss "'




TUE HIOTEL CR EC.                    325
thought I: had not the action been too uncivil  could have
stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of the thrill. Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur; it
is 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 profanely denominated Dr. Bretton), " who made your eyes so humid, and
your cheeks so hot as they are even now?"' I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited such emotion as you indicate," was my answer;
and in giving it, I again surpassed my usual self, and achieved
a neat, frosty falsehood.
" But what did I say?" he pursued, " tell me: I was angry: I have forgotten 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,
Mi'ss Lucy."
" M. Emanuel, I do forgive you."
" Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not
in that alien tone,' Mon ami, je vous pardonne."
He made me smile.  Who could help smiling at his wist
filness, his simplicity, his earnestness?
" Bon!" he cried; "Voila que le jour va poindre! Dites
done, mon ami."
" Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne."
"I will have no monsieur: speak the other word, or I shall
not believe you sincere: another effort —m-on ami, or else in
English,-my friend I"
Now, " my friend" had rather another sound and significancy than " mon ami," it did not breathe the same sense of
domestic and intimate affection: "zmon a.vi" I could not say
to M. Paul; "my friend," I could, and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for him, however, and he
was quite satisfied with the English phrase.  He smiled. You
should have seen him smile, reader; and you should have
marked the difference between his countenance now, and that
P




326                    VIXLET E.
he wore half an hour ago.  I cannot affirm that I hal e-ey
witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kincness round
M. Paul's lips, or in his eyes before.  The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, the passionately exultant, I had hundreds
of times seen him express by what he called a smile, but any
illuminated sign of milder or warmer feeling struck me as
wholly new in his visage.  It changed it as from a mask to
a face: the deep lines left 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 in any other
human face an equal metamorphosis from  a similar cause.
He now took me to the carriage; at the same moment M. de
Bassompierre came out with his niece.
In a pretty humor was Mistress Fanshawe; she had found
the evening a grand failure: completely upset as to temper,
she gave way to the most uncontrolled moroseness as soon as
we were seated, and the carriage-door closed.  Her invectives
against Dr. Bretton had something venomous in them. Hav
ing found herself impotent either to charm  or sting him;
hatred was her only resource; and this hatred she expressed
in terms so unmeasured and proportion so monstrous, that,
after listening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged
sense of justice at last and suddenly caught fire.  An explosion ensued; for I could be passionate, too; especially with
my present fair but faulty associate, who never failed to stir
the worst dregs of me. It was well the carriage-wheels made
a tremendous rattle over the flinty Choseville pavement, for I
can assure the reader there was neither dead silence nor calm
discussion within the vehicle.  Half in earnest, half in seeming, I made it my business to storm down Ginevra.  She had
set out rampant from the Rue Crecy; it was necessary to
tame her before we reached the Rue Fossette: to this end it
was indispensable to show up her sterling value and high doe
serts; and this must be done in language of which the fidelity
and homeliness might challenge comparison with the compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart.  This was the right
discipline for Ginevra; it suited her. I am quite sure she
went to bed that night all the better and more settled in mind
and mood, and slept all the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing.




THE WATORGUARD.                       327
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE WVATCHGUARD.
M. PAUL E MANUEL owned an acute sensitiveness to the
annoyance of interruption, from whatsoever cause, occurring
during his lessons: to pass through the classe under such circumstances was considered by the teachers and pupils of the
school, individually and collectively, to be 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 formidable estrade, like a ship dreading breakers. As
to Rosine, the portress —on whom, every half-hour, devolved
the fearful duty of fetching pupils out of the very heart of one
or other of the divisions, to take their music-lessons in the
oratory, the great or little salon, the saile a manger, or some
other piano-station-she would, upon her second or third at.
tempt, frequently become almost tongue-tied from excess of
consternation-a sentiment inspired by the unspeakable looke
levelled at her through a pair of dart-dealing spectacles.
One morning I was sitting in the carre, at work upon a
piece of embroidery which one of the pupils had commenced
but delayed to finish, and while my fingers wrought at the'frame, my ears regaled themselves with listening to the crescendos and cadences of a voice haranguing in the neighboring
classe, in tones that waxed momently more unquiet, more
ominously varied.  There was a good strong partition-wall
between me and the gathering storm, as well as a facile means
of. flight through the glass-door to the court, in case it swept
this way; so I am  afraid I derived more amusement than
alarm from these thickening symptoms. Poor Rosine was not
so safe: four times that blessed morning had she made the
passage of peril; and now, for the fifth time it became her
dangerous duty to snatch, as it were, a brand from the burning-a pupil from under M. Paul's nose.
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried she.  " Que vais-je deve
nir?  Monsieur va me tuer, je suis sure; car il est d'ume
colera!"




323                    VI LLETTE.
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, this
voice uttered itself:"Des ce moment I-la classe est defendue.  La premiere
qui ouvrira cette porte, ou passera par cette division, sera pendue-fut-ce Madame Beck elle-mdme!"
Ten minutes had not succeeded the promulgation of this
lecree, when Rosine's French pantoufles were again heard
shuffling along the corridor.
"Mademoiselle," said she, "I would not for a five franc
piele go into that classe again just now: Monsieur's lunettes
are really terrible; and here is a commissionaire come with
a message from  the Athndee.  I have told Madame Beck I
dare not deliver it, and she says I am to charge you with it."
" Me?  No, that is rather too bad!  It is not in my line
of duty.  Come, come, Rosine I 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 M'en puis plus 1"
"' 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 tbe Athenee, as there is an official visitor-inspector-I know not
what-arrived, and Monsier mzust meet him: you know how
he hates a must."
"Yes, I knew  well enough.  The restive little man de.
tested spur or curb: against whatever was urgent or obliga
tory, he was sure to revolt. However, I accepted the responsibility-not, certainly, without fear, b it fear blent with other
sentiments, curiosity amongst them.  I opened the door, I
entered, I closed it behind me as quickly and quietly as;
rather unsteady hand would permit; for to be slow or bust 
ling, to rattle a latch, or leave a door gaping wide, were
aggravations of crime, often more disastrous in result than
the main crime itself.  There I stood then, and there he
sat; his humor was visibly bad-almost at its worst; he
had been giving a lesson in arithmetic-for he gave lessons
on any and every subject that struck his fancy-and arithmetic being a dry subject, invar:ably disagreed with him:




THE WATCHIGUARD.                        329
n.ot a pupil but trembled when he spoke of figures.  He sat
bentl above his desk: to look up at the sound of an entrance,
at the occurrence of a direct breach of his will and law, was
an effort he could 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 my idiosyncracy far better to encounter
the near burst of anger like his, than to hear its menace at a
distance.
At his estrade I paused, just in front; of course I was not
worthy of immediate attention: he proceeded with his lesson.
Disdain would not do: he must hear and he must answer my
message.
Not being quite tall enough to lift my head over his desk,
elevated upon the estrade, and thus suffering eclipse in my
present position, I ventured to peep round, with the design, at
first, of merely getting a better view of his face, which had
struck me when I entered as bearing a close and picturesque
resemblance to that of a black and sallow tiger.  Twice did
I enjoy this side-view with impunity, advancing and receding
unseen; the third time my eye had scarce dawned beyond the
obscuration of the desk, when it was caught and tranfixed
through its very pupil-transfixed by the " lunettes."  Rosine
was right; these utensils had in them a blank and immutable
terror, beyond the mobile wrath 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 in his presence, I felt no terror at all; for upon his
demanding cord and gibbet to execute the sentence recently
pronounced, I was able to furnish him with a needleful of embroidering thread with such accommodating civility as could
not but allay some portion at least of his surplus irritation.
Of course I did not parade this courtesy before public view:
I merely handed the thread around the angle of the desk, and
attached it, ready noosed, to the barred back of the Professor's
chair.
" Que me voulez-vous? " said he, in a growl of which the
music was wholly confined to his chest and throat, for ha




330                   VILLET TE.
kept his teeth clenched, and seemed registering t( himself ai
inward vow, that nothing earthly should wring from him a
smile. My answer commenced uncompromisingly:"Monsieur," Isaid, "je veux l'impossible. des choses inouies;"
and thinking it best not to mince matters, but to administer
thie " douche" with decision, in a low but quick voice, I de.
livered the Athenian message, floridly exaggerating its urgency.
Of course he would not hear a word of it.  " He would not
go; he would not leave his present class, let all the officials
in Villette send for him.  He would not put himself an inch
out of his way at the bidding of king, cabinet, and chambers
together."
"I knew, however, that he must go; that, talk as he
would, both his duty and interest commanded an immediate
and literal compliance with the summons: I stood, therefore,
waiting in silence, as if he had not 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 grim repose on the window-sill.  He followed this daring
movement with his eye, no doubt in mixed pity and amazement at its presumption.
"Ah!" he muttered, "if it came to that-if Miss Lucy
meddled with his bonnet-grec-she might just put it on herself, turn garcon for the occasion, and benevolently go to the
Athenee in his stead."
VWith great respect, I laid the bonnet on the desk, where its
tassel seemed to give me an awful nod.
" I'll write a note of apology-that will do?" said he, still
bent on evasion.
Knowing well it would not do, I gently pushed the bonnet
towards his hand. Thus impelled, it slid down the polished
slope of the varnished and unbaized desk, carried before it the
light steel-framed "lunettes," and, fearful to relate, they fell
to the estrade. A score 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 so fell that each clear pebble became
a shivered and shapeless star.
Now, indeed, dismay seized me-dismay and regret.




THE WATC-IGUARD.                       331
knew the value of those "lunettes:" M. Paul's sight was pe.
culiar, not easy fitted, and these glasses suited him.  I had
neard him call them his treasures: as I picked them up, cracked
arnd worthless, my hand trembled.  Frightened through all
my nerves I was too see the mischief I had done, but I thinki
I was even more sorry than afraid. For some seconds I dared
not look the bereaved Professor in the face; he was the first
to speak.
La!" said he: " me voila veuf de mes lunettes! I think
Mademoiselle Lucy will now confess that the chord and gallows are amply earned; she trembles in anticipation of her
doom.  Ah, traitress! traitress! You are resolved to have
me quite blind and helpless in your hands!"
I lifted my eyes: hi face, instead of being irate, lowering,
and furrowed, was overflowing with the smile, colored with
the bloom I had seen brightening it that evening at the Hotel
Crecy.  He was not angry —not even grieved.  For the real
injury he showed himself full of clemency; under the real
provocation, patient as a saint. This event, which seemed so
untoward-which I thought had ruined at once my chance
of successful persuasion-proved my best help.  Difficult of
management so long as I had done him no harm, he became
graciously pliant as soon as 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 one who had given such an instance of her dangerous prowess; it was absolutely like the " grand Empereur,
smashing the vase to inspire dismay."  So, at last, crowning
himself with his bonnet-grec, and taking his ruined " lunettes'
ifom my hand with a clasp of kind pardon and encouragement
he made his bow, and went off to the Athelne in first-rats
humor and spirits.
After all this amiability, the reader will be sorry for my sake
to hear that I was quarrelling with M. Paul again before
night; yet so it was, and I could not help it.
It was his occasional custom-and a very laudable, accept
atle custom, too —to arrive of an evening, always a l'impr>




33 2                   V ILLETTE.
viste, unanlnounced, burst in on the silent hour of study
establish a sudden despotism  over us and our occupationl,
cause books to be put away, work-bags to be brought out, and,
drawing forth a single thick volume, or a handful of panm.
phlets, substitute for the besotted " lecture pieuse," drawled by
a sleepy pupil, some tragedy made grand by grand reading,
ardent by fiery action —some drama, whereof, for my part, 1
arely studied the intrinsic merit; for M. Emanuel made it a
vessel for an outpouring, and filled it with his native verve
and passion like a cup with a vital brewage. Or else he would
flash through our conventual darkness a reflex of a brighter
world, show us a glimpse of the current literature of the day,
read us passages from some enchanting tale, or the last witty
feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloons of
Paris; taking care always to expunge, with the severest hand,
whether from  tragedy, melo-drama, tale, or essay, whatever
passage, phrase, or word, could be deemed unsuited to an
audience of "jeunes filles."  I noticed more than once, that
where retrenchment without substitute would have left unmeaning vacancy, or introduced weakness, he could, and did,
improvise whole paragraphs, no less vigorous than irreproachable: the dialogue-the description-he engrafted was often
far 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 my work; it was a slight matter of fancy,
and it rather interested me; it had a purpose; I was not doing it merely to kill time; I meant it when finished as a gift.
and the occasion of presentation being near, haste was requisite, and my fingers were busy.
We heard the sharp bell-peal which we all knew; then
the rapid step familiar to each ear: the words " Voila Mon
sieur!" had scarcely broken simultaneously from  every lip,
when the two-leaved door split (as split it always did for his
admission-such a slow word as " open " is inefficient to describe his movements), andi he stood in the midst of us.
There were two study-tables, both long and flanked with
benches; over the centre of each hung a lamp; beneath this
lamp, on either side the table, sat a teacher; the girls were
arranged to the right hand and the left; the eldest and
most studious nearest the lampls or tropics; the idlers and lit




THE WATCOHGUARD.                       333
tie ones towards the north and south poles.  Monsieur s habit
was politely to hand a chair to some teacher, generally Zelie
St. Pierre, the senior mistress; then to take.her vacated seat
and thus avail himsel' of the fill beam of Cancer or Capricorn, which, owing to his near sight, he needed.
As usual, Zelie rose with alacrity, smiling to the whole extent of her mouth, and the full display of her upper and under
rows of teeth-that strange smile which passes from ear to
ear, and is marked only by a sharp thin curve, which fails to
spread over the countenance, and neither dimples the cheek
nor lights the eye.  I suppose monsieur did not see her, or he
had taken a whim that he would not notice her, for he was
as capricious as women are said to be; then his " lunettes"
(he had got another pair) served him as an excuse for all sorts
of little oversights and short-comings.  Whatever may be his
reason, he passed by Zelie, came to the other side of the table,
and before I could start up to clear the way, whispered, " Ne
bougez pas," and established himself between me and Miss
Fanshawe, who always would be my neighbor, and have her
elbow in my side, however often I declared to her"Ginevra, I wish you were at Jericho."
It was easy to say, "Ne bougez pas; but how could I help
it?  I must make him room, and I must request the pupil:
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, and harassing my very heart with
her fidgetings and pokings, obliging me, indeed, sometimes to
put an artful pin in my girdle by way of protection against
her elbow; but I suppose M. Emanuel was not to be subjected
to the same kind of treatment, so I swept away my working
materials, to clear space for his book, and withdrew  myselft
to make room for his person; not, however, leaving more than
a yard of interval, just what any reasonable man would have
regarded as a convenient, respectful allowance of bench. But
M. Emanuel never was reasonable; flint and tinder that he
vis! he struck and took fire directly.
1 Vous ne voulez pas de moi pour voisin," he growled:'rous vous donnez des airs de caste; vous me traitez en,'ria;'  he scowled.' Soit! je vais arranger la chose "'
A nd he set to work.
Ievez vous toutes, mesdemoiselles!" cried he.
P 2




334                    V i-LLETTE.
The girls rose. I-e made them all file off to the,lther table.
He then placed me at one extremity of the long bench, and
having duly and carefully brought me my work-basket, silk,
ecissors, all my implements, he fixed himself quite at the
other end.
At tllis arrangement, highly absurd as it was, not a soul in
the room dared to laugh; luckless for the giggler would have
been the giggle.  As for me, I took it with entire coolness.
There I sat, isolated and cut off from human intercourse; I
sat and minded my work, and was quiet, 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 cree 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 ot
what he called "un drame de Williams Shackspire; le faux
dieu," he further announced, " de ces sots paiens, les Anglais."
How far otherwise he would have characterized him had his
temper not been upset, I scarcely need intimate.
Of course, the translation being French, was very inefficient; nor did I make any particular effort to conceal the contempt which some of its forlorn lapses were calculated to excite. Not that it behoved or beseemed me to say anything;
but one can occasionally look the opinion it is forbidden to
embody in words.  Monsieur's lunettes being on the alert, he
gleaned up every stray look; I don't think he lost one: the
consequence was, his eyes soon discarded a screen, that their
blaze might sparkle free, and he waxed hotter at the north
pole to which he had voluntarily exiled himself, than, considering the general temperature of the room, it would have been
reasonable to become under the vertical ray of Cancer itself.
Ahe reading over, it appeared problematic whether he
would depart with his anger unexpressed, or whether he
would give it vent. Suppression was not much in his habits;
but still, what had been done to him definite enough to afford
matter for overt reproof? I had not uttered a sound, and could
not justily be deemed amenable to reprimand or penalty for
having permitted a slightly freer action than usual tU  thbi
muscles about my eyes and mouth




TH E WATCH a    UARD                 33S
The supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted  with tepid
water, was brought in. In respectful consideration of the professor's presence, the rolls and glasses were allowed to stand
instead of being immediately handed round.
"Take your supper, ladies," said he, seeming to be occupied
in making marginal notes to his " Williams Shackspire."
They took it. I also accepted a roll and glass, but being now
more than ever interested in my work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched my bread 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 a nature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul
absorbed all feverish and unsettling influences like a magnet,
and left me none but such as were placid and harmonious.
He rose. " Will he go away without saying another word?"
Yes; he turned to the door.
No: he e-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take
his pencil-case, which had been left on the table.
He took it-shut the pencil in and out, broke its point
against the wood, re-cut and pocketed it, and.....walked
promptly up to me.
The girls and teachers, gathered round the other table
were talking pretty freely; they always tallred at meals; and,
from the constant habit of speaking fast and loud at such
times, did not now subdue their voices much.
IM. Paul came and stood behind me.  He asked at what I
was working; I said I was making a watchguard.
He asked, "For whom?"  And I answered, "For a gen.
tleman-one of my friends."
M. Paul stooped down and proceeded-as novel-writers say,
and as was literally true in his case-to " hiss " into my ear
some poignant words.
Iie said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one
whd could make herself the most consummately unpleasant; I
was she with whom it was least possible to live on friendly
Lterms.  I had a "caractere intraitable" and perverse to a
miracle.  How  I managed it, or what possessed me, he,
for his part, did not know; but with whatever pacific and
amicable intentions a person accosted me-crac   I turned
noncord to discord, good-wili to enmity.  He was sure, he —




8331' VILLETTE
M. Paul-wished me well enough; he had ne er done me any
harm that he knew of; he might, at least, he supposed, claim a
right to be regarded as a neutral acquaintance, guiltless of
hostile sentiments: yet, how I behaved to him    With what
pungent vivacities —what an impetus of mutiny-wvhat a
fougue" of injustice I
Here I could not avoid opening my eyes somewhat wide,
ani even slipping in a slight interjectional observation:
" Vivacities? Inmetus?  Fougue? I didn't know...  "
" Chut! a Finstant! There! there I went-vive comme
la poudre!"  He was sorry —he was very sorry: for my sake
he grieved over the hapless peculiarity. This "emportement,"
this " (haeur"-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
" en l'air," less " coquette," less taken by show, less prone to
set an undue value on outside excellence-to make much of
the attentions of people remarkable chiefly for so many feet of
stature, " des couleurs de poupee," " un nez plus ou moins biell'ait," and an enormous amount of fatuity-I might yet prove
an useful, perhaps an exemplary, character.  But, as it was
- And here, the little man's voice was for a minute choked.
I would have looked up at him, or held out my hand, or
said a soothing word; but I was afraid, if I stirred, I should
either laugh or cry; so odd, 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 on at his ease.
"While he, M. Paul, was on these painful topics, he would
dare my anger for the sake of my good, and would venture
to refer to a change he had noticed in my dress. He was free
to confess that when he first knew me-or rather, was in the
habit of catching a passing glimpse of me from time to time
-I satisfied him on this point: the gravity, the austere simplicity, obvious in this particular, were such as to inspire tlhe
highest hopes for my best interests. What fatal influence had
inpelled me lately to introduce flowers under the brim of my
bonnet, to wear' des cols brod6s,' and even to appear on one
occasion in a scarlet gown      he might indeed conjecture
but. for the present, would not openly declare."




THE WATCIIGUARD.                         337
Again I interrupted, and this time not without an accclt
at once indirgnant and horror-struck.
"Scarlet, Mionsieur Paul?  It was not scarlet I It was pink
mnd pale pink, too; and fuither subdued by black lace."
"Pink or scarlet, yellow or crimson, pea-green or sky-blue;
it was all one. those were all flaunting, giddy colors; and
as to the lace I talked of, that was but a'colifichet de plus.'"
Anld he sighed aver my degeneracy.  " He could not, he was
sorry to say, be so particular on this theme as he could wish:
not poss3ssing ile exact names of these' babioles,' he might
run into smaD_ verbal errors which would not fail to lay him
open to my sarcasm, and excite my unhappily sudden anit
passionate disposition,  lie  would  merely say, in general
terms-and in these general terms he knew he was correctthat my costume had of late assumed' des facons mondaines,'
which it wounded him to see."
What "facons mondaines' he discovered in my present win.
ter merino and plain white collar, I own it puzzled me to guess 
alnd when I asked him, he said it was all made with too
1much attention to affect-and besides, " had I not a bow  of
cibbon at my neck?"
" And if you condemn a bow of ribbon for a lady, monsieur
you would necessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a,rentlternri?"-holding up mybright little chainlet of silk and,cld.  His sole reply was a groan-I suppose over my levity.
After sitting some minutes in silence, alnd watching the
progress of the chain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, he inquired;' Whether what he had just said would have the effect of
making me entirely detest him?"
I hardly remember what answer I made, or how  it came
about; I don't think I spoke at all, but I know we managed
to bid good-night on friendly terms: and, even after M. Paul
had reached the door, he turned back just to explain, "that
he would not be understood to speak in entire condemnation
of the scarlet dress" (Pink! pink I" I threw  in); " that he
had no intention to deniy it the merit of looking rather well"
(the fact was, M. Emanuel's taste in colors decidedly leant to
the brilliant); "only he wished to counsel me, whenever I
wore it, to do so in the same spirit as if its material weru
bure,' and its hue' gris de poussire.'"




338                    VILLETTE.
" And the flowers under my bonnet, monsieur.'  I asked.
" They are very little 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.
A-d so we settled it.' Well done, Lucy Snowe!" cried I to myself, "you have
come in for a pretty lecture-brought on yourself a'rude
savon,' and all through your wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it?  You deemed yourself
a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawe there regards you as a second Diogenes.  M. de Bassompierre, the
other day, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the
wild gifts of the actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said,
Mliss Snowe looked uncomfortable.'  Dr. John Bretton knows
you only as' quiet Lucy'-' a creature inoffensive as a shadow;'
he has said, and you have heard him  say it:'Lucy's disadvantages spring fiom  over-gravity in tastes and mannerwant of color in character and costume.' Such are your own
and your friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a
little man, differing diametrically from all these, roundly
charging you with being too airy and cheery-too volatile and
versatile-too flowery and colory.  This harsh little manthis pitiless censor-gathers up all your poor scattered sins of
vanity, your luckless chiffon of rose-color, 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 for each item. You
are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow inl Life's sunshine: it is a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand tc
scrnen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray




MONSItUR'    FEET                       339
CHAPTER XX1X.
MONSIEUR'S FETE.
I WAs  up the next morning an hour before Jaybreak, and
DMished my guard, kneeling on the dormitory floor beside the
centre stand, for the benefit of such expiring glimmer as the
night-lamp afforded in its last watch.
All my materials-my whole stock of beads and silk-were
bised up before the chain assumed the length and richness I
wished; I had wrought it double, as I knew, by the rule of
contraries, that to suit the particular taste whose gratification
was in view, an effective appearance was quite indispensable.
As a finish to the ornament, a little gold clasp was needed;
fortunately I possessed it in the fastening of my sole necklace;
I duly detached and re-attached it, then coiled compactly the
completed guard, and enclosed it in a small box I had bought
for its brilliancy, made of some tropic shell of the color called
"nacarat," and decked with a little coronal of sparkling blue
stone. Within the lid of the box, I carefully graved with my
cissors' point certain initials.
The reader will, perhaps, remember the description of
MIadame Beck's fete; nor will he have forgotten that at each
anniversary, a handsome present was subscribed for and offered
by the school.  The observance of this day was a distinction
accorded to none but Madame, and, in a modified form, to her
kinsman and counsellor, M. Emanuel.  In the latter case it
was an honor spontaneously awarded, not plotted and contrived
beforehand, and offered an additional proof, amongst many
others, of the estimation in which-despite his partialities,
prejudices, and irritabilities-the professor of literature was
held by his pupils.  No article of value was offered to him:
he distinctly gave it to be understood, that he would accept
neither plate nor jewelry. Yet he liked a slight tribute: the,ost, the money-value, di I not touch him: a diamaud ring, a




840                    VILLETTE.
gold snuf-box, presented with pomp, would have pleased hirm
less than a flower, or a drawing, offered simply and with sincere feelings.  Such was his nature.  He was a man, not
wise in his generation, yet could he claim a filial syrmpath
with "the dayspring on high."
M. Paul's fete fell on the first of March and a Thursday.
It proved a fine sunny day, and being likewise the morning on
which it was customary to attend mass; being also otherwise
distinguished by the half holiday which permitted the priviege of walking out, shopping, or paying visits in the afternoon 
these combined considerations induced a general smartness
and freshness of dress.  Clean collars were in vogue; the
ordinary dingy woollen class-dress was exchanged for something lighter and clearer.  Mademoiselle Zdlie St. Pierre, on
this particular Thursday, even assumed a  " robe de sole,"
deemed in economical Labassecour an article of hazardous
splendor and luxury; nay, it was remarked that she sent for
a " coiffeur" to dress her hair that morning; there were pupils acute enough to discover that she had bedewed her handkerchief and her hands with a new and fashionable peruhme.
Poor Zelie! It was much her wont to declare about this
time that she was tired to death of a life of seclusion and labor; that she longed to have the means and leisure fbr relaxation; to have some one to work for her-a husband who
would pay her debts (she was wofully encumbered with debt),
supply her wardrobe, and leave her at liberty, as she said, tc
"gouter un peu lIs plaisirs."  It had long been runored, that
her eye was upon Mi. Emanuel.  Monsieur Emanuel's eye
was certainly often upon her.  He would sit and watch her
perseveringly for minutes together.  I have seen him give her
a quarter of an hour's gaze, while the class was silently conil
posing, and he sat throned on his estrade, unoccupied.  Conscious always of this basilisk attention, she would writhe under
it, half-flattered, half-puzzled, and Monsieur would follow her
sensations, sometimes looking appallingly acute; for in some
cases, he had the terrible unerring penetration of instinct, and
pierced in its hiding-place the last lurking thought of the
heart, and discerned under florid veilings the bare, barren
places of the spirit: yes, and its perverted tendencies, and its
hidden false curves-all that men and women would not have
knownt-he t.wisted spine, lthe mal-forrned limb that was born




I ONSIEUR' S FETE,                    341
witn the im, and far worse, the stain or disfigurement they have
perhaps brought on themselves.  No calamity so accursed but
Ml. Emanuel could pity and forgive, if it were acknowledged
candidly; but where his questioning eyes met dishonest denial-where his ruthless researches found deceitful concealment-oh, then, he could be cruel, and I thought wicked 
he could exultantly snatch the screen from poor shrinking
wretches, passionately hurry them to the summit of the mount
of exposure, and there show them all naked, all false-poor
living lies-the spawn of that horrid Truth which cannot be
looked on unveiled.  He thought he did justice; for my part
I doubt whether man has a right to do such justice on man:
more than once in these his visitations, I have felt compelled
to give tears to his victims, and not spared ire and keen reproach to himself.  He deserved it; but it was difficult to
shake him in his firm conviction that the work was righteous
and needed.
Breakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell
rung and the rooms filled: a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe.  Pupils and teachers sat neatly arrayed,
orderly, and expectant, each bearing in her hand the bouquet
of felicitation-the prettiest spring-flowers all fiesh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had no bouquet.  I:like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they
cease to please.  I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad.  I never offer
flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive then  from
hands dear to me.  Mademoiselle St. Pierre marked my
empty hands-she could not believe I had been so remiss 
with avidity her eye rolled over and round me: surely I must
have some solitary symbolic flower somewhere: some small
knot of violets, something to win to myself praise for taste,
commendation for ingenuity. The unimaginative "Anglaise"
proved better than the Parisienne's fears: she sat literally
unprovided, as bare of bloom or leaf as the winter tree. This
ascertained, Zdlie smiled well pleased.
"How wisely you have acted, to keep your money, Miss
I ucie," said she: " silly I have gone and thrown away two
I;rncs on a bouquet of hot-house flowers!"
And she showed with pride her splendid nosegay.
Blat hu1 h! a step: the step.  It came prompt, as usuar




342                    VILLETTE.
but with a promptitude, we felt disposed to flatter ourselves
inspired by other feelings than mere excitability of nerve, and
vehemence of intent.  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 the already well-lit first-classe. The morning light
playing amongst our plants and laughing on our walls, caught
an added lustre from M. Paul's all-benignant salute.  Like a
true Frenchman (though I don't know why I should say so,
for he was of strain neither French nor Labassecourien), he
had dressed for the "situation" and the occasion. Not by the
vague folds, sinister and conspirator-like, of his soot-dark paletot were the outlines of his person obscured; on the contrary,
his figure (such as it was, I don't boast of it) was well set off
by a civilized coat and a silken vest quite pretty to behold.
The defiant and pagan bonnet-grec had vanished: bare-headed
he came upon us, carrying a Christian hat in his gloved hand.
The little man looked well, very well; there was a clearness
of amity in his blue eye, and a glow of good feeling on his dark
complexion, which passed perfectly in the place of beauty:
one really did not care to observe that his nose, though far from
small, was of no particular shape, his cheek thin, his brow
marked and square, his mouth no rosebud: one accepted him
as he was, and felt his presence the reverse of damping or insignificant.
He passed to his desk; he placed on the same his hat and
gloves. " Bon jour, mes aries," said he, in a tone that somehow made ends amto some amongst us for many a sharp snap
and savage snarl: not a jocund, good-fellow tone, still less an
unctuous priestly accent, but a voice he had belonging to himself
-a voice used when his heart passed the word to 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 a man's tenderness; a place that humbled him to little
Ah'ldren, that bound him to girls and women: to whom, rebel
as he would, he could not disown his affinity, nor quite deny
that, on the whole, he was better with them  than with his
own sex.
" We all wish Monsieur a go)d-day, and present to him ouT
congratulations on the anniversary of his fete," said Mademroi



MONSIEUR'S FETE.                     343
selle Zelic, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly;
and advancing, with no more twists of affectation than with
her were indispensable to the achievement of motion, she laid
her costly bouquet before him.  He bowed over it.
The long train of offerings followed: all the pupils, sweeping past with the gliding step foreigners practise, left their
tributes as they went by. Each girl so dexterously adjusted
her separate gift that, when the last bouquet was laid on the
desk, it formed the apex to a blooming pyramid-a pyramid
blooming, spreading, and towering with such exuberance as,
in the end, to eclipse the hero behind it. This ceremony over,
seats were resumed, and we sat in dead silence, expectant of
a speech.
I suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush
remained unbroken; ten-and there was no sound.
Many present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited: as well they might. Voiceless and viewless,
stirless and wordless, he kept his station behind the pile of
flowers.
At last there issued forth a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke
out of a hollow:
" Est-ce la tout?"
Mademoiselle Zelie looked round.
" You have all presented your bouquets?" inquired she of
the pupils.
Yes; they had all given their nosegays from the eldest to
the youngest, from the tallest to the most diminutive.  The
senior mistress signified as much.
" Est-ce la tout?" was reiterated in an intonation which,
deep before, had now descended some notes lower.
" Monsieur," said Mademoiselle St. Pierre, rising, and this
time speaking with her own sweet smile, " I have the honor
to tell you that, with a single exception, every person in
classe has offered her bouquet.  For Meess Lucie, Monsieur
will kindly make allowance; as a foreigner, she probably did
not know our customs, or did not appreciate their significance.
RIIess Lucie has regarded this ceremony as too frivolous to
be honored by her observance."
" Famous!" I muttered between my teeth,' you are no
Dad speaker, Zeiie, when you begin."
The answer vouchsafed to M[ademoiselle St. Pierre from




344                     VILLETTE.
the estrade, was given in the gesticulation of a hand fromt
behind the pyramid.  This manual action seemed to depre.
cate words, to enjoin silence.
A form, ere long, followed the hand. lMonsieur emerged
from  his eclipse; and producing himself upon the front of
his estrade, and gazing straight and fixedly before him at a
vast " mappe-monde" covering the wall opposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragic tones:
" Est-ce la tout?"
I might yet have made all right, by stepping forwards and
slipping into his hand the ruddy little shell- box I, at that moment held tight in my own.  It was what I had fully purposed to do; but, first, the comic side of Monsieur's behaviour
had tempted me to delay, and now, Mademoiselle St. Pierre's
affected interference provoked contumacy.  The reader not
having hitherto had any cause to ascribe to Miss Snowe's
character the most distant pretension to perfection, will be
scarcely surprised to learn that she felt too perverse to defend
herself fiom  any imputation the Parisienne might choose to
insinuate: and besides, M. Paul was so tragic, and took my
defection seriously, he deserved to be vexed.  I kept, then,
both my box and my countenance, and sat insensate as any
stone.
" It is well!" dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul;
and having uttered this phrase, the shadow  of some great
paroxysm-the swell of wrath, scorn, resolve-passed over
his brow, rippled his lips, and lined his cheeks.  Gulping
down all further comment, he launched into his customary
"discours."
I can't at all remember what this "discours" was; I did
not listen to it: the gulping-down process, the abrupt dis.
missal of his mortification or vexation, had given me a sensation which half:counteracted the ludicrous effect of the reiterated " Est-ce 1a tout?"
Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing di'
version; my attention was again amusingly arrested.
Owing to some little accidental movement-I think  I
dropped my thimble on the floor, and in stooping to regain it,
hit the crown of my head against the sharp corner of my
desk; wrhich casualties (exaspelatirng to me, by rights, if' t
anybody) naturally made a slight bustle-M. Paul becamne




MONSIEUR'S FETE.                        345
irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity, an I casti. g to
the winds that dignity and self-control with   hich he never
cared lung to encumber himself, he broke forth into the strain
best calculated to give him ease.
I don't know how, in the progress of his " discours," he
had contrived to cross the channel, and land on British ground;
but there I found him when I began to listen.
Casting a quick, cynical glance round the room-a glance
which scathed, or was intended to scathe, as it crossed mehe fell with fury upon " les Anglaises."
Never have I heard English women handled as Mi. Paul
that morning handled them: he spared nothing-neither
their minds, morals, manners, nor personal appearance.  I
specially remember his abuse of their tall stature, their long
necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their pedantic
education, their impious scepticism (!), their insufferable pride,
their pretentious virtue: over which he ground his teeth
malignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have
said singular things.  Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage;
and, as a natural consequence, detestably ugly.
"Little wicked venomous man I" thought I; "am I going
to harass myself with fears of displeasing,you., or hurting
your feelings?  No, indeed; you shall be indifferent to me,
as the shabbiest bouquet in your pyramid."
I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution.
For some time the abuse of England and the English found
and left me stolid: I bure it some fifteen minutes stoically
enough; but this hissing cockatrice was determined to sting,
and he said such things at last —fastening not only upon our
women, but upon our greatest names and best men; sullying
the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the union-jack in mud
-that I was stung.  With vicious relish he brought up the
most spicy current continental historical falsehoods  than
which nothing can be conceived more offensive.  Zelie, and
the whole class, became one grin of vindictive delight; for it
is curious to discover how these clowns of Labassecour secretly
hate England.  At last I struck a sharp stroke on my desk,
opened my lips, and let loose this cry:
"Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Heros!  A  has la
France, la Fiction et les Faquins!"
The class was struck of a heap.  I suppose they thought




8346                     IVILLETT.
me mad.  The professor put up his handkerchief, and fieind
ishly smiled into its folds. Little monster of malice! He
now thought he had got the victory, since he had made me
a.ngry.  In a second he became good-humored.  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 "jeunes
filles " 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 balmy morning in spring, he intended to take
the whole class out to breakfast in the country.  " Such of the
class, at least," he added, with emphasis, " as he could count
amongst the number of his friends."
"Done je n'y serai pas," declared I, involuntarily.
" Soit!" was his response, and, gathering his flowers in
his arms, he flashed out of classe; while I, consigning my
work, scissors, thimble, and the neglected little box, to my
desk, swept up-stairs.  I don't know whether ie felt hot and
angry, but I am free to confess that I did.
Yet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour
on the edge of my bed, picturing and repicturing his look,
manner, words, ere I smiled at the whole scene.  A little
pang of regret I underwent that the box had not been offered.
I had meant to gratify him.  Fate would not have it so.
In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in
elasse were by no means inviolate repositories, and thinking
that it was as well to 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-these foreigners must
always have a string of baptismals-I descended to the schoolroom.
It slept in holiday repose. The day-pupils were all gone
home, the boarders were out walking, the teachers, except
the surveillante of the week, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite of divisions was vacant; so was the grande
salle, with its huge solemn globe hanging in the midst, its
pair of many-branched chandeliers, and its horizontal grand
piano, closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I rather
wondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room  being
isually locked when empty, and being then inaccessible t3




MONSIEUR'S FETF                      347
any save Madame Beck and myself, who possessed a dull cate
Key.  I wondered still more, oil approaching, to hear a vague
movement as of life-a step, a chair stirred, a sound like the
opening of a desk.
"It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty," was the
conclusion following a moment's reflection. The partially.
opened door gave opportunity fbr assurance on this point. I
looked.  Behold! not the inspecting garb of Madame Beck —
the shawl and the clean cap-but the coat, and the closeshorn, dark head of a man.  This person occupied my chair;
his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to view
amongst my papers.  His back was towards me, but there
could not be a moment's question about identity.  Already
was the attire of ceremony discarded: the cherished and inkstained palet6t was resumed; the perverse bonnet-grec lay
on the floor, as if just dropped from the hand, culpably busy.
Now I knew, and had long known, that that hand of M.
Emanuel's was on intimate terms with my desk; that it
raised and lowered the lid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as my own.  The fact was not
dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he left signs of each visit
palpable and unmistakeable; hitherto, however, I had never
caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect
the hours and moments of his coming.  I saw the brownie's
work, in exercises left over-night full of faults, and found next
morning carefully corrected: I profited by his capricious goodwill in loans full welcome and refreshing.  Between a sallow
dictionary and worn-out grammar would magically grow a
fresh interesting new work, or a classic, mellow and sweet in
its ripe age.  Out of my work-basket would laughingly peep
a romance, under it would lurk the pamphlet, the magazine,
whence last evening's reading had been extracted.  Impossible to doubt the source whence these treasures flowed: had
there been no other indication, one condemning and traitor
peculiarity common to them  all, settled the question-they
smelt of cigars. This was very shocking, of course: Ithowght
so at first, and used to open the window with some bustle, to
air my desk, and with fastidious finger and thumb, to hold the
peccant brochures forth to the purifying breeze.  I was cured
of that formality suddenly.  Monsieur caught me at it one
day, understood the inference, instantly relieved my hand of




348                    VILLET  E.
ts burden, and, in another moment, would havl thiust tha
amne into the glowing stove.  It chanced to be a book, on the
perusal of which I was bent; so for once I proved as decided
and quicker than himself, recaptured the spoil, and-having
saved this volume-never hazarded a second.  With all this
I had never yet been able to arrest in his visits the freakish,
friendly, cigar-loving phantom.
But now at last I had him: there he was-the very brow.
nie himself; and there, curling fiom his lips, was the pale
blue breath of his Indian darlin: 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 last hel
strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn-I
softly stole forward, and stood behind him, bent with precaution over his shoulder.
My heart smote me to see that-after this morning's ho-.
tility, after my seeming remissness, after the puncture experienced by his feelings, and the ruffling undergone by his temper
-he, all-willing to forget and forgive, had brought me a couple
of handsome volumes, of which the title and authorship were
guarantees for interest.  Now, as he sat bending above the
desk, he was stirring up its contents; but with gentle and
careful hand: disarranging indeed, but not harming.  My
heart smote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious,
doing me what good he could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning's anger quite melted: I did
not dislike Professor Emanuel.
I think he heard me breathe.  He turned suddenly: his
temnperament was nervous, yet he never started and seldom
changed color; there was something 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? Not I. I often visit your desk."
"Monsieur, I know it."
"You find a brochure or a 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."




MONSIEUR'S FETE.                      349
"Without pleasure?"
" Monsieur must not be contradicted."
"Do you like them, or any of them?-are they acceptas
ble?"
" Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and
knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those
he provides."
" I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive
rome little amusement 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 into classe happy; you spigled my day."
" No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally."
"Unintentionally!  No.  It was my fete-day, everybody
wished me happiness but you.  The little children of the
third division gave each her 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?  You would willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give me pleasure, had you been aware
that it was expected?  Say so, and all is forgotten, and the
pain soothed."
" I did know that it was expected: I::s prepared; yet I
laid out no centimes on flowers."
"It is well-you do right to be honest  I should almost
have hated you, had you flattered and lied. Better declare at
once-' Paul Carl Emanuel-je te deteste, mon gardon'than smile an interest, look an affection, and he false and
cold at heart. False and cold, I don't think you are; but you
have made a great mistake in life, that I believe: I think
your judgment is warped-that you are indifferent where 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 you to have a passion for me, Mademoiselle; Dieu
vous en garde!  What do you start for?   Because I said
passion?  Well, I say it again.  There is such a word, and
there is such a thing —though not within these wa.ls, thank
Q




350                    VILLETTE.
Heaven! You are no child that one should not speak ci
what exists; but I only uttered the word-the thing, I assure
you, is alien to my whole life and views. It died in the past
— in the present it lies buried-its grave is deep-dug, wellheaped, and many winters old: in the future there will be a
resurrection, as I believe to my soul's consolation; but all
will then be changed-form and feeling; the mortal will have
put on immortality-it will rise, not for earth, but heaven.
All I say to you, Miss Lucy Snowe, is-that you ought to
treat Professor Paul Emanuel decently.
I could not, and did not, contradict such a sentiment.'Tell me," he pursued, "when it is your fite-day, and I
will not 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 Monsieur had been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle
St. Pierre less interfering-perhaps I should say,.too, if I had
been calmer and wiser-I should have given it then."
He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright
azure circlet, pleased his eye. I told him to open it.
"My initials!" said he, indicating the letters in the lid.
"Who told you I was called Carl David?"
"A little bird, monsieur."
"Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message
under its wing when needful?"
He took out the chain —a trifle indeed as to value, but
glossy with silk and sparkling with beads.  He liked that too
— admired it artlessly, 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 b,
mine?"
^ Undoubtedly."' And offered on my iete-day?"




MONSIEUR'S FETE.                      351
" 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 uuder the idea
and for the adornment of another?"
" By no means.  It is neither necessary, nor would it ho
iust."
" This object is all mine?"
" That object is yours entirely."
Straightway Monsieur opened his paletot, arranged the
guard splendidly across his chest, displaying as much and
suppressing as little as he could: for he had no notion of concealing what he admired and thought decorative. As to the
box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonniire-he was fond of
bon-bons, by the waysand as he always liked to share with
others what pleased himself, he would give his "dragees"
as freely as he lent his books.  Amongst the kind brownie's
gifts left in my desk, I forgot to enumerate many a paper of
chocolate comfits. His tastes in these matters were southern,
and what we think infantine.  His simple lunch consisted
frequently of a "brioche," which, as often as not, he shared
with some child of the third division.
"A present c'est un fait acccompli," said he, re-adjusting
his paletot; and we had no more words on the subject. After
looking over the two volumes he had brought, and cutting
away some pages with his penknife (he generally pruned beIore lending his books, especially if they were novels, and
sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his censorship, 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 our opportunity.
Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the studyhour.  Having seen so much of him in the morning, we did
not look for his presence at night.  No sooner were we seated
at lessons, however, than he appeared.  I own I was glad to




352                    VILLETTE.
see him, go glad that I could not help greeting his arrival with
a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat about
which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly arisen, I
took good care not to make too much room for him; he watched
with a jealous, side-long look, to see whether I shrank away,
but I did not, though the bench was a little crowded.  I was
losing the early impulse to recoil frcm M. Paul.  Habituated
to the paletot and bonnet-grec, the neighborhood of these gar..
ments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very formidable.  I
did not now sit restrained, " asphyxiee" (as he used to say) at
his side; I stirred when I wished to 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 it
perhaps merited; he was both indulgent and good-natured;
not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his
lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did not indeed
address me at all, yet I felt, somehow, that he was full of
friendliness.  Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings; no words could inspire a pleasanter content
than did M. Paul's wordless presence. WVhen the tray came
in, and the bustle of supper commenced, he just said, 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 hla
kindly conclusions, or to suppose with an over-hasty charity,
that from that day M. Paul became a changed character —
easy to live with, and no longer 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
iMItahle; and, besides, his veins were dark with a livid bella,




M  PAUL.                        353
donna tincture, the essence of jealousy   I do not n. an rmereiy
the tender jealousy of the heart, but that sterner, narrower
sentiment whose seat is in the head
I used to think, as I sat looking at M. Pnu], while he was
knitting his brow or protudihg his lip over some exercise of
rmine, which had not as many faults as he wished (for he liked
me to commit faults: a knot of blunders was sweet to him as
a cluster of nuts), that he had points of resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte.  I think so still.
In a shameless disregard of magnanimity, he resembled the
great Emperor. M. Paul would have quarrelled with twenty
learned women, would have unblushingly carried on a system
of petty bickering and recrimination with a whole capital ol
coteries, never troubling himself about loss or lack of dignity.
He would have exiled fifty Madame de Staels, if they had annoyed, offended, outrivalled, or opposed him.
I well remember a hot episode of his with a certain Madame
Panache-a lady 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; of words and confidence she
held unlimited command.  Her personal appearance was far
from destitute of advantages. I believe many people would
have pronounced her " a fine woman; " and yet there were
points in her robust and ample attractions, as well as in her
bustling and demonstrative presence, which, it appeared, the
nice and capricious tastes of M. Paul could not away with.
The sound of her voice echoing through the carre, would put
him into a strange taking; her long, free step-almost stride
-along the corridor, would often make him snatch up his papers and decamp on the instant.
With malicious intent he bethought hinself, one day, to intrude on her class; as quick as lightning he gathered her
method of instruction; it differed from a pet plan of his own.'With little ceremony, and less courtesy, he pointed out what
lie termed her errors. VWThether he expected submission and
attention, I know not; he met an acrid opposition, accompanied by a round reprimand for his certainly unjustifiable interference.
Instead of withdrawing with dignity, as he might still have
dnme. he threw down the gauntlet of defiance.  Madamo




3I)                    VILLETTE.
Panache, bellicose as a Penthesil.ea, picked it up in a minute
She snapped her fingers in the intermeddler's face; she rushed
upon him with a storrl of words. M. Emanuel was eloquent;
but Madame Panache was voluble. A system of fierce antagonism  ensued.  Instead of laughing in his sleeve at his fair
foe, with all her sore amour propre and loud self-assertion, M.
Paul detested her with intense seriousness; he honored her
with his earnest fury; he pursued her vindictively and implacably, refusing to rest peaceably in his bed, to derive due
benefit from his meals, or even serenely to relish his cigar, till
she was fairly rooted out of the establishment. The professor
conquered, but I cannot say that the laurels of this victory
shadowed gracefully his temples. Once I ventured to hint as
much. To my great surprise he allowed that I might be right,
but averred that when brought into contact with either men
or women of the coarse, self-complacent quality, whereof
Madame Panache was a specimen, he had no control over his
own passions; an unspeakable and active aversion impelled
him to a war of extermination.
Three months afterwards, hearing that his vanquished foe
had met with reverses, and was likely to be really distressed
for want of employment, he forgot his hatred, and, alike active
in good and evil, he moved heaven and earth till he found her
a place.  Upon her coming to make up former differences,
and thank him for his recent kindness, the old voice-a little
loud-the old manner-a little forward-so acted upon him
that in ten minutes he started up and bowed her, or rather
himself, out of the room, in a transport of nervous irritation.
To pursue a somewhat audacious parallel, in a love of power,
ia an.eager grasp after supremacy, M. Emanuel was like
Bonaparte.  He was a man 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 him that his requirements went
beyond reason-that his absolutism verged on tyranny.
The dawnings, the first developments of peculiar talent appearing within his range, and under his rule, curiously excited,
even disturbed him.  He watched its struggle into life with a
scowl; he held back his hand-perhaps said, " Come on if
you have strength," but would not aid the birth.
When the pang and peril of' the first conflict were over,
when the breath of life was drawn. when he saw the lung



M. PAUT,                         355
expand and contract, when he felt the heart beat and diseoveredl life in the eye, he did not yet offer to foster.
" Prove yourself true ere I cherish you," was his ordinance;
and how difficult he made that proof! What thorns and
briars, what flints, he strewed in the path of feet not inured
to rough travel!  He watched tearlessly-ordeals that he
sxacted should be passed through-fearlessly.  He followed
foot-prints that, as they approached the bourne, were sometimes marked in blood-followed them  grimly, holding the
austerest police-watch over the pain-pressed pilgrim. And
when at last he allowed a rest, before slumber might close the
eyelids, he opened those same lids wide, with pitiless finger
and thumb, and gazed deep through the pupil and the irids
into the brain, into the heart, to search if Vanity, or Pride, or
Falsehood, in any of its subtlest forms, was discoverable in the
furthest recess of existence.  If, at last, he let the neophyte
sleep, it was but a moment; he woke him  suddenly up to
apply new tests; he sent him  on irksome errands when he
was staggering with weariness; he tried the temper, the
gense and the health; and it was only when every severest
test had been applied and endured. when the most corrosive
aquafortis had been used, and failed to tarnish the ore, that h6
admitted it genuine, and, still in clouded silence, 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
uiot been my professor-he had not given me lessons, but about
that time, accidentally hearing me one day acknowledge an
ignorance of some branch of education (I think it was arithmetic) which would have disgraced a charity-schoolboy, as he
very truly remarked, he took me in hand, examined me first,
found me, I need not say, abundantly deficient, gave me some
books and appointed me some tasks.
He did this at first with pleasure, indeed with unconcealed
exultation, condescending to say that he believed I was "bonne
et pas trop faible" (i. e. well enough disposed, and not wholly
destitute of parts) but, owing he supposed to adverse circumstances, "as yet in a state of wretchedly imperfect mental
development."
The beginning of all efforts has indeed with me been marked
by a preternatural imbecility. I never could ever. in forming




356                    VILLErTE.
a common acquaintance, assert or prove a claim to averne
quickness.  A depressing and difficult passage has prefaced
every new page I have turned in life.
So long as this passage lasted, M. Paul was very kind, very
good, very forbearing; he saw the sharp pain inflicted, and
felt the weighty humiliation imposed by my own sense of incapacity; and words can hardly do justice to his tenderness
and helpfulness.  His own eyes would moisten, when tears of
hame and effort clouded mine; burdened as he was with
work, he would steal half his brief space of recreation to give
to me.
But, strange grief! when that heavy and overcast dawn
began at last to yield 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 thoughlt, his kindness became
sternness; the light changed in his eyes from a beam to a
spark; he fretted, he opposed, he curbed me imperiously; the
more I did, the harder I worked, the less he seemed content.
Sarcasms of which the severity amazed and puzzled me, harassed my ears; then flowed out the bitterest inuendoes agai st
the "pride of intellect." I was vaguely threatened with, I
know not what doom, if I ever trespassed the limits proper to
my sex, and conceived a contraband appetite for unfeminine
knowledge.  Alas! I had no such appetite.  Wvhat I loved,
it joyed me by any effort to content; but the noble hunger
for science in the abstract-the godlike thirst after discovery
-these feelings were known 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;mparted a strong stimulus-it gave wings to aspiration.
In the beginning, before I had penetrated motives, that uncomprehended sneer of his made my heart ache, but by-andby it only warmed the blood in my veins, and sent added action
to my pulses.  Whatever my powers,-feminine or the contrary-God had given them, and I felt resolute to be ashamed
of no faculty of His bestowal.
The combat was very sharp for a time.  I seemed to have
lost  I. Paul's affection; he treated me strangely.  In hi:
most unjust moments he would insinuate that I had deceived
him when I appeared, what he called " faible" —that is, is




M  PAUL.                       357
competent, he said I had feigned a false incapacity,  Again.
he would turn suddenly round and accuse me of the most far.
fetched imitations and impossible plagiarisms, asserting that I
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 in a sleep as deep as that of Eutychus.
Once, upon his preferring such an accusation, I turned upon
him-I rose against him.  Gathering an armful of his books
out of my desk, I filled my apron and poured them in a heap
upon his estrade, at his feet.
"Take them  away, M. Paul,' I said, " and teach me no
more. I never asked to be made learned, and you compel me
to feel very profoundly that learning is not happiness."
And returning to my desk I laid my head on my arms, nor
would I speak to him for two days afterwards.  He pained
and chagrined me.  His affection had been very sweet and
dear-a pleasure new and incomparable: now that this seemed
withdrawn, I cared not for his lessons.
The books, however, were not taken away; they were all
restored with careful hand to their places, and he came as
usual to teach me. He made his peace somehow-too readily,
perhaps; I ought to have stood out longer, but when he looked
kind and good, and held out his hand with amity, memory
refused to reproduce with due force his oppressive moments.
And then, reconcilement is always sweet 
On a certain morning a message came from my godmother,
inviting me to attend some notable lecture to be delivered in
the same public rooms before described. Dr. John had brought
the message himself, and delivered it verbally to Rosine, who
had not scrupled to follow the steps of M. Emanuel, then passing to the first classe, and, in his presence, stand " carrrnent"
iefore my desk, hand in apron-pocket, and rehearse the same,
saucily and aloud, concluding with the words:
"  u'il est vraiment beau, mademoiselle, ce jeune docteur!
Quels yeux —quel regard! Tenez! J'en ai le cceur tout emu!"
When she was gone, my professor demanded of me why I
suffered " cette fille eifront6e, cette cr6ature sans pudeur," to
address me in such terms.
I had no pacifying answer to give.  The terms were pre-,iitely such as Rosine-a young lady in whose skull the organs
of reverence and reserve were not largely developed-~was in
Q2 




a3."8            VILLETTE
the constant habit of using.  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 my lips.
" Elle ne dit que la v6ritd," I said.
" Ah! vous trouvez?"
" Mais, sans doute."
The lesson to which we had that day to submit was such
as to make us very glad when it terminated.  At its close,
the released pupils rushed out, half-trembling, half-exultant
I, too, was going.  A  mandate to remain arrested me. I
muttered that I wanted some fresh air sadly-the stove was
in a. glow, the classe overheated. An inexorable voice merely recommended silence; and this salamander-for whom no
room 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 quo
tation!
In M. Emanuel's soul rankled a chronic suspicion that 1
knew both Greek and Latin.  As monkies are said to have
the power of speech if they would but use it, and are reported
to conceal this faculty in fear of its being turned to their det.
riment, so to me was ascribed a fund of knowledge which I
was supposed criminally and craftily to conceal.  The privi.
leges 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 privily nurtured my wits.
A hundred expedients did M. Paul employ to surprise my
secret-to wheedle, to threaten, to startle it out of me. Sometimes he placed Greek and Latin books in my way, and then
watched me, as Joan of Arc's jailors tempted her with the
warrior's accoutrements, and lay in wait for the issue. Again
he quoted I know not what authors and passages, and while
rolling out their sweet and sounding lines (the classic tones
fell very musically from his lips-for he had a good voiceremarkable for compass, modulation, and matchless expression), he would fix on me a vigilant, piercing, and often msa
licious eye.  It was evident he sometimes expected great aie
monstrations; they never occurred, however; not conm),r
hending, of course I could neither be charmed nor aunoyect




M. PAUL                        359
Baffled-almost angrf-he still clung to his fixed idea; my
susceptibilities were pronounced marble-my face a mask
It appeared as if he could not be brought to accept the homely
truth, andl take me for what I was: men, and women too,
must have delusion of some sort; i' not made ready to their
hand, they will invent exaggeration for themselves.
At moments I did wish that his suspicions had been better
founded.  There were times when I would have given my
right hand to possess the treasures he ascribed to me.  He
derserved condign punishment for his testy crotchets.  I could
have gloried in bringing home to him his worst apprehensions
astoundingly realized.  I could have exulted to burst on his
vision, confront and confound his " lunettes," one blaze ot
acquirements.  Oh! why did nobody undertake to make me
clever while I was young enough to learn, that I might, by
one grand, sudden, inhuman revelation-one cold, cruel, overwhelming triumph-have for ever crushed the mocking spirit
out of Paul Carl David Emanuel!
Alas! no such feat was in my power.  To-day, as usual.
his quotations fell ineffectual: he soon shifted his ground.
" Women of intellect" was his next theme: here he was
at home. A " woman of intellect," it appeared, was a sort of
lusus nature," a luckless accident, a thing for which there
was neither place nor use in creation, wanted neither as wife
nor worker.  Beauty anticipated her in the first office.  He
believed in his soul that lovely, placid, and passive feminine
mediocrity was the only pillow on which manly thought and
sense could find rest for its aching temples; and as to work,
male mind alone could work to any good practical resulthein?
This " hein?" was a note of interrogation intended to draw
from me contradiction or objection. However, I only said" Cela ne me regarde pas; je ne m'en soucie pas;" anm
presently added-" May I go, monsieur?  They have runp
the bell for the second "dejeiuner," (i. e., luncheon).
"What of that?  You are not hungry?"
"Indeed I was," I said; "I had had nothing since breah
tast, at seven, and should have nothing till dinner, at five, il
I missed this bell."
" Well, he was in the same plight, but I might share with
him."




360                   VILLETTE.
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 the really formidable attack was yet to
come.  While eating his cake, I could not forbear expressing
my secret wish that I really knew all of which he accused me.
"Did I sincerely feel myself to be an ignoramus?" he
asled, in a softened tone.
If I had replied meekly by an unqualified affirmative, I
believe he would have stretched out his hand, and we should
have been friends on the spot, but I answered:
" Not exactly.  I am ignorant, monsieur, in the knowledge
you ascribe to me, but I sometimes, not always, feel a know
ledge of my own."
"What did I mean?" he inquired, sharply.
Unable to answer this question in a breath, I evaded it by
change of subject.  He had now  finished his half of the
brioche: feeling sure that on so trifling a fragment he could
not have satisfied his appetite, as indeed I had not appeased
mine, and inhaling the fragrance of baked apples afar from
the refectory, I ventured to inquire whether he did not also
perceive that agreeable odor.  He confessed that he did.  I
said if he would let me out of the garden-door, and permit
me just to run across the court, I would fetch him a plateful,
a'nd added that I believed they were excellent, as Goton had a
very good method of baking, or rather stewing fruit, putting
in a little spice, sugar, and a glass or two of vin blancmight I go?
"Petite gourmande!" said he, smiling.  "I have not forgotten how pleased you were with the pat6 a la creme I
once gave you, and you know very well, at this moment, that
to fetch the apples for me would be the same as getting them
for yourself. Go, then, but come back quickly."
And at last he liberated me on parole.  Ily own plan was
to go and return with speed and good faith, to put the plate
in at the door, and then to vanish incontinent, leaving all
consequences for future settlement.
That intolerably keen instinct of his seemed to have anticipated my scheme; he met mni at the threshold, hurried me
into the room, and fixed me in a minute in my former seat.
Taking the plate of fruit from my hand, he divided the por.
&ion intended only for himself; and ordered me to eat my Phare




M. PAUL.                       36t
conmpled with no good grace, and vexed, 1 suppose, by my
reluctance, he opened a masked and dangerous battery.  All
he had yet said, I could count as mere sound and fury, signifying nothing; not so of the present attack.
It consisted in an unreasonable proposition with which he
had before afflicted me: namely, that on the next public exanination-day I should engage-foreigner as I was-to take
my place on the first form of first-class pupils, and with them
improvise a composition in French, on any subject any spectator might dictate, without benefit of grammar or lexicon.
I knew what the result of such an experiment would be.
I, to whom nature had denied the impromptu faculty; who,
in public, was by nature a cypher; whose time of mental
activity, even when alone, was not under the meridian sun;
who needed the fresh silence of morning, or the recluse peace
of evening, to win from the Creative impulse one evidence
of his presence, one proof of his force; I, with whom that
Impulse was the most intractable, the most capricious, the
most maddening of masters (him before me always excepted)
-a deity, which sometimes, under circumstances apparently
propitious, would not speak when questioned, would not hear
when appealed to, would not, when sought, be found; but
would stand, all cold, all indurated, all granite, a dark Baa'
with carven lips and blank eye-balls, and breast like the stone
face of a tomb; and again, suddenly, at some turn, some
sound, some long-trembling sob of the wind, at some rushing
past of an unseen stream of electricity, the irrational demon
would wake unsolicited, would stir strangely alive, would
rush from its pedestal like 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, treacherously promising vaticination,
perhaps filling its temple with a strange hum  of oracles, but
sure to give half the significance to fateful winds, and grudg
ing to the desperate listener even a miserable remnantyielding it sordidly, as though each word had been a drop of
the deathless ichor of its own dark veins.  And this tyrant
I was to compel into bondage, and make it improvise a theme,
on a school estrade, between a Mathilde and a Coralie, undoi
the eye of a Madame Beck, for the pleasure and to the in
Epiration of a bourgeois of Labassecour 




362                    VILLETTE.
Upon this argument M. Paul and I iid battle more thrn
once-strong battle, with confised noise of demand and rejection, exaction and repulse.
On this particular day I was soundly rated.  "The obset'
nacy of my whole sex" it seems, was concentrated in me; I
had an "orgueil de diable."  I feared to fail, forsooth! What
did it matter whether I failed or not?  Who was I that I
should not fail like my betters?  It would do me good to fail.
IHe wanted to see me worsted (I knew he did), and one minute
lie paused to take breath.
" Would I speak now and be tractable?"
"Never would I be tractable in this matter.  Law itselt
should not compel me. I would pay a fine, or undergo an
imprisonment, rather than write for a show  and to order,
perched up on a platform."
" Could softer motives influence me?  Would I yield for
friendship's sake?"
"Not a whit, not a hair-breadth.  No form of friendship
under the sun had a right to exact such a concession.  No
true friendship would harass me thus."
He supposed then (with a sneer —M. Paul could sneer supremely, curling his lip, opening his nostrils, contracting his
eyelids)-he supposed there was but one form  of appeal to
which I would listen, and of that form it was not for him to
make use.
" Under certain persuasions, from certain quarters, je vous
vois d'ici," said he, " eagerly subscribing to the sacrifice, passionately arming for the effort."
"Making a simpleton, a warning. and an example of my
self, before a hundred ard fifty of the'papas' and'mammas'
of Villette."
And here, losing patience, I broke out afresh with a cry
that I wanted to be liberated, to get out to the air-I was almost in a fever.
" Chut!" said the inexorable, "this was a mere pretext tc
run away: he was not hot, with the stove close at his back;
how could I suffer, thoroughly screened by his person?"
"I did not understand his constitution. I knew nothing ol
the natural history of salamanders. For my own Iart, I was
a phlegmatic islander, and sitting in an oven did not agree




TEE  DRYAD.                       363
with me; at least, might I step to the well, and get a glass ul
water-the sweet apples had made me thirsty?"
" If that was all, he would do my errand."
He went to fetch the water. Of course, with the door only
on the latch behind me, I lost not my opportunity. Ere his
return, his half-worried prey had escaped.
CHAPTER  XXXI.
TIE 1RYAD.'rHE spring was advancing, and the weather nad turned
suddenly warm.  This change of temperature brought with
it for me, as probably for many others, temporary decrease of
strength.  Slight exertion at this time left me overcome with
fatigue-sleepless nights entailed languid days.
One Sunday afternoon, having walked the distance of half
a league to the Protestant church, I came back weary and exhausted; and taking refuge in my solitary sanctuary, the first
classe, I was glad to sit down, arnd to make my desk a pillow
for my arms and head.
Awhile I listened to the lullaby of bees humming in the
berceau, and watched, through the glass door, and the tender
lightly-strewn spring foliage, Madame Beck, and a gay party
of friends, whom she had entertained that day at dinner after
morning mass, walking in the centre-alley under orchard
boughs dressed at this season in blossom, and wearing a coloring 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 as a visitor at Madame Beck's, and
of whom I had been vaguely told that she was a " filleule,"
or god-daughter, of Mr. Emanuel's, and that between hei
mother, or aunt, or some other female relation of hers, and
the professor-had existed of old a special friendship. M. Paul
was not of the holiday band to-day, but I had seen this young
girl with him ere now, and as far as distant observation could




361                    VILLETTE.
enable me to judge, she seemed to enjoy with him the frank
ease of a w ard with an indulgent guardian. I had seen hce
run up to him, put her arm through his and hang upon him.
Once, when she did so, a curious sensation had struck through
me-a disagreeable anticipatory sensation  one of the family
of presentiments, I suppose-but I refused to analyze or dwell
upon it.  While watching this girl, Mademoiselle Sauveur
by name, and following the gleam  of her bright silk robe
(she was always richly dressed, for she was said to be wealthy)
through the flowers and the glancing leaves of tender emerald,
my eyes became dazzled-they closed; my lassitude, the
warmth of the day, the hum of bees and birds, all lulled me,
and at last I slept.
Two hours stole over me.  Ere I woke, the sun had declined out of sight behind the towering houses, the garden and
the room were gray, bees had 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 been after sitting so still for at least two hours; my cheek
and arms were not benumbed by pressure against the hard
desk,  No wonder.  Instead of the bare wood on which I had
laid them, I found a thick shawl, carefully folded, substituted
for support, and another shawl (both taken from the corridor
where such things hung) wrapped warmly round me.
Who had done this?  Who was my friend?  Which of
the teachers?  Which of the pupils?  None, except St.
Pierre, was inimical to me; but which of them 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 have
heard 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 at all, and would certainly have pulled me out of
my chair, if she had meddled in the matter.  I said at last:
It is Madame Beck's doing; she has come in, seen me asleep,
and thought I might take cold.  She considers me a useful
machine, answering well the purpose for which it was hired;
so would not have me needlessly injured.  And now," methought, "I'll take a walk; the evening is fresh, anl not very
chill"




THE DRYAD.                       365
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 hardly have ventured there, for I had not yet forgotten
the curious illusion of vision (if illusion it were) experienced
in that place some months ago. But a ray of the setting sun
burnished still the gray crown of Jean Baptiste; nor had all
the birds of the garden yet vanished into their nests amongst
the tufted shrubs and thick wall-ivy. I paced up and down,
thinking almost the same thoughts I had pondered that night
when I buried my glass-jar-how I should make some ad.
vances in life, take another step towards an independent position; for this train of reflection, though not lately pursued,
had never by me been wholly abandoned; and whenever a
certain eye was averted from me, and a certain countenance
grew dark with unkindness and injustice, into that track of
speculation did I at once strike; so that, little by little, I had
laid half a plan.
"Living costs little," said I to myself, "in this economical
town of Villette, where people are more sensible than I under
stand they are in dear old England-infinitely less worried
about appearance, and less emulous of display-where nobody
is in the least ashamed to be quite as homely and saving as
he finds convenient. House-rent, in a prudently chosen situ.
ation, need not be high.  When I shall have saved one thousand francs, I will take a tenement with one large room, and
two or three smaller ones, furnish the first with a few benches
and desks, a black tableau, an estrade for myself; upon it a
chair and table, with a sponge and some white chalks; begin
with taking day-pupils, and so work my way upwards.  Madame Beck's commencement was-as I have often heard her
say-from  no higher starting-point, and where is she now?
All these premises and this garden are hers, bought with her
money; she has a competency already secured for old age, and
a flourishing establishment under her direction, which will
thrnish a career for her children.
Courage, Lucy Snowe! With self-denial and economy now,
and steady exertion by-and-by, an object in life need not faii
you. Venture not to complain that such an object is too selfish, too limited, and lacks interest; be content to labor for
independence until you have proved, by winning that prize,
your right to look higher. But afterwards, is there nothirg
V            C                     3




'Go'I LLE TT E.
more for me in life-no true home-nothing to be dearer to
me than myself, and by its paramount preciousness, to draw
from me better things than I care to culture for myself only?
Nothing, at whose feet I can willingly lay down the whole
burden of human egotism, and gloriously take up the nobler
charge of laboring and living for others?"      suppose, Lucy
Snowe, the orb of your life is not to be so rounded; for you the
orescent-phase must suffice.  Very good.  I see a huge mass
of my fellow-creatures in no better circumstances.  I see that
a great many men, and more women, hold their span of life
on conditions of denial and privation. I find no reason why
I should be of the few favored.  I believe in some blending
of hope and sunshine sweetening the worst lots.  I believe
that this life is not all; neither the beginning nor the end. I
believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.
So this subject is done with.  It is right to look our lifeaccounts bravely in the face now and then, and settle them
honestly.  And he is a poor self-swindler who lies to himself
while he reckons the items, and sets down under the headhappiness that which is misery. Call anguish-anguish, and
despair-despair; write both down in strong characters with
a resolute pen: you will the better pay your debt to Doom.
Falsify; insert "privilege" where you should have written
"pain;" and see if your mighty creditor will all w the fraud
to pass, or accept the coin with which you would cheat him.
Ofier to the strongest-if the darkest angel of God's hostwater, when he has asked blood-will he take it?  Not a
whole pale sea for one red drop.  I settled another account.
Pausing before Methusaleh-the giant and patriarch of the
garden-and leaning my brow against his knotty trunk, my
loot rested on the stone sealing the small sepulchre at his
root; and I recalled the passage of feeling therein buried. I
recalled Dr. John; my warm affection for him; my faith in
his excellence; my delight in his grace. What was become
of that curious one-sided friendship which was half marble
and half life; only on one hand truth, and on the other per.
haps a jest?
Was this feeling dead? I do not know, but it was buried
Sometimes I thought the tomb unquiet, and dreamed strangely
of disturbed earth, and of hair, still golden and living, ob
truded through coffin-chinks.




T1HE DRYAD.                       367
Htad I been too hasty? I used to ask myself; and this ques
tion would occur with a cruel sharpness after some brief
3hance interview with Dr. John.  He had still such kind
looks, such a warm hand; his voice still kept so pleasant a
tone for my name; I never liked " Lucy" so well 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
part of himself; it was the honey of his temper; it was the
balm of his mellow mood; he imparted it as the ripe fruit
rewards with sweetness the rifling bee; he diffused it about
him, as sweet plants shed their perfume. Does the nectarine
love either the bee or bird it feeds?  Is the sweetbriar enamored of the air?
" Good night, Dr. John; you are good, you are beautiful;
but you are not mine.  Good night, and God bless you!"
Thus I closed my musings.  " Good night left my lips in
sound; I heard the two words spoken, and then I heard an
echo-quite close.
" Good night, mademoiselle; or, rather, good evenin —the
sun is scarce set; I hope you slept well?"
I started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew
the voice and speaker.
"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 I fell 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 very faults imperatively require it. You
Want so much checking, regutlting, and keeping down."
This idea of "keepingl down" never left M, Paul's head




3G3                    VILLETTE.
the most habitual subjugation would, in my case, have failed
to relieve him  of it.  No matter; what did it signify?  I
listened to him, and did not trouble myself to be too submissive; his occupation would have been gone, had I left him
nothing to " keep down."
"You need watching, and watching over," he pursued
" and it is vw-ll for you that I see this, and do my best to discharge both duties.  I watch you and others pretty closely,
pretty constantly, nearer and oftener than you or they think.
)o you see that window with a light in it?"
Ile pointed to a lattice in one of the college boardinghouses.
"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 hours together: it is my way-my taste.  My book
is this garden; its contents are human nature-female human
nature.  I know you all by heart.  Ah! I know you wellSt. Pierre the Parisienne-cette maitresse-femme, my cousin
Beck herself."
" It is not right, monsieur."
" Comment; it is not right?  By whose creed?  Does
some dogma of Calvin or Luther condemn it?  What is
that to me? I am no Protestant. My rich father (for, though
I have known poverty, and once starved for a year in a garret
in Rome-starved wretchedly, often on a meal a day, and
sometimes not that-yet I was born to wealth)-my rich father
was a good Catholic; and he gave me a priest and a Jesuit
for a tutor.  I retain his lessons; and to what discoveries,
grand Dieu  have they not aided me I"
"Discoveries made by stealth seem to me dishonorable discoveries."
" Puritaine! I doubt it not. You see how my Jesuit's system works.  You know the St. Pierre?"
"Partially."
IHe laughed.  "You say right-'2artially;' whereas, I
know her thoroughly; there is the difference.  She played.
before me the amiable; offered me patte de velours; caressed,
flattered, fawned on me. Now, I am accessible to a woman's
flattery-accessible against my reason.  Though never pretty, she was-when I first knew her~-young, or knew how to
look young   Like all her countryw:men, she had the art ol




THE  DRYAD.                        369
dressing —lshe had a certain, cool, easy, socia assurance, which
spared me the pain of embarrassment-'
" Monsieur, that must have been unnecessary.  I never saw
you embarrassed in my life."
" Mademoiselle, you know little of me; I can be embar.
rassed as a petite pensionnaire; 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 in the third division."
" Mademoiselle, neither titles nor crowned heads excite my
modesty; and publicity is very much my element. - I like it
well, and breathe in it quite freely; but-but-in short, here
is the sentiment brought into action, 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 may spare
yourself the trouble of any sneer you may be contemplating at
the thought), and found it necessary to ask a lady whether
she could look upon me in the light of a future husband, then
it would be proved that I am as I say-modest."
I quite believed him now; and, in believing, I honored him
with a sincerity of esteem which made my heart ache.
"As to the St. Pierre," he went on, recovering himself, for
his voice had altered a little, "she once intended to be Madame
Emanuel; and I don't know whither I might have been led,
but for yonder little lattice with the light. Ah, magic lattice!
what miracles of discovery hast thou wrought! Yes," he
pursued, " I have seen her rancors, her vanities, her levitiesnot only here, but elsewhere: I have witnessed what bucklers
me against all her arts: I am safe from poor Zelie."
"And  my pupils,"  he  presently recommenced, " those
blondes jeunes filles-so mild and meek-I have seen the
most reserved group like boys, the demurest snatch grapes
fiom the walls, shake pears from the trees.  When the Eng
lish teacher came, I saw her, marked her early preference fob
this alley, noted her taste for seclusion, watched her well, long
before she and I came to speaking terms; do you recollect my
once coming silently and offering you a little knot of white
violets when we were strangers?"




370                   VILLETTE
"I recollect it.  I dried the violets, kept them, an  have
them still."
" It pleased me when you took them peacefully and promptly, without prudery-that sentiment which I ever dread to
excite, and which, when it is revealed in eye or gesture, I
vindictively detest.  To return.  Not only did I watch yol,
but often-especially at eventide-another guardian angel was
noiselessly hovering near: night after night my cousin Beck
has stolen down yonder steps, and glidingly pursued your movements when you did not see her."
" But, Monsieur, you could not from  the distance of tha:
window see what passed in this garden at night?"
"By moonlight I possibly might with a glass-I use a glass
-but the garden itself is open to me.  In the shed, at the bottom, there is a door leading;nto a court, which communicates
with the college; of that door I possess the key, and thus come
and go at pleasure.  This afternoon I came through it, and
found you asleep in class; again this evening, I have availed
myself of the same entrance."
I could not help saying, " If you were a wicked, designing
man, how terrible would all this be I"
His attention seemed incapable of being arrested by this
view of the subject: he lit his cigar, and while he puffed it,
leaning against a tree, and looking at me in a cool, amused
way he had when his humor was tranquil, I thought proper
to go on sermonizing him: he often lectured me by the hour
together-I did not see why I should not speak my mind foi
once.  So I told him my impressions concerning his Jesuitsystem.
" The knowledge it brings you is bought too dear, monsieur;
this coming and going by stealth degrades your own dignity."
"My dignity!" he cried, laughing; "when did you ever
see me trouble my head about my dignity?  It is you, Miss
Lucy, who are' digne.' How often, in your high insular presence, have I taken a pleasure in trampling upon, what you
are pleased to call, my dignity; tearing it, scattering it to the
winds, in those mad transports you witness with such hauteur,
and which I know you think very like the ravings of a thirdrate London actor."; Monsieur, I tell you every glance you cast from that lat.
liee is a wrong done to the best part of your own nature.  T'




THE  DRYAD.                         371
tudy the human heart thus, is to banquet secretly and aacre-!igiously on Eve's apples. I wish you were a Protestant."'
Indifferent to the wish, he smoked on. After a space ol
smiling yet thoughtful silence, he said, rather suddenly"I have seen other things."
What other things?"
Taking the weed from  his lips, he threw  the remnant
amongst the shrubs, where, for a moment it lay glowing in
the gloom.' Look at it," said he: " is not that spark like an eve watching you and me."
He took a turn down the walk; presently returning, he
went on:
"I have seen, Miss Lucy, things to me unaccountable, that
have made me watch all night for a solution, and I have not
yet found it."
The tone was pecular; my veins thrilled; he saw me shiver.
" Are you afraid.  VWhether is it of my words or that red
jealous eye just winking itself out?'
"I,am cold; the night grows dark and late, and the air is
changed; it is time to go in."
" It is little past eight, but you shall go in soon.  Answer
me only this question."
Yet he paused ere he put it. The garden was truly growing dark; dusk had come on with clouds, and drops of rain
began to patter through the trees.  I hoped he would feel
this, but, for the moment, he seemed too much 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
amongst Protestants, as amongst other sects," I answered
" Why, monsieur, do you ask such a question?"
" Why do you shrink and speak so faintly? Are you superstitious?"
"I am constitutionally nervous. I dislike the discussion of
such subjects.  I dislike it the more because-"
"You believe?"
"No: but it has happened to me to experience'mpresa
Sions                    
" Since you came here?"




372                    VILLETTE.
Yes: not many months ago."
"Here?-in this house?"
" Yes."
- Bon!  I am glad of it.  I knew it somehow befcre yot
told me   I was conscious of rapport between you and myself.  You are patient, and I am choleric; you are quiet and
pale, and I am tanned and fiery; you are a strict Protestant,
and I am  a sort of lay Jesuit: but we are alike-there is
affinity. Do you see it, mademoiselle, when you look in the
glass?  Do you observe that your forehead is shaped like
mine-that your eyes are cut like mine?  Do you hear that
you have some of my tones of voice? Do you know that you
have many of my looks?  I perceive 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 with mortals, 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 this house and garden?"
" I know it.  Yes.  They say that hundreds of years ago
a nun was buried here alive at the foot of this very tree, beneath the ground which now bears 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 this house by night, different to any forms that show
themselves by day.  I have indisputably seen a something,
more than once; and to me its conventual weeds were a
strange sight, saying more than they can do to any other livi lg being. A nun I"
"Monsieur, I, too, have seen it."
" I anticipated that. Whether this nun be flesh and blood,
or something that remains when blood is dried and flesh
wasted, her business is as much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean to make it out: it has baffled me so far,
but I mean to follow up the mystery.  I mean-"
Instead of telling what he meant. lie raised his head su4.




THE  FIRST  LETTER.                    373
denly; I made the same movement in the same instant; we
both looked to one point-the high tree shadowing the great
berceau, and resting some of its boughs on the roof of the first
classe.  There had been a strange and inexplicable sound
from that quarter, as if the arms of that tree had swayed of
their own motion, and its weight of foliage had crushed against
tile massive trunk.  Yes; there scarce stirred a breeze, and
that heavy tree was convulsed, whilst the feathery shrubs
stood still. For some minutes amongst the wood and leafage
a rending and heaving went on.  Dark as it was, it seemed
to me that something more solid than either night-shadow,
or branch-shadow, blackened out of the boles.  At last the
struggle ceased. What birth succeeded this travail?  What
Dryad was born of these throes?  We watched fixedly.  A
sudden bell rang in the house-the prayer-bcll.  Instantly
into our alley there came, out of the berceau, an apparition,
all black and white.  WVith a sort of angry rush-close, close
past our faces-swept swiftly the very NUN herself! Never
had I seen her so clearly.  She looked tall of stature, 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.
WIERE, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary?
How fared my intercourse with the sumptuous Hotel Crecy?
That intercourse had, for an interval, been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre had been travelling,
dividing some weeks between the provinces and the capital
of France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortly
after it took place.
I was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard,
wandering slowly on, enjoying the benign April sun, and some
thoughts not unpleasing, when I saw before me a group of
riders, stopping as if they had just encountered, and exchang-.
R




874                   VILLETTE.
Ing greetings in the midst of the broad, smooth, Andle.nbor
dered path; on one side a middle-aged gentleman and young
lady-on the other, a young and handsome man. Very graceful was the lady's mien, choice her appointments, delicatd
and stately her whole aspect.  Still, as I looked, I felt they
were known to me, and, drawing a little nearer, I fully recog
nized them all; the Count Home de Bassompiere, his daugh
ter, and Dr. Graham Bretton.
How animated was Graham's face   IHow true, how warm,
yet how retiring the joy it expressed! This was the state of
things, this the combination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, to subdue and excite Dr. John. The pearl
he admired was in itself of great price and truest purity, but
he was not the man who, in appreciating the gem, could forget its setting.  Had he seen Paulina with the same youth,
beauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple
attire, a dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he would have
thought her a pretty little creature, and would have loved
with his eye her movements and her mien, but it required
other than this to conquer him as he was now vanquished, to
bring him safe under dominion as now, without loss, and even
with gain to his manly honor-one saw that he.was reduced;
there was about Dr. John all the man of the world; to satisfy
himself did not suffice; society must approve-the world must
admire what he did, or he counted his measures false and
futile. In his victrix he required all that was here visibleshe imprint of high cultivation, the consecration of a careful
anr  authoritative protection, the adjuncts that Fashion decrees, Wealth purchases, and Taste adjusts; for these conditions his spirit stipulated ere it surrendered: they were here
to the utmost fulfilled; and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he did homage to Paulina as his sovereign.  As for her,
the smile of feeling, rather than of conscious power, slept soft
in her eyes.
They parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth
he skimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked
very handsome; mettle and purpose were roused in hint fully
"Papa, there is Lucy!" cried a musical, friendly voice.' Lucy, dear Lucy-do come here!"
1 hastened to her.  She threw back her veil and stooped
from her saddle to kiss me.




THE FIRST LETTER                       375
"1  was coining to see you to-morrow," cait shle   I  bat now,,o.morrow you will 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 own room. I had not seen her since that occasion when
her claims were brought into comparison with those of Ginovra Fanshawe, and had so signally prevailed; she had much
to tell me of her travels in the interval.  A most animated,
rapid speaker was she in such tete-a-tete, a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear, soft voice, she
never seemed to speak too fast or say too much.  My own attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by,
she herself seemed to need some change ou subject; she hastened to wind up her narrative briefly.  Yet why she terminated with so concise an abridgment did not immediately
appear; silence followed-a restless silence, not without symptorns of abstraction.  Then, turning to me, in a diffident, halfappealing 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 can.
not have changed her mind on that point, because it was so
fixed two months ago?"
"Why, you know, it does not matter.  You saw the terms
on which they stood."
"There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does she seem unhappy?"
" Not she.  To change the subject.  Have you heard or
seen nothing of, or from Graham during your absence?"
"Papa had letters from him once or twice, about business
I think.  He undertook the management of some affair which
required attention, while we were away.  Dr. Bretton seems
to respect papa, and to have pleasure in obliging himl."




376                    VILLETTE.
" Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would
be able to judge from his aspect that his friends need not be
painfully anxious about his health?"
" Papa seems to have thought with you.  I could not help
smiling.  He is not particularly observant, you know, because
he is often thinking of other 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 and energy of that boy.'  ITe
called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almost thinks him so,
just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speaking to me,
but dropped that remark to himself.  Lucy....."
Again fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant
she left her chair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet.
I liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made
concerning my acquaintance, in the course of this book; the
reader will bear with it for once.  Intimate intercourse, close
inspection, disclosed in Paulina only what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regard for her lay deep. An
admiration more superficialy might have been more demonstrative; 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; and there was no coolness on her cheek-not a transient
surface-blush, but a 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," ahe
arged; "you knew him well."
"I know him pretty well."
"You know his home-side.  You have seen him with his
liother; speak of him as a son."
"He is a fine-hearted son; his mother's comfort and hope,
her pride and pleasure."
She held my hand between hers, and at each favorable word
gave it a little caressing stroke.
"In what other way is he good, dear Lucy?"
"Dr Bretton is benevolent -humanely disposied towards all




TlE FIRST  LETTER.                    377
hid race   Dr. Bretton would have benignity for the lowest
savage, or the worst criminal."
" I heard some gentlemen, some of papa's friends, who were
talking about him, say the same.  They say many of the poor
patients at the hospitals, who tremble before some pitiless and
selfish surgeons, welcome him."
"They are right; I have witnessed as much, He once
took me over a hospital; I saw how he was received: your
father's friends are right."
The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a
moment.  She had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating
about time and place.  Dusk was beginning to reign; her
parlor fire already glowed with twilight ruddiness; but I
thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.
" How quiet and secluded we feel here I" I remarked, tc
reassure her.
" Do we?  Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be
called down to tea; 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 twine of her beautiful hair; she patted the palm
against her hot cheek, and at 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 why I 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 here waiting for your communications. I would get
up, walk at my ease about the room, and anticipate all you
had to say by a round lecture. Go on."
"I mean to go on," retorted she; "what else do you suppose I mean to do?"  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 to die for liking him,
that alone could not license me to be otherwise than dumbdumb as the grave-dumb as you, Lucy Snowe-you know i'
-— and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-con




378                    YILLETTE.
trol, and wnined about some rickety liking that was ai. on
my side."
" It it true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious
either in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feeling.  But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly
wish to hear you. Tell me all it will give you pleasure or
relief to tell; I ask no more."
" 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 I was a little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was
charming to me, then to lavish on you my naughtiness and
whims.  Now you are acceptable to me, and I talk with and
trust you. So listen, Lucy."
And she settled herself, resting against my arm-resting
gently, not with honest Mistress Fanshawe's fatiguing and selfish weight.
"A few mirutes since you asked whether we had not heard
from Graham during our absence, and I said there were two
letters for papa on business; this was true, but I did not tell
you all."
" You evaded?"
" I shuffled and equivocated, you know.  However, I am
going to speak the truth now; it is getting darker; one can
talk at one's ease. Papa often lets me open the letter-bag and
give him out the contents.  One morning, about three weeks
ago, you don't know how surprised I was to find, amongst a
dozen letters for M. de Bassompierre, a note addressed to Miss
de Bassompierre.  I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; the
handwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was
going to say,' Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;'
but the' Miss' struck me mute. I actually never received a
letter from a gentleman before. Ought I to have shown it to
papa, and let him open it and read it first?  I could not for
my life, Lucy.  I know solwell papa's ideas about me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am  a mere school-girl; he is not
aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall
be;. so, with a curious mixture of feeelings, some of them  self.
reproachful, and some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe
them; I gave papa his twelve letters-his herd of possessions
-and kept back my one, my ewe-lamb.  It lay in my la.p




THE FIRST LE fTii.                   379.uring breakfast, looking up at me with an inexplicaole meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent-a child
to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breaktast I carried my letter up stairs, and having secured myseli
by turning the key in the door, I began to study the outside
of my treasure: it was some minutes before I could get over
the direction and penetrate the seal; one does not take a
strong place of this kind by 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, steady drop-a distinct impress: no pointed turns harshly pricking the optic
nerve, but a clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes
you as you read.  It is like his face-just like the chiseling
of his features: 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 my scissors.  On the point of reading the letter at last,
I once more drew back voluntarily; it was too soon yet to
drink that draught-the sparkle in the cup was so beautifulI would watch it yet a minute.  Then I remembered all at
once that I had not said my prayers that morning. Having
heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier than usual, I
had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened to
ioin him as soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put offprayers
till afterwards. Some people would say I ought to have served
God first and then mal; but I don't think Heaven could be
jealous of anything I might do for papa.  I believe I am
superstitious.  A voice seemed now to say that another feel.
inig than filial affection was in question-to urge me to pray
before I dared to read what I so longed to read-to deny my.
self yet a moment, and remember first a great duty.  I have
had these impulses ever since I can remember.  I put the
letter down and said my prayers, adding, at the end, a strong
entreaty that whatever happened, I might not be tempted or
led.to cause papa any sorrow, and might never, in caring for
others, neglect him. The very thought of' such a possibility
so pierced my heart that it made me cry. But still, Lucy, I
felt that in time papa would have to be taught the truth,
managed, and induced to hear reason.
I read the letter.  Lucy; life is said to be all disappoint




380                    VILLE'TE
maent. I was not disappointed.  Ere I read, and while I read,
my heart did more than throb-it trembled fast —every quiver
seemed like the pant of an animal athirst, laid down at a
well and drinking; and the well proved quite full, gloriously
clear; it rose up munificently of its 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 read biographies where the way-farer seemed to journey
on from suffering to suffering; where Hope flew before him
fast, never alighting so near, or lingering so long, as to give
his hand a chance of one realizing grasp. I have read of
those who sowed in tears, and whose harvest, so far from
being reaped in joy, perished by untimely blight, or was borne
off by sudden whirlwind; and, alas! some of these met the
winter with empty garners, and died of utter want in the
darkest and coldest of the year."
" Was it their fault, Paulina, that they of whom you speak
thus died?"
"Not always their fault.  Some of them were good, en
deavoring people. I am not endeavoring, nor actively good,
yet God has caused me to grow in sun, due moisture, and safe
protection, sheltered, fostered, taught, by my dear father; and
now-now-another comes.  Graham loves me."
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 not approach that quarter as yet; he must first
prove his.worth: he added that he must have some light respecting myself and my own feelings ere he 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
trembled for fear of making the answer too cordial:  Graham's tastes are so fastidious.  I wrote it three times-chastening and subduing the phrases at every rescript; at last,
having confected it till it seemed to me to resemble a morsel
of ice flavored with ever so slight a zest of fiuit or sugar, I
ventured to seal and despatch it."
" Excellent, Paulina! Your instinct is fine; you understand
Dr. Bietton."




TIIE  FIRST  LETTER.                    381
But huw must I manage about papa?  There T am still
p pain."'Do not manage at all.  Wait now.  Only maintain no
furiher correspondence till your father knows all, and gives
his sanctioi."
"Will he ever give it?"
"Time will show.  Wait."
"iDr. Bretton wrote one other letter, deeply grateful, fox
my calm, brief note; but I anticipated your advice, by saying,
that while my sentiments continued the same, I could not
without my father's knowledge write again."
"You acted as you ought to have done; so Dr. Bretton will
feel; it will increase his pride in you, his love for you, if
either be capable of increase. Paulina, that gentle hoar-frost
of yours, surrounding so much pure, fine flame, is a priceless
privilege of nature."
"You see I feel Graham's disposition," said she.  "I feel
that no delicacy can be too exquisite for his treatment."
" It is perfectly proved that you comprehend him, and then
-whatever Dr. Bretton's disposition, were he one who expected to be more nearly met-you would still act truthfully,
openly, tenderly, with your father."
" Lucy, I trust I shall thus act always.  Oh, it will be
pain to wake papa 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 and your kind Fate. I also have noticed the gentleness of her cares for you: doubt not she will benignantly
order the circumstances, and fitly appoint the hour.  Yes; I
have thought over your life just as you have yourself thought
it over; I have made comparisons like those to which you
adverted.  WVe know not the future, but the past has been
propitious.
"As a child I feared for you; nothing that has life was
ever more susceptible than your nature in infancy: under
harshness, or neglect, neither your outward nor your inward
self woild have ripened to what they now are.  Much pain,
much fear, much struggle, would have troubled the very lines
of your features, broken their regularity, would have harassed
your nerves into the fever of habitual irritation: you would
have lost in health and cheerfulness, in grace and sweetness
R 1




382                    VILLE ITE.
Providence has protected and cultured you,.ot only for omu
own sake, but I believe for Graham's.  His star, too, was
fortunate: to develop fully the best of his nature, a companion like you was needed; there you are, ready.  You
must be united.  I knew it the first day I saw you together
at La Terrasse.  In all that mutually concerns you and Graham  there seems to me promise, plan, harmony.  I do not
think the sunny youth of either will prove the forerunner of
stormy age.  I think it is deemed good that you two should
live in peace and be happy-not as angels, but as few are
happy amongst mortals.  Some lives are thus blessed: it is
God's will: it is the attesting trace and lingering evidence
of Eden.  Other lives run fiom  the first another course.
Other travelers encounter weather fitful and gusty, wild and
variable-breast adverse winds, are belated and overtaken by
the early closing winter night.  Neither can this happen
without the sanction of God; and I know that, amidst His
boundless works, is somewhere stored the secret of this last
fate's justice: I know that His treasures contain 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 the four teachers-notice to rise at five o'clock of the
morning, to be dressed and ready by six, to put ourselves
under the command of M[. le Professeur Emanuel, who was te
head our march forth from Villette, for it was on this day he
proposed to fulfil his promise of taking us to breakfast in lhe
country.  I, indeed, as the reader may perhaps remember,
had not had the honor of an invitation when this excursion
was first projected-rather the contrary; but on my now
making allusion to this fact, and wishing to know how it was
to be, my ear received a pull, of which I did not venture to
challenge the repetition by raising further (lifficulties.




M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE.                    383
"Jo vous conseille de vous faire prier," said M1. Emanuel
imperially menacing the other ear.  One Napoleonic compli.
ment, however, was enough, 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 he-at. We
all said it would be warm, and we all felt pleasure in folding
away heavy garments, and in assuming the attire suiting a
eunny season. The clean fresh print dress, and the light straw
bonnet, each made and trimmed as the French workwoman
alone can make and trim, so as to unite the utterly unpretending 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 stair.
case, through the carre, along the corridor, into the vestibule,
There stood our Professor, wearing, not his savage-looking
paletot and severe bonnet-grec, but a young-looking beltedblouse and cheerful straw hat.  He had for us all the kindest
good-morrow, and most of us for him  had a thanksgiving
smile.  WVe were marshaled in order and soon started.
The streets were yet quiet, and-the boulevards were fresh
and peaceful as fields.  I believe we were very happy as we
walked along. This chief of ours had the secret of giving a
certain impetus to happiness when he would; just as, in an
opposite mood, he could give a thrill to fear.
He did not lead or follow us, but walked along the line
giving a word to every one, talking much to his favorites, and
not wholly neglecting even those he disliked. It was rather
my wish, for a reason I had, to keep slightly aloof from notice,
and being paired with Ginevra Fanshawe, bearing on my arm
the dear pressure of that angel's not ulnsubstantial limb-(she
continued in excellent case, and I can assure the reader it was
no trifling business to bear the burdein of her loveliness; many
a time in the course of that warm day I wished to goodness
there had been less of the charming commodity) —however.
having her, as I said, I tried to make her useful by interpos.
iig her always between myself and M. Paul, shifting rmw
place, according as I heard him coming up to the right hanu
or the left.  My private motive for this nianevv:en might be
traced to the circumstance of the new print dles -t vv re, being




38L t                  VILLETTE.
pink in color- -a. fact which, under our present convoy, made
me feel something as I have felt, when, clad in a shawl with
a red border, necessitated to traverse a meadow where pastured a bull.
For awhile, the shifting system, together with some modifications in the arrangement of a black silk scarf; answered
my purpose; but, by-and-bye, he found out, that whether he
camrns     t tis side or to that, Miss Fanshawe was still his
neighbor. The course of acquaintance between Ginevra and
him had never run so smooth that his temper did not undergo
a certain crisping process whenever he heard her English accent: nothing in their dispositions fitted; they jarred if they
came in 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 thrust his head forward, settled his eyes on mine, and
demanded with impatience" Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vous me jouez des tours?"
The words were hardly out of his mouth, however, ere,
with his customary quickness, he seized the root of this proaeeding  in vain 1 shook out the long fiinge, and spread fbrtht
the broad end of my scarf.  "A-h-h! c'est la robe rose "'
broke from  his lips, affecting me very much like the sudden
and irate low of the lord of some meadow.
" It is only cotton," I alleged, hurriedly; " and cheaper,
and washes better than any other color."
Et Mademoiselle Lucie est coquette comme dix Parisiennes,"
he answered.  "A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Re
gardez plutot son chapeau, et ses gants, et ses brodequins!"
These articles of dress were just like what my companions
wore; certainly not one whit smarter-perhaps rather plainer than most —but monsieur had now got hold of his text,
and I began to chafe. under the expected sermon. It went off,
however, as mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passea
on a summer day.  I got but one flash of sheet lightning il
the shape of a single bantering smile from his eyes; and then
he said:
" Courage!-a vrai dire je ne suis pas fache, peut-etre
mrmne suis-je content qu'on s'eft fait si belle pour mna pette
tet<."




MW PAUL  KEEPS HIS PR3MISE.                   383
"Mais ma robe n'est pas belle, monsieur-elle n'est que
propre."
" J'aime la propret6," said he.  In short, he was not to be
dissatisfied; the sun of good humor was to triumph on this
auspicious morning; it consumed scudding clouds ere they
sullied its disk.
And now we were in the country, amongst what they called
"les bois et les petits sentiers."  These woods and lanes a
month later, would offer but a dusty and doubtful seclusion:
now, however, in their May greenness and morning repose,
they looked very pleasant.
5We reached a certain well, planted round, in the taste of
Labssecour, with an orderly circle of lime-trees: here a halt
was called: on the green swell of ground surrounding this
well we were ordered to be seated, monsieur taking his place
in our midst, and suffering us to gather in a knot round hini.
Those who liked him more than they feared, came close, and
these were chiefly little ones; those who feared more than
thoy liked, kept somewhat aloof; those in whom much affection had given, even to what remained of fear, a pleasurable
zest, observed the great distance.
He began to tell us a story.  Well could he narrate: in
such a diction as children love, and learned men emulate; a
diction simple in its strength, and strong in its simplicity.
There were beautiful touches in that little tale; sweet glimpses of feeling and hues of description that, 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 picture 1
have never looked on from artist's pencil.
I have said that, for myself, I had no impromptu faculty;
and perhaps that very deficiency made me marvel the more
at one who possessed it in perfection. M. Emanuel was not
a man to write books; but I have heard him lavish, with careless, unconscious prodigality, such mental wealth as books seldom boast; his mind was indeed my library, and whenever it
was opened to me, I entered bliss.  Intellectually imperfect
as I was, I could read little; there were few bound and printed volumes that did not weary me-whose perusal did not fg.
and blind-but his tones of thought were collyrium  to the
spirit's eyes; over their contents, inward sight grew clear and
strong.  I used to think what a delight it would he for ona




386                    VILLETTE,
who loved him better than he loved himself, to gather and
store up those handfuls of gold-dust, so recklessly flung to
heaven's reckless winds.
His story done, he approached the little kroll where I and
Ginevra sat apart.  In his usual mode of demanding an opinion, (he had not reticence to wait till it was voluntarily of:
fered) he asked:" Were you interested?"
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 labor; I hate to stop and sit still.
I could dictate 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 my pen did not keep pace with his lips."
"Try some day; let us see the monster I can make of my-.
self under the circumstances.  But just now, there is no question of dictation; I mean to 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 fermiere
makes the caf6 au lait in a caldron, you and five others, whom
I shall select, will spread with butter half a hundred rolls."
Having formed his troop into line once more, he marched
us straight on the farm, which, on seeing our force, surrendered without capitulation.
Clean knives and plates, and fresh butter being provided,
half a dozen of us, chosen by our professor, set to work under
his directions, to prepare for breakfast a huge basket of rolls,
with which the baker had been ordered to provision the farm,
hi anticipation of our coming.  Coffee and chocolate were already made hot; cream and new-laid eggs were added to the
treat, and M. Emanuel, always generous, would have given
a large order for "jambon" and " confitures " ir. addition, bul
that some of'us, who presumed perhaps upon  aur influence




M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PRO MISE.                   387
insisted that it would be a most reckless waste ot victual.
He railed at us for our pains, terming us " des m6nageres
avares;" but we let him talk, and managed the economy of
the repast our own way.
With what a pleasant countenance he stood on the farm
kitchen hearth looking on  He was a man whom  it made
happy to see others happy; he liked, to have movement,
animation, abundance and enjoyment round him. We asked
where he would sit. He told us, we knew well he was our
slave, and we his tyrants, and that he dared not so much as
choos. a chair without our leave; so we set him the farmer's
grc(t chair at the head of the long table, and put him into it
Well might we like him, with all his passions and hurri.
canes, when he could 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 his temper that was radically bad,
soothe, comprehend, comfort him, and he was 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 say a little prayer before we begun breakfast, crossing
himself as devoutly as a woman. I had never seen him pray
before, or make that pious sign; he did it so simply, with
such child-like faith, I could not help smiling pleasurably as I
watched; his eyes met my smile; he just stretched out his
kind hand, saying,
" Donnez-moi la main! I see we worship the same God,
in the same spirit, though by diflerent rites."
Most of M. Emanuel's brother professors were emancipated
free-thinkers, infidels, atheists; and many of them men whose
lives would not bear scrutiny: he was more like a knight of
old, religious in his way, and of spotless fame.  Innocent
childhood, beautiful youth were safe at his side.  He had
vivid passions, keen feelings, but his pure honor and his artless piety were the strong charm that kept the lions couchant.
That breakfast was a merry meal, and the merriment was
not mere vacant clatter: M. Paul originated, led, controlled
and heightened it; nis social, lively temper played unfettered
and unclouded; surrounded only by women and children there
was nothing to cross and thwart him; he had his own way,
and a pleasant way it was.




388                    VILLETTE.
The meal over, the party were free to run and play in ths
meadows: a few 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 a tree-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.  WMhile I read (a pocket-classic-a Cor
neille-I did not like it, but he did, finding therein beauties I
never could be brought to perceive), he listened withi a sweet.
ness of calm the more impressive from the impetuosity of his
general nature; the deepest happiness 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 t1, ny cor
panions than sit there?  I said, no; I felt content to be
where he was.  He asked whether, if I were his sister, I
should always be content to stay with a 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 far away, I
should be sorry; and I dropped Corneille, and made no reply
"Petite smur," said he; "how long could you remember
me if we were separated?"
" That, monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know
how long it will be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly."
" If I were to go beyond seas for two-three-five years.
should you welcome me on my return?"
" Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?"
" Pourtant j'ai ete pour vous bien dur, bien exigeant."
I hid my face with the book, for it was covered with tears
I asked him why he talked so; and he said he would talk so
no more, and cheered me again with the kindest encouragement.  Still, the gentleness with which he treated me during
the rest of the day, went somehow to my heart. It was too
tender. It was mournful.  I would rather he had been 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, andt proceeded to lead us all softly
home.  But we had a whole league to walk-thus far from




M. PAUL KEEPS HIS  PROMISE.                   389
Villette was the farm where we had breakfasted; the chil,
dren, especially, were tired with their play; the spirits of
most flagged at the prospect of this mid-day walk over chaussees flinty, glaring and dusty.  This state of things had been
foreseen and provided for.  Just beyond the boundary of the
farm we met two spacious vehicles coming to fetch us-such
conveyances as are hired out purposely for the accommodation
of school-parties; here, with good management, room  was
found for all, and in another hour M. Paul made safe consignment of his charge at the Rue Fossette.  It had been a pleas
ant day: it would have been perfect, but for the breathing
-of melancholy-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 centrealley for nearly an hour, talking earnestly: he-looking grave,
yet restless; she-wearing an amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air.
I wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame
Beck re-entered the house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman
Paul yet lingering in the garden, I said to myself" He called me' petite saur' this morning.  If he were
really my brother, how I should like to go to him just now,
and ask what it is that presses on his mind. See how he leans
against that tree, with his arms crossed and his brow bent.
He wants consolation, I know: Madame does not console; she
only remonstrates.  What now-v?"
Starting from quiescence to action, M. Paul came striding
erect and quick down the garden.  The carre doors were yet
open: I thought he was probably going to water the orangetrees in the tubs, after his occasional custom; on reaching the
court, however, he took an abrupt turn 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 there I could not
find courage to await his approach.  He had turned so suddenly, he strode so fast, he looked so strange; the coward
within me grew pale, shrunk, and-not waiting to listen to
reason, and hearing the shrubs crush and the gravel crunch toa
his advance-she was gone on the wings of panic.
Nor did I pause till I had taken sanctuary in the oratory,
now empty.  Listening there with beating pulses, and an un



S90                    VILLETTE.
accountable, undefined apprehension, I heard him pase throighl
all the schoolrooms, clashing the doors impatiently as he went;
[ heard him invade the refectory which the "lecture pieuse "
was now holding under hallowed constraint; I heard him
pronounce these words" Oi est Mademoiselle Lucie?"
And just, as, summoning my courage, I was preparing to go
down and do what, after all, 1 most wished to do in the world
— viz., meet him —the wiry voice of St. Pierre replied glibly
and falsely, ""Elle est au lit." 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
perverse proceeding struck like a blow upon me.  I felt froin
the first it was me he 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 had something to
tell: he was going to tell me that something: my ear strained
its nerve to hear it,.and I had made the confidence impossible.
Yearning to listen and console, while I thought audiep.ce and
solace beyond hope's reach-no sooner did opportlnity suddenly and fully arrive, than I evaded it, as I vr,.ll have
evaded the leveled shaft of mortality.
Well, my insane inconsistency had its reward.  /islsead of
the comfbrt, the certain satisfaction, I might have -,onrc —-ould
I but have put choking panic down, and stood fiinl tv/o mim
utes-here was dead blank, dark doubt, and dre.. ir eorense.
I took my wages to my pillow, and passed the  igh'l.'.ount-')g them.




MALEVOLA.                        ioI
CHAPTER XXXWV.
MALEVOLA.
MAJAME BECI called me on Thursday afternoon, ani asked
whether I had any occupation to hinder me from going into
town and executing some little commissions for her at the
siops.
Being disengaged and placing myself at her service, I was
presently furnished with a list of the wools, silks, embroidering
thread, etcetera, wanted in the pupil's work, and having equip
ped myself in a manner suiting the threatening aspect of a
cloudy and sultry day, I was just drawing the spring-bolt of
the street-door, in act to issue forth, when Madame's voice
again summoned me to the salle a manger.
"Pardon, Meess Lucie I" cried she, in the seeming haste of
an impromptu thought, " I have just recollected one more errand for you, if your good nature will not deem itself overburdened?"
Of course I "confounded myself" in asseverations to the
contrary; and Madame, running into the little saloon, brought
thence a pretty basket, filled with fine hot-house fruit, rosy,
perfect, and tempting, reposing amongst the dark green, waxlike leaves, and pale yellow stars of; I know not what, exotic
plant.
" There," she said, "it is not heavy, and will not shame
your neat toilette, as if it were a household, servant-like detail.
Do me the favor to leave this little basket at the house of
Madame Walravens, with my felicitations on her fete.  She
lives down in the old town, Numdro 3, Rue des Mages.  I
fear you will find the walk rather long, but you have the
whole afternoon before yo.i, and do not hurry; if you are not
back in time for dinner, I will order a portion to be saved, or
Goton, with whom you are a favorite, will have pleasure in
tossing up some trifle, for your especial benefit.  You shall
not be forgotten, ma bonne meess.  And oh! please! (calling
me back once more) be sure to insist on seeing Madame Wal
mavenis herself, and giving the basket into her own hands ie




392                     VILLETTE.
order that there may be no mistake, for she is rather a punt
tilious personage.  Adieu!  Au revoir!"
And at last I got away. The shop commissioLs took soma
time to execute, that choosing and matching of silks and
wools being always a tedious business, but at last I got through
my list.  The patterns for the slippers, the bell-ropes, the
cabas were selected, the dides and tassels for the purses chosen
— the whole " tripotage," in short, was off my mind; nothing'ut the fruit and the felicitations remained to be attended to,
I rather liked the prospect of a long walk, deep into the
old and grim Basse-Ville; and I liked it no worse because the
evening sky, over the city, was settling into a mass of blackblue metal, heated at the rim, and inflaming slowly to a heavy
red.
I fear a high wind, because storm  demands that exertion
of strength and use of action I always yield with pain; but
the sullen down-fall, the thick snow-descent, or dark rush of
rain, asks only resignation-the quiet abandonment of garments and person to be drenched.  In return, it sweeps a
great capital clean before you; it makes you a quiet path
through broad, grand streets; it petrifies a living city, as if
by eastern enchantment; it transforms a Villette into a Tadmor.  Let, then, the rains fall, and the floods descend-only
I must first get rid of this basket of fiuit.
An unknown clock from  an unknown tower (Jean Baptiste's voice was now too distant to be audible) was tolling
the third quarter past five, when I reached that street and
house whereof Madame Beck had given me the address.  It
was no street at all; it seemed rather to be a part of a
square; it was quiet, grass grew between the broad gray
flags, the houses were large and looked very old-behind them
rose the appearance of trees, indicating gardens at the back,
Antiquity brooded above this region, business was banished
thence.  Rich men had once possessed this quarter, and once
grandeur had made her seat here. That church whose dark,
half-ruinous turrets overlooked the square, was the venerable,
and formerly opulent shrine of the Magii.  But wealth and
greatness had long since stretched their gilded pinions and
fled hence, leaving these their ancient nests, perhaps to house
Penury for a time, or perhaps to stand cold and empty, moulo
ering untenanted it the course of' vwinters.




MALE VOLA.                       393
As I crossed this deserted "place," on whose pavement
lrops almost as large as a five franc-piece were now slowly
darkening, I saw, in its whole expanse, no symptom or evi.
dence of life, except what was given in the figure of an infirm  old priest, who went past, bending and propped on a
staff-the type of eld and decay.
He had issued from the very house to which I was directed;
and when I paused before the door just closed after him, and
ring the bell, he turned to look at me. Nor did he soon avert
his gaze; perhaps he thought me, with my basket of summer
fruit, and my lack of the dignity age confers, an incongruous
figure in such a scene.  I know, had a young ruddy-faced
bonne opened the door to admit me, I should have thought
such a one little in harmony with her dwelling; but when I
found myself confronted by a very old woman, wearing a very
antique peasant costume, a cap alike hideous and costly, with
long flaps of native lace, a petticoat and jacket of cloth, and
sabots more like little boats than shoes, it seemed all right,
and soothingly in character.
The expression of her face was not quite so soothing as the
cut of her costume; anything more cantankerous I have seldom  seen; she would scarcely reply to my inquiry after
Madame Walravens; I believe she would have snatched the
basket of fruit from my hand, had not the old priest, hobbling
up, checked her, and himself leant an ear to the message
with which I was charged.
His apparent deafness rendered it a little difficult to make
him  fully understand that I must see Madame Walravens,
and consign the fruit into her own hands. At last, however,
he comprehended the fact that such were my orders, and that
duty enjoined their literal fulfilment.  Addressing the aged
bonne, not in French, but in the aboriginal tongue of Labassecour, he persuaded her, at last, to let me cross the inhospitable threshold, and himself escorting me up stairs, I was
ushered into a sort of salon, and there left.
The room was large, and had a fine old ceiling, and almost
church-like windows of colored glass; but it was desolate,
and in the shadow  of the coming storm, looked strangely
louring. Within-opened a smaller room; there, however,
the blind of the single casement was closed; through the
deep gloom few details of furniture were apparent. Thcri




394                   V~ILLETTE.
few I amused myself by puzzling to make out; and, in parti
cular, I was attracted by the outline of a picture on the wall
By-and-by tb, picture seemed to give way: to my bewil.
derment, it shook, it sunk, it rolled back into nothing; its
vanishing left an opening arched, leading into an arched passage, with a mystic winding stair; both passage and stair
were of cold stone, uncarpeted and unpainted.  Down thia
donjon stair descended a tap-tap, like a stick; soon, there fell
on the steps a shadow, and last of all, I was aware of a substance.
Yet, was it actual substance, this appearance approaching
me? this obstruction, 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 magii-well might the three towers, overlooking it, own
for godfathers three mystic sages of a dead and dark art. Hoar
enchantment here prevailed; a spell had opened for me elfland-that cell-like room, that vanishing picture, that arch
and passage, and stair of stone, were all parts of a fairy tale.
Distincter even than these scenic details stood the chief figure
-Cunegonde, the sorceress! Malevola, the evil fairy.  How
was she?
She might be three feet high, but she had no shape; her
skinny hands rested upon each other, and pressed the gold
knob of a wand-like ivory staff.  Her face was large, set, not
upon her shoulders, but befbre her breast; she seemed to have
no neck; I should have said there were a hundred years in
her features, and more perhaps in her eyes-her malign, unfriendly eyes, with thick grey brows above, and livid lids all
round.  How  severely they viewed me, with a sort of dull
displeasure'
This being wore a gown of brocade, dyed bright blue, fulltinted as the gentianella flower, and covered with satin foliage
in a large pattern; over the gown a costly shawl, gorgeously
bordered, and so large for her, that its many-colored fringe
swept the floor.  But her chief points were her jewels: she
had long, clear ear-rings, blazing with a lustre which could
not be borrowed or false; she had rings on her skeleton hands,
with thick gold hoops, and stones —purple, green, and blood.
red.  Hunchbacked, dwarfish, and doting, she was adorned
like a barbarian queen.




MALE VOLA.                        395.l;ue me voulez.vous?" said she hoarsely, with the vuice
rather of male than of female old age; and, indeed: a siivel
beard bristled her chin.
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 Madame Beck, and tell her I can buy fruit when.1
want it, et quant a ses felicitations, je m'en moque!''  And
this courteous dame turned her back.
Just as she turned, a peal of thunder broke, and a flash of
lightning blazed broad over salon and boudoir.  The tale of
magic seemed to proceed with due accompaniment of the elements.  The wanderer, decoyed into the enchanted castle,
heard rising, outside, the spell-wakened tempest.
What, in all this, was I to think of Madame Beck?  She
owned strange acquaintance; she offered messages and gifts
at an unique shrine, and inauspicious seemed the bearing of
the uncouth thing she worshipped.  There went that sullen
Sidonir, tottering and trembling like palsy incarnate, tapping
her ivory staff on the mosaic parquet, and muttering velnomously as she vanished.
Down washed the rain, deep-loured the welkin; the clouds,
ruddy a while ago, had now, through all their blackness,
turned deadly pale, as if in terror.  Notwithstanding my late
boast about not fearing a shower, I hardly liked to go out
under this water-spout. Then the gleams of lightning were very
fierce, the thunder crashed very near; this storm had gathered
immediately above Villette; it seemed to have burst at the
zenith; it rushed down prone; the forked, slant bolts pierced
athwart vertical torrents; red zig-zags interlaced a descent
blanched as white metal: and all broke from  a sky heavily
black in its swollen abundance.
Leaving Madarnae Walravens' inhospitable salon, I betook
myself to her cold staircase; there was a seat on the landing
-there I waited.  Somebody came gliding along the gallery
inst above; it vas the old priest.
" Indeed nmadernoiselle shall not sit there," said he.' It
would displeasure our benefactor if he knew a stranger was;o treated in this house."
And he begged ine so earnestly to return to the salon, that




396                    VILLETTE.
without discourtesy, I could not but comply.  The smaller
room was better furnished and more habitable than the larger; thither he introduced me.  Partially withdrawing the
blind, he disclosed what seemed more like an oratory than a
boudoir, a very solemn little chamber, looking as if it were a
place rather dedicated to relics and remembrance, than designed for present use and comfort.
The good father sat down, as if to keep me company; but
instead of conversing, he took out a book, fastened on the
Dage his eyes, and employed his lips in whispering-what
sounded like a prayer or litany. A yellow electric light from
the sky gilded his bald head; his figure remained in shade —
deep and purple; he sat still as sculpture; he seemed to forget me for his prayers; he only looked up when a fiercer bolt,
or a harsher, closer rattle told of nearing danger: even then,
it was not in fear, but in seening awe, he raised his eyes.  I
too was awe-struck; being, however, under no pressure of
slavish terror, my thoughts and observations were free.
To speak truth, I was beginning to fancy that the old priest
resembled that Pere Silas, before whom I had kneeled in the
church of the Bdguinage.  The idea was vague, for I had
seen my confessor only in dusk and in profile, yet still I seemed
to trace a likeness: I thought also I recognized the voice.
While I watched him, he betrayed, by one lifted look, that
he felt my scrutiny; I turned to note the room; that too had
its half mystic interest.
Beside a cross of curiously carved old ivory, yellow with
time, and sloped above a dark-red prie-dieu, furnished duly
with rich missal and ebon rosary-hung the picture whose
dim  outline had drawn my eyes before-the picture which
moved, fell away with the wall and let in phantoms.  Imperfectly seen, I had taken it for a Madonna; revealed by
clearer light, it proved to be a woman's portrait in a nun's
dress.  The face, though not beautiful, was pleasing; pale,
young, and shaded with the dejection of grief or ill health.
I say again it was not beautiful; it was not even intellectual;
its very amiability was the amiability of a weak frame, iac
tive passions, acquiescent habits; yet I looked long at thal
picture, and could not choose but look.
The old priest, who at first had seemed to me so deaf and
infirm, must yet have retained his faculties in tolerable pro.




MALEVOLA.                         397
servation; absorbed in his book as he appeared, without once
lifting his head, or, as far as I knew, turning his eyes, he per.
ceived the point towards which my attention was drawn, and,
in a slow, distinct voice, dropped concerning it, tbhse 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, fan
gying that I had discovered in the incurable grief of bereavement, a key to that same aged lady's desperate ill-humor.
The father shook his head with half a smile.
" No, no;" said he, "a grand-dame's affection fer her children's children may be great, and her sorrow for their loss,
lively; but it is only the affianced lover, to whom Fate, Faith
and Death have trebly denied the bliss of union, who mourns
what he has lost, as Justine Marie is still moirned.
I thought the father rather wished to be questioned, and
therefore I inquired who had lost and who still mourned
" Justine Marie."  I got, in reply, quite a little romantic narrative, told not unimpressively, with the accormpaniment of
the now subsiding storm.  I am bound to say it might have
been made much rmore truly impressive, if there had been
less French, Rousseau-like sentimentali ing and wire-drawing; and rather more healthful carelersness of effect.  But
the worthy father was obviously a Frep,hman born and bred
(I became more and more persuaded of hie resemblance to
my confessor)-he was a true son of Rome, when he did lift
his eyes, he looked at me out of their corne(, with more and
sharper subtlety than, one would havy thoifitht, could survive
the wear and tear of seventy years.  Yet t believe, he was a
good old man.
The hero of his tale was some formrei p.pil of his, whom
he now called his benefactor, and who It appears, had loved
this pale Maria Justine, the dauhl,'er of rich parents, at a
time when his own worldly prosper is vwere such as to justify
his aspiring to a well-dowered hand.  The pupil's fatheronce a rich banker-had failed, di,,d, and left behind him
only debts and destitution.  The s n was then forbidden to
think of Marie, especially that old witch of a grand-dame 1
S




898                    VILLETTE
had jecn, NMadame  Valravens, opposed the match wi-h all
the violence of a temper which deformity made sometirnes
demoniac.  The mild Marie had neither the treachery to be
false, nor the force to be quite stanch to her lover; she gave
up her fist suitor, but refusing to accept a second with a
heavier purse, withdrew to a convent, and there died in her
noviciate.
Lasting anguish, it seems, had taken possession of the faith.
ful heart which worshiped her, and the truth of that love
and grief had been shown in a manner which touched even
me, as I listened.
Some years after Justine Marie's death, ruin had come on
her house too; her father, by nominal calling a jeweller, but
who also dealt a good deal on the Bourse, had been concerned
in some financial transactions which entailed exposure and
ruinous fines.  He died of grief for the loss, and shame for
the infamy.  His old hunchbacked mother and his bereaved
wife were left penniless, and might have died too, of want;
but their lost daughter's once-despised, yet most true-hearted
suitor, hearing of the condition of these ladies, came with
singular devotedness to the rescue.  He took on their insolent
pride the revenge of the purest charity-housing, caring-for,
befriending them, 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,
misanthropic grandmother lived still, entirely supported by
this self-sacrificing man.  She, who had been the bane of his
life, blighting his hope, and awarding him, for love and
domestic happiness, long mourning and cheerless solitude, he
treated with the respect a good son might offer a kind mother
He had brought her to his house, " and," continued the priest,
while genuine tears rose to his eyes, "here, too, he shelterq
me, his old tutor, and Agnes, a superannuated servant of his
father's family. To our sustenance, and to other charities, T
know he devotes three parts of his income, keeping only the
fourth to provide himself with bread and the most modest
accommodations.  By this arrangement he has rendered it
impossible to himself ever to marry: he has given himself to
Gcd and to his angel-bride as much as if he were a priest,
Ike me."
The father had wiped away his tears before he uttered




MALEVOLA.                        399,news last words, and in pronouncing them, he for one instant
raised his eyes to mine.  I caught that glance, despite its
veiled character; the momentary gleam  shot a meaning
which struck me.
These Romanists are strange beings.  Such a one among
them-whom  you know no more than the last Inca of Peru
or the first Emperor of China-knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying to you so and so, when
you simply thought the communication sprang impromptu
from the instant's impulse: his plan in bringing it about that
you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such
and such circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems
to your crude apprehension the ordinalnc of chance, or the
sequel of exigency.  Madame Beck's suddenly recollected
message and present, my artless embassy to the Place of the
Magii, the old priest, accidentally descending the steps and
crossing the square, his interposition on my behalf with the
bonne who would have sent me away, his reappearance on
the staircase, my introduction to this room, the portrait, the
narrative so affably volunteered-all these little accidents,
taken as they fell out, seemed each independent of its successor; a handful of loose beads; but threaded through by
that quick-shot and crafty glance of a Jesuit-eye, they dropped
pendant in a long string, like that rosary on the prie-dieu.
Where lay the link of junction, where the little clasp of this
monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but could not yet
find the spot, or detect the means of connection.
"Perhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time
fallen, appeared somewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he
gently interrupted:
" Mademoiselle," said he, " I trust you have not far to go
through these inundated streets?"
"More than half a league."
"You live?"
"In the Rue Fossette."
"Not (with animation), not at the pensionnat of Madame
deck?"
"The same."
"Done (clapping his hands), done, vous devez connaitrs
mot1 noble 6leve, mon Paul?"
" Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?"




400                    VtL LE T TE.
" IHe, and none other."
A brief silence fell.  The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have become palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.
"Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?" I presently
inquired. " Was he your pupil and the benefactor of Madame
Walravens?"
"Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant; and moreover" (with
a certain emphasis), " he was and is the lover, true, constant
an-1 eternal, of that saint in Heaven-Justine Marie."
"And who, father, are you?" I continued; and, though 1
accentuated the question, its utterance was well-nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which
actually came.
", daughter, am Pere Silas; that unworthy son of Holy
Church whom  you once honored with a noble and touching
confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner
shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for a day
lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted
interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by
her high training, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired by the zeal she alone gives-I realize what then might
be your spiritual rank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy her prey."
This struck me as a special state of things —  half-realizea
myself in that condition also; passed under discipline, moulded,
trained, inoculated and so on.  "Not so," thought I, but I
restrained deprecation and sat quietly enough.
"I suppose M. Paul does not live here?" I resumed, pur
suing a theme which I thought more to the purpose than an)
wild renegade dreams.
"  io; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved
saint, to make his confession to me, and to pay his respects tc
her he calls his mother.  His own lodging consists but of two
rooms; he has no servant, and yet he will not suffer Madame
Walravens to dispose of those splendid jewels with which you
see her adorned, and in which she takes a puerile pride as the
ornaments of her youth, and the last relics of her son's, the
jeweler's wealth.
" How often," murmured] i to myself " Ia,1 this man, thia




MALEVOLA                          401
Mi. En'anuel, seemed to me to lack magnanimity in trifles, yet
how great he is in great things I"
I own I did not reckon amongst tie proofs of his greatness,
either the act of confession, or the saint worship.
How long is it since that lady died?" I inquired, looking
at Justine Marie.
"' Twenty years.  She was somewhat older than M. Ernan
uel; he was then very young, for he is not now much beyond
Borty."
G' Does he yet weep her?"
" His heart will weep her always: the essence of Enianuel's
nature is-constancy."
This was said with marked emphasis.
And now the sun broke out pallid and waterish; the rain
yet fell, but there was no more tempest; that hot firmament
had cloven and poured out its lightnings.  A longer delay
would scarce leave daylight for my return, so I rose, thanked
the father for his hospitality and his tale, was benignantly
answered by a "pax vobiscum," which I made kindly welcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence; but
1 liked less the mystic phrase accompanying it:
"Daughter, you shall be what you shall be I" an oracle
that made me shrug my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door.  Few of us know what we are to come to cer.
tainly, but for all that had happened yet, I had good hopes of
living and dying a sober-minded protestant  there was a hol.
lowness within, and a flourish around" Holy Church" which
tempted me but moderately.  I went on my way pondering
many things.  Whatever Romanism may be, there are good
Romanists: this man, Emanuel, seemed of the best; touched
with superstition, influenced by priesteraft, yet wondrous for
fond faith, for pious devotion, for sacrifice of self; for charity
unbounded.  It remained to see how Rome, by her agents,
handled such qualities; whether she cherished them for their
pwn sake and for God's, or put them out to usury and made
booty of the interest.
By the time I reached home, it was sundown.  Goton had
kindly saved me a portion of dinner, which indeed I needed
She called me into the little cabinet to partake of it, and there
Madame Beck soon made her appearance, bringing m r  a ~laag
of wine.




402                     VIL L  TTE.
" Well," began she, chuckling, " and what sort of a rccep
tion did Madame Walravens give you? Elle est drole, n'est
ce pas?"
I told her what had passed, delivering verbatim the courteous
message with which I had been charged.
" Oh, la singuliere petite bossue!" laughed she: "Et figurezvous qu'elle me deteste, parcequ'elle me croit amoureuse
de mon cousin Paul; ce petit devot qui n'ose pas bouger, a
ooins que son confesseur ne lui donne la permission! Au reste
(she went on), if he wanted to marry ever so much-soit moi,
soit une autre-he could not do it; he has too large a family
already on his hands; Mere WValravens, Pere Silas, Dame
Agnes, and a whole troop of nameless paupers. There never
was a man like him for laying on himself burdens greater than
he can bear, voluntarily incurring needless responsibilities.
Besides, he harbors a romantic idea about some pale-faced
Marie Justine-persornage assez niaise a ce que je pense (such
was Madame's irreverent remark), who has been an angel in
Heaven, or elsewhere, this score of years, and to whom he
means to go, free from all earthly ties, pure comme un lis, a
ce qu'il dit.  Oh, you would laugh could you but know half
M. Emanuel's crotchets and eccentricities! But I hinder you
fiom taking refreshment, ma bonne meess, which you must
need; eat your supper, drink your wine, oubliez les anges, lea
Jos3ues, et surtout, les Professeurs-et bon soir!"
CHAPTER XXXV.
FPATE RNITY.
" OUBLIEZ les Professeurs."  So said Madame Beck.  Ma-.jame Beck wvas a wise women, but she should not have uttered those words.  To do so was a mistake.  That night she
should have left me calm —not excited, indifferent, not interested, isolated in my own estimation and that of others-not
ccnnected, even in idea, with this second person whom I vwas
to forget




FRATERNITY.                        403
Forget him?  Ah  they took a sage pliar to make me foG
get him-the wiseheads! They showed me how good he was
they made of my dear little man a stainless little hero. And
then they had prated about his manner of loving.  What
means had I, before this day, of being certain whether he
could love at all or not?
I had known him jealous, suspicious; I had seen about him
certain tendernesses, fitfulnesses —a softness which came like a
warm air, and a ruth which passed like early dew, dried in
the heat of his irritabilities: this was all I had seen.  And
they, Pere Silas and Modeste Maria Beck (that these two
wrought in concert I could not doubt) 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 of matter,
clung to immortal spirit, and, in victory and faith, had watch
ed beside a tomb twenty years.
This had been done-not idly: this was not a mere hollow
indulgence of sentiment; he had proven his fidelity by the
consecration of his best energies to an unselfish purpose, and
attested it by limitless personal sacrifices; for those once dear
to her he prized —he had laid down vengeance, and taken up
a cross.
Now, as for Justine Marie, I knew what she was as well
as if I had seen her.  I knew  she was well enough; there
were girls like her in Madame Beck's school-phlegmatics —
pale, slow, inert, but kind-natured, neutral of evil, undistinguished for good.
If she wore angel's wings, I knew whose poet-fancy conferred them. If her forehead shone luminous with the reflex
of a halo, I knew in the fire of whose irids that circlet of holy
flame had generation.
Was I, then, to be frightened by Justine Marie?  Was the
picture of a pale dead nun to rise, an eternal barrier?  And
what of the charities which absorbed his worldly goods? What
of his heart, sworn to virginity?
Madame Beck-Pere Silas-you should not have suggested
these questions.  They were at once the deepest puzzle, the
strongest obstruction, and the keenest stimulus, I had ever
felt.  For a week of nights and days I fell asleep-I dreamt
and I awoke upon these two questions.  In the whole world




401                    VILLETT.
there was no answer to them, except where on0  dark liitle
man stood, sat, walked, lectured, under the head-piece of a
bandit bonnet-grec, and within the girth of a sorry palet6t,
much be-inked, and no little adust.
After that visit to the Rue des Mages, I did want to see
him  again.  I felt as if-knowing what I now knew —his
countenance would offer a page more lucid, more interesting
than ever; I felt a longing to trace in it the imprint of that
rimitive devotedness, the signs of that halfLknightly, halfsaintly chivalry which the priest's narrative imputed to his
nature. He had become my Christian hero: under that char.
acter I wanted to view him.
Nor was opportunity slow to favor: my new impressions underwent her test the next day. Yes; I was granted an interview with my " Christian hero "-an interview not very heroic
or sentimental, or biblical, but lively 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 Madame Beck, who, in Ipropria persona, was giving one
of her orderly and useful lessons-this peace, I say, suffered
a sudden fracture by the wild inburst of a pal'etot.
Nobody at the moment was quieter than myself. Eased of
responsibility by Madame Beck's presence, soothed by her uniform tones, pleased and edified with her clear exposition of the
subject in hand (for she taught well), I sat bent over my desk,
drawing-that is, copying an elaborate line engraving, tediously working up my copy to the finish of the original, fbr that
was my practical notion of art; and, strange to say, I took
extreme pleasure in the labor, and could even produce curiously finical Chinese fac-similes of steel or mezzotint platesthings about as valuable as so many achievements in worsted
work, but I thought pretty well of them in those days.
What was the matter? My drawing, my pencils, my pre.
eious copy, gathered into one crushed up handful, perished firom
before my sight; I myself appeared to be shaken or emptied
out of my chair, as a solitary and withered nutmeg might be
emptied out of a spice-box by an excited cook.  That chair,
and my desk, seized by the wild paletot, one under each 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 (or dancing




F LtATE R NI   Y.                    405
and choral singing-lessons-fixed with  an oenphasis which
seemled to prohibit the remotest hope of our ever being permitted to stir thence again.
Having partially collected my scared wits, I found myself
in the presence of two men —geentlemen, I suppose I should
say-one dark, the other light-one having a stiff, half mili
tary air, and wearing a braided surtout; the other partaking
in garb and bearing, more of the careless aspect of the stu
dent or.artist class: both flourishing in full magnificence of
moustaches, whiskers, and imperial. M. Emanuel stood a little
apart from these; his countenance and eyes expressed strong
choler: he held forth his hand with his tribune gesture.
"Mademoiselle," said he, "your business is to prove to
these gentlemen that I am no liar.  You will answer, to the
best of your ability, such questions as they shall put.  You
will also write on such theme as they shall select. - In their
eyes, it appears I hold the position of an unprincipled impostor.  I write essays; and, with deliberate forgery, sign to
them  my pupils' names, and boast of them  as their work.
You will disprove this charge.
Grand Ciel!   Here was the show-trial, so long evaded,
come on me like a thunder-clap.   These two fine, braided,
moustachioed, sneering personages, were none other than dandy
professors of the college —Messieurs Boissec and Rocehemorte
-a pair of cold- blooded fbps and pedants, skeptics, and scoffers.
It seems that M. Paul had been rashly exhibiting something
I had written-'something he had never once praised, or even
mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemed fbrgotten.
The essay was not remarkable at all; it only seemed remarkable, compared with the average productions of foreign schoolgirls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarce
noticed.  Messrs. Boissec and Rochemorte had thought proper
to question its genuineness, and insinuate a cheat; I was now
to bear my testimony to the truth, and to be put to the torture
of their examination.
A memorable scene ensued.
They began with classics.  A dead blank.  They went on
to French history.  I hardly knew  Merovee from  Phararnold.  They tried me in various'clogies. and still only got a
shakle of the head, and an unchanging " Je n'en sais rien."
After an expressive pause, they proceeded to matters of
S2




406                    VILLETTE.
general information. broaching one or two -ubjccts which I
knew pretty well, and on which I had often reflected.  M
Emanuel, who had hitherto stood looking on, dark as the win.
ter solstice, brightened up somewhat; he thought I should now
show myself at least no fool.
He learned his error.  Though answers to the questions
surged up fa.st, 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 humor was crossed.
I heard one of my examiners-he of the braided surtoutwhisper to his co-professor: " Est-elle done idiote?"
"Yes," I thought, " an idiot she is, always will be, for such
as you."
"But I suffered-sufSered cruelly; I saw the damps gather
on M. Paul's brow, and his eye spoke a passionate, yet sad
reproach. Ile would not believe 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 stamn.
raered out:
" Gentlemen, you had better let me go; you will get no
good of me; as you say, I am an idiot."
I wish I could have spoken with calm  and dignity, or I
wish my sense had sufficed to make me hold my tongue; that
traitor tongue tripped, faltered.  Beholding the judges cast oM. Emanuel a hard look of triumph, and hearing the di,
tressed tremor of my own voice, out I burst in a fit of choking
tears.  The emotion was far more of anger than grief; had
I been a man and strong, I could have challenged that pair
on the spot-but it was emotion, and I would rather have
been scourged, than betrayed it.
The incapables' Could they not see at once the crude
hand of a novice in that composition they called a forgery?
The subject was classical.  When M. Paul dictated the trait
on which the essay was to turn, I heard it for the first time;
the matter was new to me, and I had no material for its treatment.  But I got books, read up the facts, laboriously cona.tructed a skeleton out of the dry bones of the real, and then
clothed them, and tried tc breathe into them life, and in this
last aim I had pleasure. With me it was a difficult and anxious
time till mv facts were found, selected, and properly jointed




FRATERNITY.                        407
nor could I rest from research and effort till I was satisfied of
correct anatomy; the strength of my inward lepugnance to
the idea of flaw  or falsity sometimes enabled me to shun
egregious blunders; but the knowledge was not there in my
head, ready and mellow; it had not been sown in Spring,
grown in Summer, harvested in Autumn, and garnered through
Winter; whatever I wanted I must go out and gather fresh;
glean of wild herbs my lap full, and shred them green into
the pot.  Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte did not perceive
tifs. They mistook my 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 the white paper with eyes half-blinded
and overflowing, one of my judges begana mincingly to apologize for the pain he had caused.
" Nous agissons dans l'interet de la verite.  Nous ne vo'1ions pas vous blesser," 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, as stern as Joab,
and there triumphed his accusers.
At these two I looked. I was gathering my courage to tell
them that I would neither write nor speak another word for
their satisfaction, that their theme did not suit, nor thei;
presence inspire me, and that, notwithstanding, whoever
threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel's honor, outraged that truth of which they had announced themselves 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 and whisker, those twc cold yet bold, trustless yet
presumptuous visages, were the same faces, the very same
that, projected in full gas-light from behind the pillars of a
portico, had half frightened me to death on the night of my
deselate arrival in Villette.  These, I felt morally certain,
were the very heroes who had driven a fiiendless foreigner
beyond her reckoning and her strength, chased her breathleto
ovt,: a whole quarter of thb  town.




408                     VILLETTE,
Pious nrentoys I" thought I. " Pure guides for youth! 1)' uman Justice' were what she ought to be, you two would
scarce hold your present post, or enjoy your present credit."
An idea once seized, I fell to work.  "Human Justice'
rushed before me in novel guise, a red, random beldare with
arms akimbo.  I saw her in her house, the den of confusion 
servants called to her for orders or heip which she did not
give; beggars stood at her door waiting and starving unnoticed; a swarm of children, sick and quarrelsome, crawled
round her feet and yelled in her ears appeals for notice, sympathy, cure, redress.  The honest woman cared for none of
these things.  She had a warm  seat of her own by the fire,
she had her own solace in a short black pipe, and a bottle of
Mrs. Sweeny's soothing syrup; she smoked and she sipped and
she enjoyed her paradise, and whenever a cry of the suffering
souls about her pierced her ears too keenly-my jolly dame
seized the poker or the hearth-brush: if the offender was weak,
wronged and sickly, she effectually settled him; if' he was
strong, lively, and violent, she only menaced, then plunged
her hand in her deep pouch, and flung a liberal shower of
sugar-plums.
" Such was the sketch of " Hunmal Justice," scratched hurriedly on paper, and placed at the service of Messrs. Boissec
and Rochemorte.  Nll. Emanuel read it over my shoulder.
Waiting no comment, I curtsiel to the trio, and withdrew.
After school that day, M. Paul and I again met. Of course
the meeting did not at first run smooth; there was a crow to
pluck with him: that forced examination could not be immediately digested.  A. crabbed dialogue terminated in my being
called, "une petite moqueuse et sans-ceur," and in monsieur's
temporary departure.
Not wishing him to go quite away, only desiring he should
feel that such a transport as he had that day given way Io.
could not be indulged with perfect impunity, I was not son v
to see him, soon after, gardening in the berceau.  He ag
proached the glass door; I drew near also.  We spoke iI
some flowers growing round it.  By-and-by monsieur laid
down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation,
passed to other subjects, and at last touched a point of inte.
rest.
(onscious that his proceeding of that day was specially




FRATERNITY.                         409
open to a charge of extravagance, M.'Pau. half apologized;
tie half regretted too the fitfilness of his moods at all times,
yet he hinted that some allowance ought to be made for him
"But," said he, "I can hardly expect it at your hands, Miss
Lucy; you know neither me, nor my position, nor my history."
His history.  I took up the word at once; I pursued tle
idea.
"No, monsieur," I rejoined.  " Of course, as you say, I
hnow neither your history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your sorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities.  Oh, no! I know  nothing about you; you are for mn?
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 to originate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend.  A man like you, without ties, can
have no attachments; without dependents, no duties.  All
we, with whom  you come in contact,.re machines, which
you thrust here and here, inconsiderate of their feelings. You
seek your recreations in public, by the light of the evening
chandelier: this school and yonder college are your workshops,
where you fabricate the ware called pupils.  I don't so much
as know where you live; it is natural to take it for granted
that you have no home, and need none."
" I am judged," said he. " Your opinion of me is just what
I thought it was.  For you-I am neither a man nor a Chris.
tian. You see me void of affection and religion, unattached
by friend or family, unpiloted by principle or faith. It is well,
mademoiselle, such is our reward in this life."
"You are a philosopher, monsieur; a cynic philosopher
(and I looked at his paletot, of which he straightway brushed
the dim  sleeve with his hand), despising the foibles of humanity-above its luxuries,-independent of its comforts."
" Et vous, mademoiselle; vous etes proprette et dou llette,
et effreusement insensible, par-dessus le marche."
"But, in short, monsieur, now I think of it, you r'iust live
somewhere?  Do tell me where; and what establishment of
servants do you keep?"
With a fearful projection of the under lip, implying an ira
petus of scorn the most decided, he broke out



410                   VILLE  TE,
Je vis dans un trou.! I inhabit a den, miss —-a cavern
where you would not put your dainty nose.  Once, with base
shame of speaking the whole truth, 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.  As for
my' establishment of servants'" (mimicking my voice) "they
number ten: les voila!"
And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.
"I black my boots," pursued he, savagely.  "I brush my
palet6t."
" No, monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that," was
my parenthesis."
"Je fais mon lit et mon menage; I seek my dinner in a
restaurant; my supper takes care of itself; I pass days laborious and loveless; nights long and lonely; I am ferocious,
and bearded, and monkish; and nothing now living in this
world loves me, except some old hearts worn like my own,
and some few beings, impoverished, suffering, poor in purse
and in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but
to whom  a will and testament not to be disputed, has bequeathed the kingdom 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 of the Basseville-why don't you go and live there?"
"Hein?" muttered he again.
" I liked it much, monsieur; with the steps ascending to the
door, the gray flags in front, the nodding trees behind-real
trees, not shrubs-trees dark, high, and of old growth.  And
the boudoir-oratoire-you should make that room your study;
it is so quiet and solemn."
He eyed me closely: he half-smiled, half-colored.  "Where
did you pick up all that?  Who told you?" he asked.
"Nobody told me. Did I dream it, monsi.(ir, do you think?"
" Can I enter into your visions?  Can I guess a woman's
wakilng thoughts, much less her sleeping fantasies?"
"If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well,ra a house.  I saw a priest, old, bent, and gray, and a domestic-old, too, and picturesque; and a lady, splendid but
strange; her head would scarce reach to nim  elbow-h-b




FRATERNITY.                        411
magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore a gown bright
as lapis-lazuli-a shawl worth a thousand francs: she was
decked with crnaments so brilliant, I never saw  any with
such a beautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as it it had
been broken in two and bent double; she seemed also to have
outlived the common years of humanity, and to have attained
those which are only labor and sorrow.  She was become
morose-almost malevolent; yet somebody, it appears cared
for her in her infirmities-somebody forgave her trespasses.
hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They lived together
these three people-the mistress, the chaplain, the servantall old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing."
He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but
did not conceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression
I liked.
"I see you have entered into my secrets," said he; "hut
how was it done?"
So I told him how-the commission on which I had been
sent, the storm which had detained me, the abruptness of the
lady, the kindness of the priest. " As I sat waiting for the rain
to cease, Pere Silas wiled away the time with a story," I said
"A story! What story?  Pere 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 good poignle of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular accent."
"Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking
fast in the midst. But I will tell him the title-' The Priest's
Pupil.' "
"Bah!" said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark
chcek; "The good old father could not have chosen a worse
sutject: it is his weak point.  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, his ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy
Such a bad pupil, monsieur! —so thankless, cold-hearted, un
chivalrous, unforgiving I"




412                     VILIETTI.
"' Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.
"Et puis," I pursued, "he underwent calamities which oa.s
did not pity-bore them  in a spirit one did not admire —en
dured wrongs for which one felt no sympathy; finally took
the unchristian revenge of heaping coals of fire on his adversary's head."
"You have not told me all," said he.
"' Nearly ail. 1 think: I have indicated the heads of l'.er
Silas's chapters."
"You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil's
ack of aSection-on his hard, cold, monkish heart."
"True: I remember now.  Pere Silas did say that his
vocation was almost that of a priest-that his life was conridered 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 I believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one,question. Raise your eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesi
cation; fear not to trust mre-I am a man to be trusted."
I raised my eyes.
"Knowing me thoroughly now-all my antecedents, all my
responsibilities-having long known my faults, can you and 1
still be friends?"
"If monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have
a friend in him.
"But a close friend I mean-intimate and real-kindred
in all but blood? 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 anewer him; he took my hand, which found comfort in the
shelter of his.  Ilis friendship was not a doubtful, wavering
benefit-a cold, distant hope-a sentiment so brittle as not to
bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt)
its support like that of some rock.
" When I talk of friendship, I mean trute friendship," lhe
repeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words
eoarnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the real.




FRATERNITY.                         413
ity of that kind, anxious look he gave. If he really wished
for my confidence and regard, and really would give me his
-why, it seemed to me that life could offer nothing more or
better.  In that case, I was become strong and rich: in a
moment I was made substantially happy.  To ascertain the
fact, to fix and seal it, I asked"Is monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs
me, and can take 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 pure affection."
"And dare I rely on monsieur's regard?  Dare I speak to
him when I am so inclined?"
" My little sister must make her own experiments," said
he; " I will give no promises.  She must tease and try her,wayward brother till she has drilled him into what she wishes.
After all, he is no inductile material in some hands."
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now
affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had
never felt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her husband; 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 a dream, as once before
had happened?
" Qu'est-ce done?  What is it?" said he, as this thought
threw its weight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance
I told him; and after a moment's pause, and a thoughtful
smile, he showed me how an equal fear-lest I should weary
of him, a man of moods so difficult and 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 of re-assurance.  That word was not only tolerated;
its repetition was courted.  I grew  quite happy-strangely
happy-in making him secure, content, tranquil.  Yesterday,
I could not have believed that earth held, or life afforded,
moments like the few I ias now passing.  Countless times it
had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close darkly
in; but to see unhoped-fbr happiness take form, find place.
and grow  more real as tie seconds sped, was indeed a neexperience.




414                    VILLETT]B'"Lucy," said M[. Paul, speaking low, and still holding ray
hand, " did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old houe?'
" 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 bereeau?"
"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; which was true enough.
"You did not, nor will you fancy," pursued he, "that a
saint in Heaven perturbs herself with rivalries of earth?
Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will
not beset you?"
" I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a
perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one
day be arrived at."
"Doubtless, doubtless.  Besides, no good living womanmuch less a pure, happy spirit-would trouble amity like ours
— n'est-il pas vrai?"
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt,
calling out that I was wanted.  Her mother was going into
town to call on some English family, who had applied for a
prospectus: my services were needed as interpreter.  The
interruption was not unseasonable: sufficient for the day is
always the evil; for this hour, its good sufficed.  Yet I should
have liked to ask M. Paul whether the "morbid fancies,"
against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.




THE   APPLE  OF DISCORD.                   415
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.  We were under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jeasously her son through that mystic
lattice at which I had knelt once, and to which M. Emanuel
drew nigh month by month-the sliding panel of the confessional.
" 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 proof of a certain partiality in his feelings?"
Yes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly
-that he was my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts,
his tender deference-that trust which longed to rest, and
was grateful when taught how.  He had called me " sister."
It was well.  Yes; he might call me what he pleased, so
long as he confided in me. I was willing to be his sister, on
condition that he did not invite me to fill that relation to
some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was to
celibacy, of this dilemma there seemed little danger.
Through most of the succeeding night, I pondered that even.
umg's interview.  I wanted much the morning to break, and
then listened for the bell to ring; and. after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers and breakfast slow, and all the hours
lingering, till that arrived at last which brought the lesson of
literature. My wish was to get a more thorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how much of the
brother he would demean himself when we met again; to
prove how much of th; sister was in my own feelings; to
discover whether I could summon a sister's courage, and he a
brother's frankness.
He came.  Life is so constructed, that the event does not,
cannot, will not, match the expectation. That whole day he
never accosted me. His lesson was given rather more quietly




41.6                   V-I  L E   T  E.
than usual, more mildly, and also more gravely.  He wda
fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherly to mt.  Ete ho
left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; I got 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; it increased.  I suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever other feelings beoan 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.  Vain injunction I Privilege
nominal and unavailable I  Some women might use it! Nothing in my powers or instinct placed me amongst this brave
band.  Left alone, I was passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten-my lips would not utter, nor ry eyes dart a reminder.
It seemed there had been an error somewhere in my calculations, and I waited for time to disclose it.
But the day came when, as usual, he was to give me a lesson.  One evening in seven he had long generously bestowed
on me, devoting it to the examination of what had been done
ill various studies during the past week, and to the preparation of work for the week in prospect.  On these occasions my
school-room was anywhere, wherever the pupils and the other
teachers happened to be, or in their close vicinage, very often
in the large second division, where it was easy to choose a
quiet nook when the crowding day-pupils were absent, and
the few boarders gathered in a knot about the surveillante's
estrade.
On the customary evening, hearing the customary hour
strike, I collected my books and papers, my pen and ink, and
sought the large division.
In classe there was no one, and it lay all in cool deep sha(low; but through the open double doors was seen the carer
filled with pupils and with light; over hall and figures blushed the westering sun.  It blushed so ruddily and vividly, that
the hues of the walls and the variegated tints of the dresses
seemed all fused in one warm glow.  The girls were seated,
working or studying; in the midst of their circle stood M:.
Emanuel, speaking good-humoredly to a teacher.  Itis dark
paletot, his jetty hair, were tin ged with many a reflex ef crimr




THE  APPLE  OF DISCORD.                     417
son; his Spanish face, when he turned it momer.tarily; answered the sun's animated kiss with an animated smile   I
took my place at a desk.
The orange-trees, and several plants, full and blight with
bloom, basked also in the sun's laughing bounty; they had
partaken it the whole day, and now asked water.  M. Enma
nuel had a taste for gardening; he liked to tend and fostel
plants. I used to think that working amongst shrubs with a
spade or watering-pot soothed his nerves; it was a recreation
to which he often had recourse; and now  he looked to the
orange-trees, the geraniums, the gorgeous cactuses, and revived
them all with the refreshment their drought needed. His lips
meantime sustained his precious cigar, that (for him) first
necessary and prime luxury of life; its blue wreaths curled
prettily enough amongst the flowers, and in the evening light
He spoke no more to the pupils, nor to the mistresses, but
gave many an endearing word to a small spanieless (if one
may coin a word), that nominally belonged to the house, but
virtually owned him as master, being fonder of him  than ot
any inmate.   A  delicate, silky, loving, and loveable little
doggie she was, trotting at his side, looking with expressive.
attached eyes into his face; and whenever he dropped his
bonnet-grec or his handkerchief, which he occasionally did in
play, crouching beside it with the air of a minature lion
guarding a kingdom's flag.
There were many plants, and as the amateur gardener
fetched all the water fiomr the well in the court, with his own
active hands, his work spun out to solme length.  The great
school-clock ticked on.  Another hour struck.  The carr6 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.
Was it my turn?
Alas! in the garden were more plants to be looked after, —
favorite rose-bushes, certain choice flowers; little Sylvie's glad
bark and whine followed the receding paletot down the alleys.
I put upsome of my 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 the returning paletot; the watering-pot was deposited be,




418                    VILLETTE.
side the well, it had fulfilled its office; how glad I was!
Monsieur washed nis hands in a little stone bowl.  There waa
no longer time for a leson now; ere long the prayer-bell must
fing; nut stiJ we should meet; he would speak; a chance
woo Id be offered of reading in his eyes the riddle of his shy.
aess.  His ablutions over, he stood, slowly re-arranging his
Iunfs, looking at the horn of a young moon, set pale in the
sepal sky, and glimmering faint on the oriel of Jean Baptiste.
Sylvie watched the mood contemplative; its stillness irked
her; she whined and jumped to break it.  He looked down.
"Petite exigeante!" said he; "you must not be forgotten
one moment, it seems."
He stooped, lifted her in his arms, sauntered across the
court, within a yard of the line of windows near one of which
I sat: he sauntered lingeringly, fondling the spaniel in his
bosom, calling her tender names in a tender voice.  On the
front-door steps he turned; once again he looked at the moon,
at the gray cathedral, over the remoter spires and house-roofs,
fa{ding into a blue sea of night-mist; he tasted the sweet
breath of dusk, and noted the folded bloom of the garden; he
suddenly looked round; a keen beam out of his eye rased the
white facade of the classes, swept the long line of crois6es.
I think he bowed; if he did, I had no time to return the
courtesy.  In a moment he was gone; the moonlit threshold
lay pale and shadowless before the closed front-door.
Gathering in my arms all that was spread on the desk before me, I carried back the unused heap to its place in the
third classe. The prayer-bell rang; I obeyed its summons.
The morrow would not restore him  to the Rue Fossette,
that day being devoted entirely to his college.  I got through
my teaching; I got over the intermediate hours; I saw evening approaching, and armed myself for 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 latter alternative; if there was a hope of comfort for any moment,
tho heart or head of no human being in this house could yield
it; only under the lid of my desk could it harbor, nestling between the leaves of some book, gilding a pencil-point, the nib
of a pen, or tinging the black fluid in that ink-glass.  WVith
a heavy heart I opened my desk-lid; with a weary hand I
turned up its contents




TIE  APPLE  OF DISCORD.                  419
One by one, well-accustomed books, volumes sewn in fami.
tiar covers, wert taken out and put back hopeless; they had
no charm; they could not cornort.  Is this something new,
this pamphlet in lilac?  I have not seen it before, and I rearranged my desk this very day-this very afternoon; the
tract must have been introduced within the last hour, while
we were at dinner.
I opened it.  What was it?  W hat would it say to me?
It was neither tale nor poem, neither essay nor history; it
neither sung, nor related, nor discussed.  It was a theologicai
work; it preached and it persuaded.
I lent to it my ear very willingly, for, small as it was, it
possessed its own spell, and bound my attention at once.  It
preached Romanismr; it persuaded to conversion.  The voice
of that sly little book was a honied voice; its accents were all
unction and balm. Here roared no utterance of Rome's thunders, no blasting of the breath of her displeasure.  The Protestant was to turn Papist, not so much in fear of the heretic's hell, as on account of the comfort, the indulgence, the
tenderness Holy Church offered: far be it from her to threaten
or to coerce; her wish was to guide and win. She persecute?
Oh dear no! not on any account!
This meek volume was not addressed to the hardened and
worldly; it was not even strong meat for the strong; it was
milk for babes; the mild effluence of a mother's love towards
her tenderest and her youngest; intended wholly and solely
for those whose head is to be reached through the heart. Its
appeal was not to intellect; it sought to win the affectionate
through their affections, the sympathizing through their sympathies: St. Vincent de Paul, gathering his orphans about him,
never spoke more sweetly.
I remember one capital inducement to apostacy was held
out in the fact that a Catholic who had lost dear friends by
death could enjoy the unspeakable solace of praying them out
of purgatory.  The writer did not touch on the firmer peace
of those whose belief dispenses with purgatory altogether;  lul
I thought of this, and, on the whole, preferred the latter doce
trine as the most consolatory.
The little book amused, and did not painfully displease me.
It was a canting, sentimental, shallow little book, yet some.
thig abou t it cheered my gloom and made me smile; I wau




420                     V  LLET TS..rnused with the gambols of this unlicked wolf-cub mufiled
in the fleece, and mimicking the bleat of a guileless lamb.
Portions of it reminded me of certain Wesleyan Methodisl
tracts I had once read when a child; they were flavored with
about the same seasoning of excitation to fanaticism. He that
had written it was no bad man, and while perpetually betraying the trained cunning-the cloven hoof of his system —
should pause before accusing himself of insincerity. His judgIaent, however, wanted surgical props; it was ricketty.
I smiled then over this dose of maternal tenderness, coming
from  the ruddy old lady of the Seven Hills; smiled, too, at
mny own disinclzination, not to say disability, to meet these
melting favors. Glancing at the title-page, I found the name
of "Pere Silas." A fly-leaf bore in small, but clear and wellknown pencil characters: "From P. C. D. E. to L-y." And
when I saw this I laughed; but not in my former spirit.  I
was revived.
A mortal bewilderment cleared suddenly from my head and
vision; the solution of the Sphynx-riddle was won; the conjunction of those two names, Pere Silas and Paul Emanuei,
gave the key to all. The penitent had been with his director;
permitted to withhold nothing; suffered to keep no corner of
his heart sacred to God and to himself; the whole narrative
of our late interview  had been drawn from  him; he had
avowed the covenant of fraternity, and spoken of his adopted
sister. How could such covenant, such adoption, be sanctioned
by the Church?  Fraternal communion with a heretic! I
seemed to hear Pere Silas annulling 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 Ml. Emanuel held most dear and sacred,
commanding the enforcement of that new system whose frost
had pierced to the marrow of my bones.
These may not seem pleasant hypotheses; yet, by conm
parison, they were welcome. The vision of a ghostly troubles
hovering in the background, was as nothing, matched with
the fear of spontaneous change arising in M. Paul himself.
At this distance of time, I cannot be sure how far the above
conjectures were self:suggested: or in what measure they
owed their origin and confirmation to another quarter.  Help
-was not wantingi.




THE APPLE  OF DISCORD                      421
This evening there was no bright sunset; wrest and east
were one cloud; no summer night-mist, blue, yet rose-tinged.
softened with the distance; a clammy fog from the marshes
crept gray round Villette. To-night the watering-pot might
rest in its niche by the well; a small rain had been drizzling
all the afternoon, and still it fell fast and quietly. This was no
weather for rambling in the wet alleys, under the dripping
trees; and I started to hear Sylvie's sudden bark in the garden-her bark 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 comrnanded the deep vista of the alle defendu e: thither rushed
Sylvie, glistening through its gloom like a white guelder-rose.
She ran to and fro, whining, springing, harassing little birds
amongst the bushes.  I watched five minutes; no fulfilment
followed the omen.  I returned to my books: Sylvie's sharp
bark suddenly ceased.  Again I looked up.  She was standing not many yards distant, wagging her white, feathery tail
as fast as the muscle would work, and intently watching the
operations of a spade, plied fast by an indefatigable hand.
There was M. Emanuel, bent over the soil, digging in the
wet mould amongst the rain-laden and streaming shrubs,
working as hard as if this day's pittance were yet to earn by
the literal sweat of his brow.
In this sign I read a ruffled mood.  He would dig thus in
frozen snow on the coldest winter day, when urged inwardly
by painful emotion, whether of nervous excitation, or sad
thoughts, or self-reproach.  He would dig, by the hour, with
knit brow and set teeth, nor once lift his head, or open his
lips.
Sylvie watched till she was tired. Again scampering devious, bounding here, rushing there, snuffing and sniffling everywhere; she at last discovered me in classe.  Instantly she
flew barking at the panes, as if to urge me forth to share her
pleasure or her master's toil; she had seen me occasionally
walking in that alley with M. Paul; and I doubt 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 course perceived why, and at whom she barked.  He
whistled to call her off; she only barked the lcuder, hi
T




422                   VILLETTE.
seemned quite bent upon having the glass-door opened. Tired, l
suppose, with her importunity, he threw down his spade, approached, and pushed the door ajar.  Sylvie burst in all inpetuous, sprang to my lap, and with her paws at my neck,
and her little nose and tongue somewhat overpoweringly busy
about my face, mouth, and eyes, flourished her bushy tail
over the desk, and scattered books and papers far and wide.
MVi. Emanuel advanced to still the clamor and repair the
disarrangement. Having gathered up the books, he captured
Sylvie, and stowed her away under his paletot, where she
nestled as quiet as a mouse, her head just peeping forth. She
was very tiny, and had the prettiest little innocent face, the
silkiest long ears, the finest dark eyes in the world.  I never
saw her, but I thought of Paulina de Bassompierre: forgive
the association, reader, it would occur.
ai. Paul petted and patted her; the endearments she re"eived were not to be wondered at; she invited affection by
aer beauty and her vivacious life.
While caressing the spaniel, his eye roved over the papers
and books just replaced; it settled on the religious tract. His
lips moved; he half-checked the impulse to speak. What
had he promised never to address me more? If so, his better
nature pronounced the vow " more honored in the breach than
in the observance," for with a second effort, he spoke:"You have not yet read the brochure, I presume?  It is
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 any concessions were to be made-if any advances were demanded-that was the affair of the very docile
pupil of Pere Silas, not mine.  His eye settled upon me gently; there was mildness at the moment in its blue ray-there
was solicitude-a shade of pathos; there were meanings composite and contrasted-reproach melting into remorse.  At
the moment, probably, he would have been glad to see something emotional in me.  I could not show it.  In another
minute, however, I should have betrayed confusion, had I not
bethought myself to take some quill-pens from my desk, and
krgin soberly to mend thenm.
I knew that action would give a turn to his mood. le




THE APPLE OF DISCORD.                   423
never liked to see me mend pens; my knife was alwa/s dull.
edged-my hand, too, was unskilful; 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 set him at his
ease, to get him to chide.
" Maladroite!" he cried at last, " she will make mince-meat
of her hands."
lie put Sylvie down, making her lie quiet beside his bonnet.
grec, and, depriving me of the pens and penknife, proceeded
to slice, nib, and point with the accuracy and celerity of a
mnachine.
" 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 done! It was of no use taking
that tone with him.  Bad as I was —and he should be sorry
to have to name all my faults at a breath-God and nature
had given me'trop de sensibilite et de sympathie' not to be
profoundly affected by an appeal so touching."
" Indeed!" I responded, rousing myself quickly, " I was not
affected at all-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
rather piquant than polite. I listened with zest. After those
two days of unnatural silence, it was better than music to
hear M. Paul haranguing again just in his old fashion.  I
listened, and meantime solaced myself and Sylvie with the
contents of a bonbonniere, which M. Emanuel's gifts kept
well supplied with chocolate comfits. It pleased him to see
even a small matter from his hand duly appreciated.  He
looked at me and the spaniel while we shared the spoil; he
put up his penknife.  Touching mny hand with the bundle of
new-cut quills, he said:
" Dites-done, petite soeur-speak frankly-what have you
ihought of me- during the last two days?"
But of this question I would take no manner of notice; its
purport made my eyes fill. I caressed Sylvie assiduously. M.
Paul, leaning over the desk, bent towards us:
"I callZd myself your brother," he said; " I hardly know




421                    VILLETTE.
what I an —brother-friend-I cannot tell.  I knew i think
of you —1 feel I wish you well-but I must check myself;
you are to be feared.  My best friends point out danger, and
whisper caution."
"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, unblessed panoply.  You are good-Pere Silas calls
you good, and loves you-but your terrible, proud, earnest
Protestantism, there is the danger. It expresses itself by youi
eye at times; and again, it gives you certain tones and cer
tain gestures that make my flesh creep. You are not demon
strative, and yet, just now-when you handled that tractmny 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 trusted that it could not fail.  I laid it in your desk
with a prayer.  I must indeed be a sinner: Heaven will nol
hear the petitions that come warmest from my heart. You
scorn my little offering.  Oh, cela me fait mal!"
" Monsieur, I don't scorn it-at least, not as your gift. Monsieur, sit down; listen to me.  I am not a heathen, I am not
lhard-hearted, I am not unchristian, I am not dangerous, as
they tell you; I would not trouble your faith; you believe in
God and Christ and the Bible, and so 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 and sect? Pere Silas dropped dark hints."
By dint of persuasion, I made him half-define these hints;
they amounted to crafty Jesuit-slanders.  That night M. Paul
and I talked seriously and closely.  He pleaded, he argued.
I could not argue-a fortunate incapacity; it needed but
triumphant, logical opposition to effect all the director wished
to be effected; but I could talk in my own way-the way M.
Paul was used to-and of which he could follow the mean,
derings and fill the hiatus, and pardon the strange stammerings, strange to him  no longer, At ease with him, I could
defend my creed and faith in my own fashion; in some degree
I could lull his prejudices. He was not satisfied when he wean




TIHE APPLE  OF DISCORD.                   425
away, hardly was he appeased; but he was ma ie thoroughly
to feel that Protestants were not necessarily the irreverent
Pagans his director had insinuated; he was made to compre.
hend something of their mode of honoring, the Light, the Life,
the Word; he was enabled partly to perceive that, while
their veneration for things venerable was not quite like that
cultivated in his Church, it had its own, perhaps, deeper
power-its own more solemn awe.
I found that Pere Silas (himself, I must repeat, not a bad
man, though the advocate of a bad cause), had darkly stigma.
tized Protestants in general, and myself by inference, with
strange names, had ascribed to us strange " isms;" Monsieui
Emanuel revealed all this in his frank fashion, which knew
not secretiveness, looking at me as he spoke with a kind, earnest fear, almost trembling lest there should be truth in the
charges.  Pere Silas, it seems, had closely watched me, had
ascertained that I went by turns, and indiscriminately, to the
three Protestant Chapels of Villette-the French, German, and
English-id est, the Presbyterian, Lutheran, Episcopalian.
Such liberality argued in the Father's eyes profound indiffer
ence-who tolerates all, he reasoned, can be attached to none
Now, it happened that I had often secretly wondered at the
minute and unimportant character of the differences between
these three sects-at the unity and identity of their vital doe.
trines: I saw nothing to hinder them from being one day fused
into one grand Holy Alliance, and I respected them all, though
1 thought that in each there were faults of form; incumbrances,
and trivialities.  Just what I thought, that did I tell M
Emanuel, and explained to him that my own last appeal, the
guide to which 1 looked, and the teacher which I owned, must
always be the Bible itself; rather than any sect, of whatever
name or nation.
He left me soothed, yet full of solicitude, breathing a wish,
as strong 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 hope might yet be mine.
Strange! I had no such feverish wish to turn him from the
faith of his fathers.  I thought Romanism wrong, a great
mixed image of gold and clay; but it seemed to me that thi




42G                    VILLETTE.
Romanist held the purer elements of his creed withl an innw
cercy of heart which God must love.
The preceding conversation passed between eight an. nine
o'clock of the evening, in a school-room of the quiet Rue Fossette, opening on a sequestered garden. Probably about the
same, or a somewhat later hour of the succeeding evening, its
echoes, collected by holy obedience were breathed verbatim
in an attent ear, at the panel of a confessional, in the hoary
church of the Magi. It ensued that Pere Silas paid a visit to
Madame Beck, and stirred by I know not what mixture of
motives, persuaded her to let him undertake for a time the heretic Englishwoman's spiritual direction.
Hereupon I was put through a course of reading-that is, 1
just glanced at the books lent me; they were too little in my
way to be thoroughly read, marked, learned, or inwardly digested. And besides, I had a book up-stairs, under my pillow,
whereof certain chapters satisfied my needs in the article of
spiritual lore, furnishing such precept and example as, to my
heart's core, I was convinced could not be improved on.
Then Pere Silas showed me the fair side of Rome, her good
works, and bade me judge the tree by its fruits.
In answer, I felt and I avowed that these works were not
the fruits of Rome; they were but her abundant blossoming,
but the fair promise she showed the world.  That bloom,
when set, savored not of charity; the apple full formed was
ignorance, abasement, and bigotry.  Out of men's afflictions
and affections were forged the rivets of their servitude.  Poverty was fed and clothed, and sheltered, to bind it by obligation to " the church;" orphanage was reared and educated
that it might grow up in the fold of "the Church;" sickness
was tended that it might die after the formula and in the ordinance of " the Church;" and men were over-wrought, and
women most murderously sacrificed, and all laid down a world
God. made pleasant for his creatures' good, and took up a cross,
monstrous in its galling weight, that they might serve Rome,
prove her sanctity, confirm  her power, and spread the reign
of her tyrant " Church."
For man's good was little done; for God's glory less.  A
thousand ways were opened with pain, with blood-sweats,
with lavishing of life; mountains were cloven through theil
breasts, and rocks were split to their base; and all for what'




THE APPLE  OF DISCORD.                    427
That a Priesthood might march straight on and straight up.
ward to an all-dominating eminence, whence they might at
last stretch the sceptre of their Moloch " Church."
It will not be. God is not with Rome, and, were human
sorrows still for the Son of God, would he not mourn over her
cruelties ard ambitions, as once he mourned over the crimea
and woes of doomed Jerusalem!
0, 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 human compassions, a Love strongei
than this strong death which even you must 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 her kingdom. I was taken to the churches on
solemn occasions-days of fte and state; I was shown the
Papal ritual and ceremonial. I looked at it.
Mlany people-men and women-no doubt far my superiors
In a thousand ways, have felt this display impressive, have
declared that though their reason protested, their imagination
was subjugated.  I cannot say the same.  Neither full procession, nor high mass, nor swarming tapers, nor swinging
censers, nor ecclesiastical millinery, nor celestial jewelry
touched my imagination a whit.  What I saw  struck me
us tawdry, not grand; as grossly material, not poetically spiaitual.
This I did not tell Pere Silas; he was old, he looked venerable, through every abortive experiment, under every repeated disappointment, he remained personally kind to me, and I
felt tender of 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 huge mingled procession of the church
and the army-priests with relics, and soldiers with weapons,
an obese and aged archbishop, habited in cambric and lace,
looking strangely like a gray daw in bird-of-paradise plumage,
and a band of young girls fantastically robed and garlanded —
thIn I spoke my mind to M. Paul




428                    VILLETTE.
" I did not like it," I told him, " I did not respect such cere
monies; I wished to see no more."
And having relieved my conscience by this declaration, 1
was able to go on, and, speaking more currently and clearly
than my wont, to show him that I had a mind to keep to my
reformed creed; that the more I saw of Popery the closer I
clung to Protestantism; doubtless there were errors in every
Church, but I now perceived by contrast how severely pure was
mny own, compared with her whose painted and meretricious
face had been unveiled for my admiration.  I told him how
we kept fewer forms between us and God; retaining, indeed,
no more than, perhaps, the nature of mankind in the mass
rendered necessary for due observance. I told him I could
not look on flowers and tinsel, on wax-lights and embroidery,
at such times and under such circumstances as should be devoted to lifting the sacred vision to Him whose home is Infinity, and his being-Eternity.   That when I thought of sin
and sorrow, of earthly corruption, mortal depravity, weighty
temporal woe-I could not care for chanting priests or mumming officials; that when the pains of existence and the terrors of dissolution pressed before me-when the mighty hope
and measureless doubt of the future arose in view-then, even
the scientific strain, or the prayer in a language learned and
dead, harassed with hindrance a heart which only longed to
cry" God be merciful to me, a sinner "
WThen I had so spoken, so declared my faith, and so widely
severed myself from  him I addressed-then, at last, care a
tone accordant, an echo responsive, one sweet chord of har,
mony in two conflicting spirits.
" Whatever say priests or controversialists," murmured M.
Emanuel, " God is 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 also cry-' 0 Dieu, sois appais6
envers moi qui suis pecheur!' "
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 firma.
ments, from whose nostrils issued whatever of life is here, oi
n the stars shining yonder-how seem the differences of man?
hut as Time is not for God, nor Space, so neither is Measure.




SUINSHI NE.                      429
nor Corrparison. We abase ourselves in our titt.eness, and
we do right; yet it may bo that the constancy of one heart,
the truth and faith of one mind according to the light He has
appointed, import as much to Him as the just motion of satellites about their planets, of planets about their suns, of suns
around that mighty unseen centre incomprehensible, irrealizable, with strange mental effort only divined.
God guide us all! God bless you, Lucy!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
SUNSHINE.
It was very well for Paulina to decline further correspon.
dence with Graham till her father had sanctioned the intercourse, but Dr. Bretton could not live within a league of the
Hotel Crecy, and not contrive to visit there often. Both lovers
meant at first, I believe. to be distant; they kept their intention so far as demonstrative courtship went, 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 Miss Fanshawe, I suppose his intellect
had little to do, but his whole intellect, and his highest tastes,
came in question now.  These, like all his faculties, were
active, eager for nutriment, and alive to gratification when it
came.
I cannot say that Paulina designedly led him to talk of
books, or formally proposed to herself for a moment the task
of winning him to reflection, or planned the improvement of
his mind, or so much as fancied his mind could in any one respect be improved.  She thought him very perfect; itwas
(raham  himself, who, at first by the merest chance, mentioned some book he had been reading, and when in her response, sounded a welcome harmony of sympathies, something
pleasant to his soul, he talked on, more and better perhaps
th3n he had ever talked before on such subjects. She listened
T2




430                     VILLETTE.
with delight, and answered with animation. Tn each sctile
sive answer, Graham heard a music waxing finer and finei 1,
his sense; in each he found a suggestive, persuasive, magri
accent that opened a scarce known treasure-house wiihin,
showed him unsuspected power in his own mind, and what was
better, latent goodness in his heart.  Each liked the way in
which the other talked; the voice, the diction, the expression
pleased; each keenly relished the flavor of the other's wit;
they met each other's meaning with strange quickness, their
thoughts often matched like carefully-chosen pearls. Graham
had wealth of mirth by nature; Paulina possessed no such
inherent flow of animal spirit-unstimulated, she inclined to
be thoughtful and pensive-but now she seemed merry as a
lark; in her lover's genial presence, she glanced like some
soft glad light.  How beautiful she grew in her happiness, I
can hardly express, but I wondered to see her. As to that
gentle ice of hers-that reserve on which she had depended;
where was it now?  Ah! Graham would not long bear it;
he brought with him a generous influence 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 candor and still growing confidence.  Graham had
made for himself a better opportunity than that he had wished
me to give; he had earned independence of the collatera:
help that disobliging Lucy had refused; all his reminiscences
of " little Polly" found their proper expression in his own
leasant tones, by his own kind and handsome lips; hoa
much better than if suggested by me.
More than once when we were alone, Paulina would tel!
mie how wonderful and curious it was to discover the richness
and accuracy of his memory in this matter.  How, while he
was looking at her, recollections would seem  to be suddenly
quickened in his mind.  He reminded her that she had once,athered his head in her arms, caressed his leonine graces.
and cried out, " Graham, I do like you!"  He told her how
she would set a. footstool beside him, and climb by its aid to
his knee. At this day he said he could recall the sensation oi
her little hands smoothing his check, or burying themselves in
his thick mane. He remembered the touch of her small fore.
finger, placed half tremblingly, half curiously, in the cleft in




SU NSHINE.                        431
his chiin, the lisp, the look with which she would name it " a
pretty dimple," then seek his eyes and question why they
pierced so, telling him he had a " nice, strange face; fai
nicer, far stranger, than either his mamma or Lucy Frost."
"Child as I was," remarled Paulina, "I wonder how I
dared be so venturous.  To me lie seems now all sacred, hi?
locks are inaccessible, and, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear when I
look at his firm, marble chin, 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'1 tell you what I do, Paulina," was once my answer to
her many questions.  " I never see hint.  I looked at him
twice or thrice about a year ago, before he recognized me,
and then I shut my eyes; and if he were to cross their balls
twelve times between each day's sunset and sunrise, except
from  memory, I should hardly know what shape 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 tc
silence for ever the tender, passionate confidences which lefi
her lips, sweet honey, and sometimes dropped in my earmolten lead.  To me, she commented no more 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 exquisite in itself, but which chafed me al
times miserably; and then, I know, I gave her stern looks
and words; but cloudless happiness had dazzled her native
blear sight, and she only thought Lucy-fitful.
"Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!" she would say, smiling at
nm.  "Grahamn says you are the most peculiar, capricious
little woman he knows; but yet you are excellent; we both
think so."
" You both think you know not what," said I.  "Have the
goodness to make me as little the subject of your mutua talk
and thoughts as possible   I have my sort of life apart froim
yours."
" But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will hb: ard you
shall share it."




432                    VILLETTE.
"I shall share no man's or woman's life in this world, as
you understand sharing.  I think I have one friend of my
own, but am not sure; and till T am sure, I live solitary."
"But solitude is sadness.
"Yes; it is sadness.  Life, however, has worse than tha.t
Deeper than melancholy, lies heartbreak."
"Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you
altogether."
There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they
will have a witness of their happiness, cost that witness what
it may.  Paulina had forbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote;
she had resolved against correspondence, yet she answered,
were it only to chide.  She showed me these letters; with
something of the spoiled child's wilfulness, and of the heiress's
imperiousness, she macde me read them.  As I read Graham's,
I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood her pride:
they were fine letters-manly and fond-modest and gallant
Hers must have appeared to him beautiful.  They had nol
been written to show her talents; still less, I think, to express
her love.  On the contrary, it appeared that she had proposed
to herself the task of hiding that feeling, and bridling her
lover's ardor.  But how could such letters serve such a purpose?  Graham was become dear as her life; he drew her
like a powerful magnet.  For her there was influence unspeakable in all he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked.  With
this unconfessed confession, her letters glowed; it kindled
them, from greeting to adieu.
"I wish papa knew; I do wish papa knew!" began now
to be her anxious murmur.  " I wish, and yet I fear.  I can
hardly keep Graham back from telling him.  There is nothing I long for more than to have this affair settled-to speak
out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis.  I know, I am certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike
me almost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will
be 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 little stirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light
wo;as beginning to trespass on his eye.
To her, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at,
o3 perhaps thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her




SU NS  I IN E.                   433
One cvening-Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I
believe, to Graham; she had left me in the library, reading.-M. de Bassompierre came in; he sat down: I was about
to withdraw; he requested me to remain-gently, yet in a
manner which showed he wished compliance.  He had taken
his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened
a desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum'
book; of this book he studied a certain entry for several
minnutes.
"Miss Snowe," said he, laying it down, "do you know my
little girl's age?"
" About eighteen, is it not, sir?'
"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born
on the 5th of May, in the year 18-, eighteen years ago.  It
is strange: I had lost the 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 no taller."
"My little jewel!" said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone
which penetrated like some of his daughter's accents.
He sat very thoughtful.
"Sir, don't grieve," I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly
unspoken as they were.
"She is the only pearl I have," he said; " and now others
will find out that she is pure and of price; they will covet
her."
I made no answer.  Graham Bretton had dined with us
that day; he had shone both in converse and looks: I know
not what pride of bloom embellished his aspect and mellowed
his intercourse.  Under the stimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled
attention.  I think he had purposed on that day to indicate
the origin of his endeavors, and the aim of his ambition.  M.
de Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to
descry the direction and catch the character of his homage.
Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning; having onea
&.,ized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.
W' here is she?" he asked.
"s he is up-stairs."
" What is she doing?"




434                    VILLETTE.
"She is writing."
" She writes, does she? Does she receive letters V"
"None but such as she can show me.  And —sir-she -
they have long wanted to consult you."
"Pshawe! 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 speak for 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 was obliged to go on" Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point of
appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears
you mortally."
"He may well-he may well fear me. He has touched
the best thing I have.  Had he but let her alone, she would
have remained a child for years 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
propriety which always characterizes you; but this matter is
a grief to me; my little girl was all I had; I have no more
daughters and no son; Bretton might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and 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
have pleased him-your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.
" Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart,
but Polly!    I can't let him have her.  No-I can't.  He
is not her equal," he affirmed, rather gruffly. " In what particular is he her match?  They talk of fortune! I amn not
an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks of these
things-and Polly will be rich."
" Yes, that is known," said I  " all Villette kr.nows her &a
an heiress."
" Do they talk of my little girl in that light?'
" They do, sir"'




sUj NSIINE.                       435
He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say:
" Would you, sir, think any one Paulina's match?  VWouzld
you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do you think higher
rank or more wealth would make much difference in your
feelings towards a future son-in-law?"
"Yon touch me there," said he.
Look at the aristocracy of Villette-you would not like
them, sir?"
" I should not-never a due, baron, or vicornte 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.  Independent of heiresship, it appears
to me that Paulina charms the most of those who 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 too partial.  I li.ke Polly: I like all her ways
and all her looks —ut then I am  her father; and even 1
never thought about beauty.  She is amusing, fairy-like, interesting to me;-you must be mistaken in supposing her
handsome?"
" She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your wealth and position."
"My wealth and position! Are these any bait tr Graham?
If I thought so-   "
"Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be
sure, M. de Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman
would-as youm would yourself, under the same circumstances
-but they are not his baits.  He loves your daughter very
much; he feels her finest qualities, and they influence him
worthily."
" What! has my little pet' fine qualities?'"
"Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many
men of eminence 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 Frenci men gather
rouind her in the drawing-room?"




436                    VILLETTE.
I"' did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation —.&
one might amuse one's self with a pretty infant."
" Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard
the French gentlemen say she was' ptrie d'esprit et de
graces.' Dr. Bretton thought the same."
"She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I do believue she has some character.  When I think of it, I was
once ill; Polly nursed me; they thought I should die; she,
I recollect, grew at once stronger 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 chair as
noiselessly and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought
in marriage! 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 would be 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 are indeed old, old friends-a sweet, kind-hearted
girl she was when she was young.  You talk of beauty, Miss
Snowe  she was handsome, if you will-tall, straight, and
blooming-not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me:
at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess.  She is a comely and a good woman now.  The lad is
like her; I have always thought so, and favored and wished
him well.  Now he repays me by this robbery!   ly little
treasure used to love her old father dearly and truly. It is
all over now, doubtless-I am an incumbrance."
The door opened-his " little treasure " came in. She was
dressed, so to speak, in evening beauty; that animation which
sometimes comes with the close of day, warmed her eye and
cheek; a tinge of summer crimson heightened her complexion;
her curls fell full and long on her lily neck; her white dress
suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she had brought
in her hand the letter just written-brought it folded but
unsealed.  I was to read it.  When she saw her father, her
tripping step faltered a little, paused a moment-the color in
her cheek flowed rosy over her whole face.
"Polly." said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a




SUNSHINE.                       437
grave smile, "do you blash at seeing papa?  That is Fomne
thing new."
" I don't blush —I never do blush," affirmed she, while ani
other eddy from the heart sent up its scarlet.  "But I thought
you were in the dining-room, and I wanted Lucy."
"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose 
lBut he has just been called out: he will be back soon, Polly
lie can post your letter 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-te
say, "Shall I come?"-but she approached.
"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly?
It only seems yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks,
laboring away absolutely with both hands at the pen."
" Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in youx
letter-bag; they are only notes, which I give lnow and thep
into the person's hand, 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 wil,
tell you the truth-all the truth; I am glad to tell youglad, though I tremble."
She did tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling,
and also gathering courage, shook her.
"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa.  I fear you
and love you above 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 hand shaking, 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
but yesterday? Can she feel so?"
" Papa, is it wrong?  Does it pain you?"
"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary 
mut it pains me."




438                   VILLETTE
" But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me.  I
would give up everything-almost (correcting herself): I
would die rather than make you unhappy; that would be tco
wicked!"
She shuddered.
"Does the letter not please you?  Must it not go?  Must
it be torn? It shall, for your sake, if you order it."
"I order nothing."
"Order something, papa; express your wish; only don't
hurt, don't grieve Graham.  I cannot, cannot bear that.  I
love you, papa; but I love Graham too, because-becauseit is impossible to help it."
"This splendid Graham  is a young scamp, Polly-that is
my present notion of him: it will surprise you to hear that,
for my part, I do not love him one whit. Ah! years ago I
saw something in that lad's eye I never quite fathomedsomething his mother had not-a depth which warned a man
not to wade into that stream  too far; now, suddenly, I find
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 up in a convent, and break Graham's heart
to-morrow, if you choose to be so cruel.  Now autocrat, now
czar, will you do this?"' Of with him  to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I
don't like him, Polly, and I wonder that you should."
"Papa," said she, "do you know you are very naughty 
I never saw you look so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost
vindictive before.  There is an expression in your face which
does not belong to you."
"Off with him!" pursued Mr. Hoome, who certainly did
look sorely crossed and annoyed-even a little bitter; " but, I
suppose, if he went, Polly would pack a bundle and run after
him; her heart is fairly won-won, and weaned from her old
father,"
"Papa, I say it is naughty, it is d ~cidedly wrong, to talk im
that way.  I am not weaned fiom you, and no human being
and no mortal influence can wean me."
"Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers.  Cease to
be a daughter; go and be a wife!"'Bed whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa.  Y~u




SUNS  INE.                      439
Ibiou.d take care of prejudice. You sometiles say to me that
all the Scotch, your countrymen, 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 his few foibles, she had expected the sort of scene
which was now transpiring; it did not take her by surprise,
and she desired to let it pass with dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no 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.  He said 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 coring with
candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion.  In the ante.
room stood no servant; a tall gentleman was placing his hat
on the table, drawing off his gloves slowly-lingering, wait.
ing, it seemed to me.  He called me neither by sign or 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 agitation which now fevered him.
"Mr. de Bassompierre is there-is he not?" he inquired,
pointing to the library.
" 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."
"Hah  These are sharp moments, Lucy I"
He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital
(I was goioig to write mortal, but such words. ill apply to one
all living like him)-a vital suspense now held, now hurried
his breath: ini all th's trouble his smile never faded.




440                    VILLETTE.
"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 indeed to quail.  I think I find all women faithfil,
Lucy.  I ought to love them, 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 little hand to me, and always has been. And now for the
great venture. God be with 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 are born vanquished.
"Follow  me!" he said; and I followed him  into Mr
HIome'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 of hospitality.  I entertained you; you have taken my best.  I was always glad 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 lcst, you, it seems, have won."
"Sir, I cannot repent."
Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended partly from a Highlander and a chief; and
there is a trace of the Celt in all you look, speak, and think
You have his cunning and his charm.  The red    (Well,
then, Polly, the fair) hair, the tongue of guile, and brain of
wile, are all come down by inheritance."
" Sir, Ifeel honest enough," said Graham; and a genuine
English blush covered his face with his warm witness of sincerity.  "And yet," he added, " I won't deny that in some
respects you accuse me justly.  In your 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 tha
world owns for me.  I wished for it; I tried for it.  Sir, I
ask for it now."




SUNSHIINE.                      441
e John, you ask much."
"Very much, sir. It must come frolm your generosity, as a
g ft; from your 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.  She gazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.
"Papa, I love you both," said she; "I can take care of
you both, I need not send Graham away-he cari live here;
he will be no inconvenience," she alleged with that simplicity
of phraseology which at times was wont to make both her
father and Graham smile.  They smiled now.
"He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me," still permisted Mr. Home.  "I don't want him, Polly; he is too tall;
he is in my way.  Tell him to march."
"You will get used to him, papa.  He seemed exceedingly
tall to me at first-like a tower when I looked up at him;
but, on the whole, I would rather not have him otherwise."
"I object to him, altogether, Polly; I can do without a
son-in-law.  I should never have requested the best man in
the land to stand to me in that 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
opinions and tastes his own.  He has humored 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 me between you."
" Indeed, indeed, you are friends.  Graham, stretch out
your right hand.  Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch.
Papa, don't be stiff; close your fingers; be pliant-there 
But that is not a clasp-it is a grasp! Papa, you grasp like
au vice.  You crush Graham's hand to the bone; you hurt
him I"
He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round
with brilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's
flesh and drew blood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as
anxiety had made him smile.




442                    VILLETTE.
" Come with rme into my study," at last, said Mr. Home ft
the doctor.  They went.  Their interview was not long, but
I suppose it was conclusive. The suitor had to undergo an
interrogatory and a scrutiny on many things.  Whether Dr
Bretton was at times guileful in look and language or not,
there was a sound foundation below.  His answers, I understood afterwards, evinced both wisdom  and integrity. lie
had managed his affairs well.  He had struggled through entanglements; his fortunes were in the way of retrieval; he
proved himself in a position to marry.
Once more the father and lover appeared in the library.
M. de Bassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.
" Take her," he said. " Take her, John Bretton; and may
God deal with you as you deal with her I"
Not long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons,
Count de Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham  Bretton, sitting on one seat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of the palace at Bois l'Etang.
They had come thither to enjoy a summer evening: outside
the magnificent gates their carriage waited to take them
honme; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and
dim; the palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on Pentelicus; the evening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs embalmed the climate of this spot; the hour was
Qtill and sweet; the scene, but for this group, was solitary.
Paulina sat between the two gentlemen; while they conversed, her little hands were busy at some work; I thought at
first she was binding a nosegay.  No; with the tiny pair of
scissors, glittering in her lap, she had severed spoils from each
manly head beside her, and was now occupied in plaiting together the gray lock and the golden wave.  The plait woven
-no silk-thread being at hand to bind it-a tress of her own
hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied it like a knot,
urisoned it in a locket, and laid it on her heart.
"Now," said she, "there is an amulet made, which has
virtue li  keep you two always friends.  You can never quarrel so long as I wear this."
An amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which ren




SUNSHINE.                        443
dered enmity impossible.  She was become a bond to both, an
influence over each, a mutual concord.  From them she drew
her happiness, and what she borrowed, she, with interest, gave
back.
Is there, indeed, such happiness on earth? I asked, as 1
watched the father, the daughter, the future husband, now
united —all blessed and blessing.
Yes; it is so. Without any coloring of romance, or any ex
aggferation of fancy, it is so. Some real lives do-for some
certain days or years-actually anticipate the happiness of
Heaven; and, I believe, if such perfect happiness is once felt
by good people (to the wicked it never comes), its sweet effect
is never wholly lost. Whatever trials follow, whatever pains
of sickness or shades of death, the glory precedent still shines
through, cheering the keen ang     anguish, ad tinging the deep cloud.
I will go farther. I do believe there are some human beings
so born, so reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and
late grave, that no excessive suffering penetrates their lot, and
no tempestuous blackness overcasts their journey. And often.
these are not pampered, selfish beings, but Nature's elect, harmonious and benign; men and women mild with charity, kind
agents of God's kind attributes.
Let me not delay the happy truth.  Graham  Bretton and
Paulina de Bassompierre were married, and such an agent
did Dr. Bretton prove. He did not with time degenerate; his
faults decayed, his virtues ripened; he rose in intellectual refinement, he won in moral profit; all dregs filtered 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 cornerstone.
This pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with
great prosperity, great goodness: they imparted with open
hand, yet wisely.  Doubtless they knew  crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but these were well borne.  More than
once, too, they had to look on Him whose face flesh scarce can
see and live: they had to pay their tribute to the King oi
Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. de Bassompierre was taken;
in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose
a cry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; bul
others sprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost  Or




444                    VILLETTE.
Bretton saw  himself live again in a son who inherited his
looks and his disposition; he had stately daughters, too, like
himself; these children he reared with a suave, yet a firm
hand; they grew up according to inheritance and nurture.
in short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these
two lives of Graham  and Paulina were blessed, like that oi
Jacob's favored son, with " blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies under." 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 it surely will be, whether we humble ourselves to re
signation or not. The impulse of creation forwards it; the
strength of powers, seen and unseen, has its fulfilment in
charge.  Proof of a life to come must be given.  Irn ire and
in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In fire and
in blood do we trace the record throughout nature.  In fire
and in blood does it cross our own experience.  Sufferer, faint
riot through terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer.
gird up thy loins, look upward, march onward.  Pilgrims and
brother mourners, join in friendly company. Dark through
the wilderness of this world stretches the way for most of us 
equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our banner. Fo
staff we have His promise, whose "word is tried, whose wa.)
perfect:" for present hope His providence, " who gives the
shield of salvation, whose gentleness makes great;" for final
home His bosom, who " dwells in the height of Heaven;" for
crowning prize a glory, exceeding and eternal. Let us so run
that we may obtain; let us endure hardness as good soldiers;
let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant in the issue
to come off more than conquerors: " Art thou not from ever
lasting mine Holy One?  WVE SHALL NOT DIE!
On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in clase,




CLOU D.                       445
waiting for the lesson of literature.  The hour was some- we
expected the master.
The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly.
written compositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready
before them, neatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered
by the hand of the professor 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 fresh breeze, 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 his being a little late, but we wondered when
the door at last opened, and, instead of himr  with his swiftness
and his fire, there came quietly upon us, the cautious Madame
Beck.
She approached M. Paul's desk; she stood before it; she
drew round her the light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet firm tones, and with a fixed gaze,
she said"This morning there will be 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 shall require at least that space of time to find an efficient
substitute for M. Emanuel.  Meanwhile, it shall be our study
to fill the blanks usefully.
" Your professor, ladies," she went on, " intends, if possible,
duly to take leave of you. At the present moment he has not
leisure for that ceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage.
A very sudden and urgent summons of duty calls him to a
great distance. He has decided to leave Europe for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself. Ladies,
instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this
morning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy "
She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her
shawl, and passed from the classe
A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room:
I believe some pupils wept.
Some time elapsed.  The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing increased.  I became conscious of a relaxation
of discipline, a sort of growing disorder, as if my girls felt that
U




446                   VILLETTE.
vigilance was withdrawn, and that surveillance had virtually
left the classe.  Habit and the sense of duty enabled me to
rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in my usual
tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet.  I made the
English reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole
morning.  I remember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils who sobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not
of much value; it was only an hysteric agitation.  I told
them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them. I was severe.
The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that gasping sound; I could not bear it.  A rather weak-minded, lowspirited pupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless
necessity obliged and assisted me so to accost her, that she
dlared not carry on the demonstration, that she was forced to
conquer the convulsion.
That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that,
when school was over and her companions departing, I ordered
her to stay, and when they 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 impulse yielded to, I speedily put
her out of the classe, for, upon that poignant strain, she wept
more bitterly than ever.
I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and
should have liked to sit up all night if I might have kept a
candle burning; the night, however, proved a bad time, and
left bad effects, preparing me ill for the next day's ordeal of
insufferable gossip.  Of course this news fell under general
discussion.  Some little reserve had accompanied the first
surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every
tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed
the name of "Emanuel."  He, whose connection with the
school was contemporary with its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt strange.
They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very
multitude of their words and rumors, 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 1n.
dies.  I looked at Madame Beck's face, and into her eyes, iuo
disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused her all ovel
for in;frmation, but no part of her disclosed more than what
was unperturbed and commonplace.




CLOUD                        417
"This secession was an immense loss to her," she alleged.
"She did not know how she should fill up the vacancy.  She
was so used to her kinsman, 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 his duty."
She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinnertable,
speaking audibly to Zelie St. Pierre.
" Why was it his duty?"  I could have asked her that  I
had impulses to take hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed
me in classe, to stretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and
say, " Stop.  Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter
WVhy is it his duty to go into banishment?"  But Madame
always addressed some other teacher, and never looked at me,
never seemed conscious I could have a care in the question.
The week wore on.  Nothing more was said about M.
Emanuel coming to bid us good-by; none seemed anxious for
his coming; none questioned whether or not he would come;
none betrayed torment lest he should depart silent and unseen;
incessantly did they talk, and never, in all their talk, touched
on this vital. point.  As to Madame, she of course could see
him, and say to him as much as she pleased.  What should
she care whether or not he appeared in the school-roon?
The week consumed.  We were told that he was going on
such a day, that his destination was " Basseterre in Guadaloupe:" the business which called him abroad related to a
fiiend's interests, not his own: I thought as much.; Basseterre in Guadaloupe."  I had little sleep about this
time, but whenever I did slumber, it followed infallibly that
I was quickly roused with a start, while the words "Basseterre," " Guadaloupe," seemed pronounced over my pillow, or
ran athwart the darkness around and before me, in zig-zag
characters of red or violet light.
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 growing hourly better and kinder.  It was now
a month since we had settled the theological difference, and
in all that time there had been no quarrel.  Nor had our
peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived
aloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than
beibre; he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed,
with eye content, with manner home-like and mild.  Kind




418                    VILLETTE.
subjccts of conversation had grown between us; he had in
quired into my plans of life, and I had communicated them,
the school-project pleased him; he made me repeat it more
than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream.  The jai
was over; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing;
feelings of union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in
the heart; affection and 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, for the jealous gibe, and the more jealous, halfpassionate eulogy, were substituted a mute, indulgent help, a
fond guidance, and a tender forbearance which forgave but
never praised. There were times when he would sit for many
minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty brought
separation, he would leave with words like these: "I1 est
doux, le repos! II est precieux, le calme bonheur I"
One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst
walking in my alley.  He took my hand.  I looked up in his
face; I thonght he meant to arrest my attention.' Bonne petite amie!" said he, softly; " douce consolatrice!"
But through his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and
a strange thought found a course.  Could it be that he was
becoming more than friend or brother?  Did his look speak a
kindness beyond fraternity or amity?
His eloquent look had more to say, his hand diew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred.  No.  Not now.  Here
into the twilight alley broke an interruption: it came dual
and ominous: we faced two bodeful forms-a woman's and
a priest's-Madame Beck and Pere Silas.
The aspect of the latter I shall never forget.  On the first
impulse, it expressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the
signs of affection just surprised; then, immediately, darkened
over it the jaundice of ecclesiastical jealousy.  He spoke to
me with unction.  He looked on his pupil with sternness.  As
to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw nothing-nothing; though
her kinsman retained in her presence the hand of the heretic
foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping it close and
fast.
Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of
departure had struck me at first as incredible.  Indeed, it




CLO UID.                       449
was only frequent repetition, and the credence of the hundred
and fifty minds round me, which forced on me its full accept.
ance.  As to that week of suspense, with its blank yet burn.
ing days, which brought from him no word of explanation —
I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.
The last day broke.  Now would he visit us.  Now he
would come and speak his farewell, or he would vanish mute,
a;l be seen by us nevermore.
This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not
a living creature in that school. All rose at the usual hour;
all breakfasted as usual; all, without reference to, or apparent
thought of their late professor, betook themselves with wonted
phlegm to their ordinary duties.
So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, so inexpectant its aspect-I scarce knew how to breathe
in an atmosphere thus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no
one lend me a voice? Had no one 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, a holiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they
would not now band to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on
a last interview with a Master 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, or communicated with; the distance was scarce a stone'sthrow; had it been in the next room —unsummoned, I could
make no use of my knowledge. To follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall-for these things I had no faculty.
M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm:
had he passed silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless, should
I have suffered him to go by.
Morning wasted.  Afternoon came, and I thought all was
over. My heart trembled in its place. My blood was troubled
in its current.  I was quite sick, and hardly knew how to
keep at my post or do my work.  Yet the little world round
me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund, free of care, or
fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days since, had
wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared quite
to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.
A little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame




45 0                   V I L L E T TM.
Beck sent for ime to her chamber, to read over and translate
some English letter The had received, and to write for her the
answer.  Before settling to this work, I observed that she
softly closed the two doors of her chamber; she even shut
and fastened the casement, though it was a hot day, and free
circulation of air was usually regarded by her as indispensable.  Why this precaution?  A keen suspicion, an almost
fierce distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what sound?
I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the
evening and winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey,
and hearing far off the traveller's tramp.  Yet I could both
listen and write.  About the middle of the letter I heardwhat checked my pen-a tread in the vestibule.  No doorbell had rung; Rosine-acting doubtless by orders-had anticipated such reveillee. Madame saw me halt. She coughed,
made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the
classes.
"Proceed," said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my
ear enchained, my thoughts were carried off captive.
The classes formed another building; the hall parted them
from  the dwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I
heard the sudden stir 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?
"  Vait, madame-I will see what it is."
And I put down my pen and left her.  Left her?  No:
nhe would not be left: powerless to detain me, she rose and
ifolowed, close as my shadow.  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 to.
gcther, but she walked in my steps.
Hle was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There,
or-_e more appeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they
had tried to keep him away, but he was come.
The girls stood in a semi-circle; he was passing round
giving his farewells, pressing each hand, touching with his




C LOUD.                        451
lips each cheek.  This last ceremony, foreign custom  ptrmitted at such a parting-so solemn, to last so long.
I felt it hard that Madlame Beck should dog me thus; following and watching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk
in fever under her breath; I became terribly goaded.
He was approaching; the semi-circle was almost traveled
round; he came to the last pupil; he turned.  But Madame
was before me; she had stepped out suddenly; she seemed
to magnify her proportions and amplify her drapery; she
eclipsed me; I was hid.  She knew my weakness and deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysistotal default of self-assertion —with which, in a crisis, I could
be struck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him
volubly, she mastered his attention, she hurried him to the
door-the glass-door opening on the garden. I think he looked
round; could I have but caught his eye, courage, I think,
would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would have
6een a charge, and, perhaps a rescue; but already the room
was all confision, the semi-circle 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 rung, the school separated, the room emptied.
There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and dis.
traction in some certain minutes I then passed alone-a grief
inexpressible over a loss unendurable.  Wlthat 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
-the least child in the school-broke with its simplicity and
its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that
inward conflict.
" 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 to the 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, only these words:" It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said
good-bye to the rest, but I hoped to see you in classe.  I was




452                   VILLE T T B.
disappointed. The interview is deferred.  Be ready for mn
Ere I sail, I must see you at leisure, and speak with you al
length.  Be ready; my moments are numbered, and, just
now, monopolized; besides I have a private business on hand
which I will not share with any, nor communicate-even tc
yOU.-PAUL."
"Be ready?"  Then it must be this evening; was ho not
to go on the morrow? Yes; of that point I was certain I
had seen the date of his vessel's departure advertised.  Oh.I would be ready, but could that longed-for meeting really be
achieved? the time was so short, the schemers seemed so
watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of access appeared
strait as a gully, deep as a chasm-Apollyon straddled across
it, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could,ay guide reach me?
Who might tell  Yet I began to take some courage, some
comfort; it seemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the whole throb of mine.
I waited my champion.  Apollyon came trailing his Hell
behind him.  I think if Eternity held torment, its form would
not be fiery rack, nor its nature, despair. I think that on a
certain day amongst those days which never dawned, and will
not set, an angel entered Hades-stood, shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled a doubtful
hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height
and compass of his promise; spoke thus-then towering became a star, and vanished into his own Heaven.  His legac)
was suspense-a worse boon than despair.
All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent oliveleaf, yet in the midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear
pressed heavy. Cold and peculiar, I knew it fbr the partner
of a rarely-belied presentiment. The first hours seemed long
and slow; in spirit I clung to the flying skirts of the last.
They passed like drift cloud-like the rack 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 blue shades, over the pale and ashen
gleams of its night.
Prayers were over; it was bed-time: my co-inmates v ire




C LOUD.                        45?
all retired. 1 still remained in the gloomy first-classe, forget.
ting, or at least disregarding, rules I had never forgotten ot
disregarded before.
How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have
been afoot many hours; mechanically had I moved aside
benches and desks, and had made for myself a path down its
length.  There I walked, and there, when certain that the
~ hole household were abed, and quite out of hearing-there,
I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding in Solitude, I
kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; they heaved:iay heart; they tore their way.  In this house, what grief
could be sacred?
Soon after eleven o'clock-a very late hour for the Rue
Fossette-the door unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a
lamp's flame invaded the moonlight; Madame Beck entered,
with the same composed air, as if coming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season.  Instead of at once addressing
me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to seek
something; she loitered over this feigned search long, too long.
She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; driven beyond common range, two hours since I had
deft behind me wonted respects and fears. Led by a touch,
and ruled by a word, under usual circumstances, no yoke
could now be borne-no curb obeyed.
" It is more than time for retirement," said Madame;   the
rule of the house has already been transgressed."
Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when
she came in my way, I put her out of it.' Let me persuade you to calni, meess; let me lead you to
your chamber," said she, trying to speak softly.' o!" I said; "neither you nor another shall persuade or
lead me."
"Your bed shall be warmed.  Goton is sitting up still.
She shall make you 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.  Make your own bed warm and soft; take
sedatives and meats, and drinks spiced and sweet, as much as
you will.  If you have any sorrow or disappointment —and,
perhaps, you have-nay, I know you have-seek your own
U2




1 t^             V         ILLETTE.
palliatives, inl your own chosen resources.  Leave me, how
ever.  Leave me, I say!"
"1 must send another to watch you, meess; I must send
G ton."
"i forbid it.  Let me alone.  Keep your hand off'me, and
my life, and my troubles.  Oh, Madame! in your hand thero
is both chill and poison.  You envenom and you paralyze."
"WThat have I done, ineess?  You must not marry Paul
1l  cannot marry."
"Dog in the manger!" I said; for I knew she secretly
wanted him, and had always wanted him.  She called him
" insupportable;" she railed at him  for a " d6vot;" she (lid
not love, but she wanted to marry, that she might bind him
to her interest.  Deep into some of Madame's secrets I had
entered-I know not how; by an intuition or an inspiration
which came to me  I know not whence.  In the course of.iving with her, too, I had slowly learned, that, unless with
an inferior, she must ever be a rival.  She was my? rival,
heart and soul, though secretly, under the smoothest bearilg,
and utterly unknown to all save her and myself.
Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole
woman was in my power, because in some moods, such as the
present-in some stimulated states of perception, like that ot
this instant-her habitual disguise, her mask and her domino,
were to me a mere network reticulated 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 persuaded to take
rest, she must reluctantly leave me." Which she did incontinent, perhaps even more glad to get away, than I was tsee her vanish.
This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontn.
which ever occurred between me and Madame Beck; this
short night-scene was never repeated.  It (lid not one whit
change her manner to me.  1 do not know that she revenged
it.  I do not know that she hated rme the worse for my feli
candor.  I think she bucklered herself with the secret philosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked
her to remember. I know that to the end of our mutual livea
there occurred no repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery pas
eaqo.




CL OUD.                       45
That niight passed: all nights-even the starless night
before disiolution-must wear away.  Abcut six o'clock, the
hour which called up the household, I went out to the court.
and washed my face in its cold, fresh, well-water.  Entering
by the carr6, a piece of mirror-glass, set in an oaken cabinet,
repeated my image.  It said I was changed; my cheeks and
lips were sodden-white, my eyes were glassy, and my eye-lids
swollen and purple.
On rejoining my comrpanions, I knew they all looked at mo
— my heart seemed discovered to them; I believed myself
self-betrayed.  Hideously certain did it seem  that the very
youngest of the school must guess thy and for whom  I de.
spaired.
" Isabelle," the child whom I had once nursed in sickness,
approached me.  Would she, too, mock me?"
" lue vous etes pale! Vous etes done bien malade, mademoiselle!" said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and
staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed
to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.
Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of
ignorance; before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the whole blind household.  The multitude have
something else to do than to read hearts and interpret dark
sayings   Who wills, may keep his own counsel-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 sorrow was
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 I held in peculiar value one life among all lives.
Gossip had passed me by; curiosity had looked me over: both
subtle influences, hovering always round, had never become
centred upon me.  A given organization may live in a full
fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and
gone; I had been taught and sought; in season and out of
season he had called me, and I had obeyed hirn: M. Paul
wants Miss Lucy"-" Miss Lucy is with M. Paul"-such had
been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody commented, far less
condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested.  Madame Beck
-ead the riddle; none else resolved it.: What i now suffered
r:as called illness —a headache: I accepted the baptism.
But wha' bodily illness was ever like this pain. This ceA




456                   VILLETTE.
tainty that he was gone without a farewell-this crael con
viction that fate and pursuing furies-a woman's envy and a
priest's bigotry-would suffer me to see him no more? What
wonder that the second evening found me like the first-untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an unalterable passion of silent desolation?
Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night
— she did not come near me; she sent Ginevra Fanshawea more efficient agent for the purpose she could not have em-.ployed. Ginevra's first words-" Is your headache very bad
to-night?" (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had a headache-an intolerable headache which made me frightfilly
white in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)-her first
words, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it
were only out of reach.  And soon, what followed-plaints
about her own headaches-completed the business.
I went up stairs. Presently I was in my bed-my miserable bed-haunted with quick scorpions.  I had not been laid
down five minutes, when another emissary arrivel: 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 she received back the emptied cup.
" Ah! the sedative had been administered.  In fact, they
had given me a strong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one
night.
The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the
dormitory hushed.  Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows,
sleep won an easy supremacy; contented sovereign over heads
and hearts which did not ache-he passed by the unquiet.
The drug wrought.  I know not whether Madame had
over-charged or under-charged the dose; its result was not
that she intended. Instead of stupor, came excitement.  I
became alive to new thought-to reverie peculiar in coloring.
A gathering call ran among the faculties, their bugles sang,
their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination was
roused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and vcnturous  With scorn she looked on Matter, her mate —
" Rise I" she said.  "Sluggard! this night I will have zmi
will  nor shalt thou prevail 




CLOUD.                        457
LSook forth and view the night!" was her cry; and when
I lifted the heavy blind from the casement close at handwith her own royal gesture, she showed me a moon supreme,
in an element deep and splendid.
To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the
narrow limits, the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerale. She lured me to leave this den and follow her forth into
dew, coolness, and glory.
She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at inidnight.  Especially she showed the park, the summer-park,
with its long alleys all silent, lone and safe; among these lay
a huge stone-basin-that basin I knew, and beside which I had
often stood-deep-set in the tree-shadows, brimming with cool
water, clear, with a green, leafy, rushy bed.  What of all
this?  The park-gates were shut up, locked, sentineled; the
place could not be entered.
Could it not?  A point worth considering; and while re
volving it, I mechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleep
ing 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, no admission to the park?
The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then
attending to the circumstance, a gap in the paling-one stake
broken down: I now saw this gap again in recollection-saw
it very plainly-the narrow, irregular aperture visible between the sterns of the lindens, planted orderly as a colonade,
A man could not have made his way through that aperture,
nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I
thought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once
within, at this hour the whole park would be mine-the
moonlight, midnight park!
How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers!
What quiet breathing! How very still the whole large house!
What was the time? I felt restless to know. There stood a
clock in the classe below; what hindered me from venturing
down to consult it?  By such a moon, its large white face
anl jet black figures must be vividly distinct.
As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a
creaking hinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights,
elnen air could not bie tolerated, and the chamrler-door stood




458                     V ILL  TTB.
wide open.  Will the dormitory-planks sustain my tread umtraitorous?  Yes. I know wherever a board is loose and will
avoid it.  The oak staircase creaks somewhat as I descend,
but not much — I am in the carre.
The great classe-doors are close shut; they arc bolted. On
the other hand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The
classes seem to my thought, great dreary jails, buried far back
beyend thoroughfares, and for me, filled with spectral and intolerable memories, laid miserable amongst their straw  and
their manacles.  The corridor offirs a cheerful vista, leading
to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street.
"Hush!-the clock strikes.  Ghostly deep as is the still
ness of this convent, it is only eleven.  While my ear follows
to silence the hum of the last stroke, I catch faintly from the
huilt-out capital, a sound like bells or like a band-a sound
where sweetness, where victory, where mourning blend.  Oh,
to approach this music nearer, to listen to it 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, my shawl.   There is no lock on the huge, heavy, portecochere; there is no key to seek; it fastens with a sort of
spring-bolt, not to be opened from  the out-side, but which,
from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn.  Can I manage
it?  It yields to my hand, yields with propitious facility.  I
wonder as that portal sems almost spontaneously to unclose;
t wonder as I cross the threshold and step on the paved street
wonder at the strange ease with which this prison has beet
forced.  It seems as if I had been pioneered invisibly, as if
dome dissolving force had gone before me; for myself, I have
scarce made an efbort.
Quiet Rue Fossette!  I find on this pavement that wallderer-wooing summer night of which I mused; I see its moon
over me; 1 feel its dew in the air.  But here I cannot stay;
I am still too near old haunts; so close under the dungeon, J
can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is not what
I seek, it is not what I can bear; to me the face of that sky
bears the aspect of a world's death.  The park also will be
calm-I know, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere —yet
let me seek the )park.
I took a route well-cknown, and went up towards the pala




I   _~~~~~~~i-                  
GI~AADrL PLACE, BRL'SSr. IS








CLOUD.                        459
tial ani  royal Haute-Ville; thence the music I had heard,
certainly floated; it was hushed now, but it might re-waken.
i went on; neither band nor bell-music came to meet me:
another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong tide, a great
flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement gathered, chimes pealed-to what was I coming?  Entering on
the level of a Grande Place, I found myself; with the suddenness of magic, plunged amidst a gay, living, joyous crowd.
Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole
world seems abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished:
the town, by her own flambeaux, beholds her own splendorgay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses and gallant riders
throng the bright streets.  I see even scores of masks.  It is
a strange scene, stranger than dreams.  But where is the
park?-I ought to be near it.  In the midst of this glare the
park must be shadowy and calm-there, at least, are neither
torches, lamps, nor crowd?
I was asking this question, when an open carriage passed
me filled with known faces.  Through the deep throng it could
pass but slowly; the spirited horses fretted in their curbed
ardor.  I saw the occupants of that carriage well; me they
could not see, or, at least, not know, folded close in my large
shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that motley crowd no
dress was noticeably strange).  I saw the Count de Bassom
pierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely appareled, comely
and cheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the
triple halo of her beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In
looking on her countenance of joy, and eyes of festal light, one
scarce remembered the gala elegance of what she wore; I
know only that the drapery floating about her was all white
and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I saw Graham
Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught
its lustre-the light repeated in her eyes beamed first 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 them  alight (carriages were inadmissable) amidst
new and unanticipated splendors. Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by a flaming arch built
of massed stars; and, following them cautiously beneath that
arch, where were they, and where was I?




460                     VILLETTE.
In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain
sprinkled with colored meteors, a forest with sparks of purple
and ruby and golden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not
of trees and shadow, but of strangest architectural wealthof altar and of temple, of pyramid, obelisk, and sphynx; incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of' Egypt teemed
throughout the park of Villette.
No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine-the
key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled-no
matter that I quickly recognized the material of these solemn
fragments-the timber, the paint, and the pasteboard-these
inevitable discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night.  No matter that I nov
seized the explanation of the whole great fete-a fete of which
the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had
opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigor near
midnight.
In passed days there had been, said history, an awful crisis
in the fate of Labassecour, involving I know not what peril
to the rights and liberties of her gallant citizens.  Rumors of'
wars, there had been, if not wars themselves; a kind of strug
glinr  in the streets-a bustle —a running to and fro, some
rearing of' barricades, some burgher-rioting, come calling out
of troops, much interchange of brick-bats, and even a little of
shot.  Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old
Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemly 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 honor of the said patriots and martyrs of somewhat
apocryphal memory-the morning being given to a solemn'e Deumn in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening devoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I now
saw.
While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a
columnn-while fathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an
avenue, at the close of which was couched a sphynx-I lost
sight of the party which, from the middle of the great square,
I had followed-or, rather, they vanished like a group of apparitions.  On this whole bcene was impressed a dream-llke
character; every shape was wavering, every movement float'
ing, every voice  echo-like —half:mocking, half uncertain




CLOUD.                          461
Paulina and hex friends being gone, I scarce could avouch
that I had really seen them; nor did I miss them  as guides
through the chaos fir less regret them  as protectors amidst
the night.
That festal night would have been safe for a very child.
Half the peasantry had come in from the outlying enviIons of
Villette, and the decent burghers were all abroad and around,
dressed in their best.  My straw-hat passed amidst cap and
jacket, short petticoat, and long calico mantle, without, perhlaps, attracting a glance; I only took the precaution to bind
down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary ribbon;
and then I felt safe as if masked.
Safe I passed down the avenues —safe I mixed with the
crowd where it was 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 swell of sound, the dubious light,
now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or Itope, 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 clear depth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure
I thought, with the passionate thirst of unconscious fever.
Amidst the glare, and hurry, and throng, and noise, I still
secretly and chiefly longed to come on that circular mirror of
crystal, and surprise the moon glassing therein her pearly front.
I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from
pursuing it direct: now a sight, and now a sound, called me
aside, luring me down this alley and down that.  Already I
saw the thick planted trees which framed this tremulous and
rippled glass, when, choiring out of a glade to the right, broke
such a sound as I thought mrht t be heard if Heaven were to
open-such a sound, perhaps, as was heard above the plain
of Bethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.
The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly c-n
flast-strengthening pinions-there swept through these shades
o8 full a storm  of harmonies that, had no tree been near
against which to lean, I think I must have dropped. Voices
were there, it seemed to rne, unnumbered; instruments varied
and -..,tuntless-bugle, horn, and trumpet 1 knew. The eflect
was s, a sea breaking into song with all its waves.'r e swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and
I f  1ow-d its retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine buildilng




462                   VILLETTE.
-a sort of Kiosk near the park's centre.  Round about stood
crowded thousands, gathered to a grand concert in the open
air. What I had heard was, I think, a wild Jager chorus;
the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood, had but
enhanced th3 sounds and their impression.
here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful; some of their dresses were gauzy, and some had the
sheen of satin; the flowers and the blond trembled, and the
veils waved about their decorated bonnets, as that host-like
chorus, with its greatly-gathering sound, sundered the air
above them.  Most of these ladies occupied the little light
park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian gentlemen.  The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens, plebeians and police.
In this outer rank I took my place.  I rather liked to find
myself the silent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbor
of the short petticoat and the sabot; and only the distant
gazer at the silk robe, the velvet mantle, and the plumea
chapeau.  Amidst so much life and joy, too, it suited me to
be alone-quite alone.  Having neither wish nor power to
force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was
on the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but
could see little.
" Mademoiselle is not well placed," said a voice at my elbow.  Who dared accost me, a being in a mood so little
social?  I turned, rather to repel than to reply.  I saw a
man-a burgher-an entire stranger, as I deemed him for
one moment, but the next, recognized in him a certain tradesman-a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette
with its books and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the excessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent
snappishness of his manner, even to us, his principal customers; but whom, for my solitary self, I had ever been disposed
to like, and had always found civil, sometimes kind; once, in
tiding me about some troublesome little exchange of foreign
mnoney, he had done me a service.  He was an intelligent
nman; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; the
thought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature
bore affinity to a part of M. Emanuel's, (whom he knew well,
and whom I had often seen sitting on Miret's counter, turning
over the current month's publications); and it was in this




CLOUD.                        463
afinity I read the explanation of that conciliatory feeling with
which I instinctively regarded him.
Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and
closely-folded shawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he
insisted on making a way for me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation.  He carried 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 in station, the
least polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed
to find nothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason
tor extending to me, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient
attention.  Having secured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a. question, without obtruding a remark,
without adding a superfluous word. No wonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar 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 and my worthy burgher friend had brought me
once more within view of a familiar and domestic group
Right before re sat the Brettons and De Bassompierres
Within reach of my hand-had I chosen to extend it-sat a
figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves
seemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white,
being forest-green.  My god-mother, too, sat so near, that, had
I leaned forward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon
of her bonnet.  They were too near; having been just recognized 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, and speaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,I wonder what my steady little Lucy would say to all
this if she were here?  I wish we had brought her, she would
have enjoyed it much."
" So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion
it is a pity but we had asked her," rejoined the kind gentle.
man; and added, "I like 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
their remembered benevolence.  Little knew they the rack




46-1                    VILLETTE.
of pain which had driven Lucy almost into fever, and bxou:g,
her out, guideless and reckless, urged and dragged to the
brink of frenzy.  I had half a mind to bend over the elder's
shoulders, and answer their goodness with the thanks of my
eyes.  M. de Bassompierre did not well know me, but I knew
him, and honored and admired his nature, with all its plain
sincerity, its warm  aflection, and unconscious enthusiasmn.
Possibly I might have spoken, but just then Graham turned,
he turned then with one of his stately firm  movements, so
different from  those of a sharp-tempered under-sized man,
there was behind him a throng, a hundred ranks deep; there
were thousands to meet his eye and divide its scrutiny —why
then did he concentrate all on me-oppressing me with the
whole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb?  Why, if lie
would look, did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn
on his chair, rest his elbow on its back, and study me leisurely?  He could not see my face, I held it down; surely, hv
could not recognize me; I stooped, I turned, I wouldl not be
known.  He rose, by some means he contrived to approach,
in two minutes he would have had my secret; my identity
would have been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but
always powerful hands. There was but one way to evade 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 sein the spectacle of Lucy il
censed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and
Lucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame,
or absolutely inoffensive and shadowlike.  He looked, but he
desisted..He shook his handsome head, but he was mute.
He resumed his seat, nor did he again turn or disturb me by
a glance, except indeed for one single instant, when a look
rather solicitous than curious, stole my way-speaking what
somehow  stilled  my heart like " the south-wind quieting
the earth."  Graham's thoughts of me were not entirely
those of a frozen indifference, after all.  I believe in that
goodly mansion, his heart, he kept one little place under the
skylights where Lucy might have entertainment, if she chose
to call.  It was not so handsome as the chambers where he
lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall where ho
accomrrrodated his philanthropy, or the library where he trea
sured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion wherr




CLOUD                          465
his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by
long and equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one
little closet, over the door of which was written "Lucy's
Room."  I kept a place for him, too-a place of which I
never took the measure, either by rule or compass: I think it
was like the tent of Peri-Banou.  All my life long I calried
t folded in the hollow of my hand-yet, released from  that
hold and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for
erpanse might have 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 my opportunity, rose, and stole away.  He might
think, he might even believe that Lucy was contained within
that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he could never be
certain, for he did not see my face.
Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased?
Had I not had enough of adventure?  Did I not begin to
flag, quail, and wish for safety under a roof'? Not so. I still
loathed my bed in the school-dormitory more than words cani
express; I clung to whatever could distract thought.  Somchow I felt, too, that the night's drama was but begun, tlat
the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and
turfy theatre reigned a shadow  of mystery; actors and incidents unlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so:
foreboding told me as much.
Straying at random, obeying the push of every chaiice
elbow, I was brought to a quarter where trees planted in
clusters, or towering singly, broke up somewhat the dense
packing of the crowd, and gave it a more scattered character.
These confines were far fiom the music, and somewhat aloof'
even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to. soothe,
and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed.
Here had chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some
of them, late as was the hour, actually surrounded by their
children, with whom  it had 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
klnoll, crowned with a seat-a seat which might have held
several, yet itseemed abandoned to one, the remaining mnembers of ths fortunate party in possessiIrn of this site.gr-l;,,




466                   VILLETTE.
dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverent circle was a lady
holding by the hand a little girl.
When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting
herself round on her heel, swinging from her conductress's
hand, flinging herself from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse movements arrested my
attention, they struck me as of a character fearfully familiar.
On close inspection, no less so appeared the child's equipment;
the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the white
bonnet-the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala
garb of a cherub but too-well known, of that tadpole, Desiree
Beck-and Desiree Beck it was-she, or an imp in her likeness.
I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but
such hyperbole would have been premature; discovery was
destined to rise more than one degree, ere it reached its cli.
max.
On whose hand could the amiable Desiree swing thus sel-.ishly, whose glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm
thus strain with impunity, or on the borders of whose dress
thus turn and trample insolently, 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
Desiree in her crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of
them, the sleep of the just, within the sacred walls, amidst
the profound seclusion of the Rue Fossette. Most certainly
also they did not picture " Meess Lucie " otherwise engaged;
and here we were all three taking our " ebats" in the feteblazing park at midnight!
The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her
quite justifiable wont. I remembered now I had heard it said
among the teachers-though without at the time particularly
noticing the gossip-that often, when we thought Madame in
her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed, to take her
pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort
of taste for a monastic life, and took care-largely, though
discreetly —to season her existence with a relish of the world.
Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her.
Amongst these, I was not slow to recognize two or three
There was her brother, M. Victor Kint; there was another




CLOUD.                         467
person, moustached and with long hair-a carn, taciturn man,
but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I could not
mark unmoved.  Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of character and of countenance, something there still
was which recalled a face-mobile, fervent, feeling-a face
changeable, now clouded, and now alight-a face from  my
world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my best springhours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow-that
face, where I had often seen movements, so near the signs of
genius-that why there did not shine fully out, the undoubted
fire, the thing, the spirit, and the secret itself-I could never
tell.  Yes-this Josef Emanuel-this man of peace-reminded me of his ardent brother.
Besides Monsieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this
party. This third person stood behind and in the shade, his
attitude too was stooping, yet his dress and bald white head
made him the most conspicuous figure of the group. He was
an ecclesiastic: he was Pere Silas.  Do not fancy, reader,
that there was any inconsistency in the priest's presence at
this f6te. This was not censidered a show of Vanity Fair,
but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice.  The Church
patronized it, even with ostentation.  There were troops of
priests in the park that night.
Pere Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant,
the rustic bench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass
it was-bearing no shape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed,
the outline of a face and features, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you could almost have fancied a
head severed from  its trunk, and flung at random on a pile
of rich merchandize. The distant lamp-rays glanced on clear
pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,
nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyes of the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think
ycu loolkd more witch-like than ever.  And presently the
good lady proved that she was indeed no corpse or ghost, but
a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon some aggravation
in the clamorous petition of Desir6e Beck to her mother, tc
go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly
fetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane.
There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck
Pere Silas-the whole conjuration, the secret junta.  The
X




468                    VILLETTE.
sight of them  thus assembled did rle good.  I cannot say
that I felt weak before them, or abashed, or dismayed. 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 this clique; the ground near them seemed to hold my
feet.  The canopy of entwined trees held out shadow, the
night whispered a pledge of protection, and an officious lamp
flashed just one beam to show me an obscure, safe seat, and
then vanished.  Let me now briefly tell the reader all that,
during the past dark fortnight, I have been silently gathering
from Rumor, respecting the origin and the object of M. Ema
nuel's departure.  The tale is short, and not new: its alpha
is Mammon, and its omega, Interest.
If Madame WTalravens was hideous as a Hindoo idol, she
seemed also to possess, in the estimation of these her votaries,
an idol's consequence.  The fact was, she had been rich —
very rich; and though for the present, without the command
of money, she was likely one day to be rich again. At Basse
terre; in Guadaloupe, she possessed a large estate, received
in dowry on her marriage sixty years ago, sequestered since
her husband's failure; but now, it was supposed, cleared of
claim, and, if duly looked after by a competent agent of integrity, considered capable of being made, in a few years,
largely productive.
Pere Silas took an interest in this prospective improvement
for the sake of religion and the church, whereof Magloire
Walravens was a devout daughter.  Madame Beck, distantly related to the hunchback, and knowing her to be without
family of her own, had long brooded over contingencies with
a mother's calculating forethought, and, harshly treated as she
was by Madame Walravens, never ceased to court her for in




OLD AND NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.                    469
terest's sake.  Madame Beck and the priest were thus, for mo.
ney reasons, equally and sincerely interested in the nursing of
the West-Indian estate.
But the distance was great, and the climate hazardous.
The competent and upright agent wanted, must be a devoted
rman.  Just such a man had Madame Walravens retained for
twenty years in her service, blighting his life, and then living
on him, like an old fungus; such a man had Pere Silas trained,
taught, and bound to him by the ties of gratitude, habit, and
belief. Such a man Madame Beck knew, and could in some
measure influence.  "My pupil," said Pere Silas, "if he remains in Europe, runs risk of apostacy, for he has become entangled with a heretic."  Madame Beck  ilade also her private comment, and preferred in her own breast her secret
reason for desiring expatriation. The thing she could not obtain, she desired not another to win; rather would she destroy it.  As to Madame WValravens, she wanted her money
and her land, and knew Paul, if he liked, could make the best
and faithfullest steward: so the three self-seekers banded and
beset the one unselfish.  They reasoned, they appealed, they
implored; on his mercy they cast themselves, into his hands
they confidingly thrust their interests. They asked but two
or three years of devotion-after that, he should live for himself: one of the number, perhaps, wished that in the meantime 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, or repulsed the repository.  What might
be his private pain or inward reluctance to leave Europewhat his calculations for his own future-none asked, or knew,
or reported.  All this was a blank to me.  His conferences
with his confessor I might guess; the part duty and religion
were made to play in the persuasions used, I might conjecture..He was go e, and had made no sign. There my knowledge
closed.
With my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands,
I sat amidst grouped tree-stems and branching brushwood
Whatever talk passed among my neighbors, I might hear, if




470                    VILLETTt.
i would; I x^ a near snough; but, for some time, there was
scarce motive to attend. They gossiped about the dresses, the
music, the illuminations, the fine night.  I listened to hear
them say, " It is calm weather for his voyage; the' Antigua' 
(his ship) " will sail prosperously."  No such remark fell:
neither the "Antigua," nor her course, nor her passenger, were
nam-ed.
Perhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame
WValravens more than it did me; she appeared restless, turnrng her head now to this side, now that, looking through the'.Tees, and among the crowd, as if expectant of an arrival and
inpatient of a delay.  " Oh sont-ils?  Pourquoi ne viennentI1s?" I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, as if
determined to have an answer to her question-which hitherto none seemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase-a phrase
brief enough, simple enough, but it sent a shock through me"Messieurs et mesdames," said she, "ou done est Justine
Marie?"
"Justine Marie!"  What name was this?  Justine Marie
-the dead nun-where was she?  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, but nobody seemed to be of my mind; nobody seemed
surprised, startled, or at a loss.  The quietest common-place
answer met the strange, the dead-disturbing, the Witch-ofEndor query of the hunchback."
Justine Marie," said one, " is coring; she is in the kiosk;
she will be here presently."
Out of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat
-chat it still remained-easy, desultory, familiar gossip.
Hint, allusion, comment, went round the circle, but all so
broken, so dependent on references to persons not named, or
circumstances not defined, that, listen intently as I wouldand I did listen now with a fated interest-I could make out
no more than that some scheme was on foot, in which this
ghostly Justine Marie-dead or alive-was concerned. Thin
family-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for some reagon; there seemed question of a marriage, of a fortune, fol
whom I could not quite make out-perhaps for Victor Kint,
perhaps for'osef Emanuel  both were ba'-helors.  Onca  I




OLD  AND NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.                     471
thought the hints and jests rained upon a young fair-haired
foreigner of the party, whom  they called Heinrich Miihler.
Amidst all the badinage, Madame Walravens still obtruded,
from time to time, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; her impa
tience bsing diverted only by an implacable surveillance of
IDesir6e, who could not stir, but the old woman menaced hes
with her staff.
"La voila!" suddenly cried one of the gentlemen, "voila
Justine Marie qui arrive I"
This moment was for me peculiar.  I called up to memory
the pictured nun on the panel; present to my mind was the
sad love-story; I saw in thought the vision of the garret, the
apparition of the alley, the strange birth of the berceau: I
underwent a presentiment of discovery, a strong conviction of
coming disclosure.  Ah! when imagination once runs riot
where do we stop?  WVhat winter tree so bare and branchless-what way-side, hedge-munching animal so humble, that
Fancy, a passing cloud, 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
mystery breaking up: hitherto I had seen this spectre only
through a glass darkly; now was I to behold it face to face
I leaned forward: I looked.
"She comes!" cried Josef Emanuel.
The circle moved as if opening to admit a new and welcomre member.  At this instant a torch chanced to be carried
past; its blaze aided the pale moon in doing justice to the
crisis, in lighting to perfection the denouement pressing on.
Surely those near me must have felt some little of the anxiety I felt, in degree so unmeted.  Of that group, the coolest
must have " held his breath for a time I'  As fbr me, my life
stood still.
It is over. The moment and the nun are come. The crisis
and the revelation are passed by.
The flambeau glares still within a yard, held up in a parkkeeper's hand; its long eager tongue of flame almost licks the
figure of the Expected-there-where she stands full in my
sight. What is she like?  What does she wear?  low 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 arid mystery




472                     VILLETTE
begins to spread abroad, that scarce would you discredit me
reader, were I to say that she is like the nun of the attic, thai
she wears black skirts and white head-clothes, that she looks
the resurrection of the flesh, and that she is a risen ghost.
All falsities-all figments! We will not deal in this gear.
Let us be honest, and cut, as heretofore, from the homely web
of truth.
Flomnely, though, is an ill-chosen word.  What I see is not
precisely homely.  A  girl of Villette stands there-a girl
fresh from  her pensionnat.  She is very comely, with the
beauty indigenous to this country; she looks well-nourished,
fair, and fat of flesh.  Her cheeks are round, her eyes good;
her hair is abundant.  She is handsomely dressed.  She is
not alone; her escort consists of three persons-two being elderly; these she addressesas " Mon Oncle ". and " Ma Tante."
She laughs, she chats: good-humored, buxom, and blooming
she looks, at all points, the bourgeoise belle.
So much for "Justine Marie;" so much for ghosts and mystery: not that this last was solved-this girl certainly is not
my nun; what I saw in the garret and garden must have
been taller by a span.
We have looked at the city belle; we have cursorily glanced
at the respectable old uncle and aunt. Have we a stray glance
to give to a third member of this company?  Can we spare
him a moment's notice? We ought to distinguish him so far,
reader; he has claims on us; we do not now meet him for the
first time.  I clasped my hands very hard, and I drew my
breath very deep; I held in the cry, I devoured the ejaculation, I forbade the start, I spoke and I stirred no more than a
stone; but I knew what I looked on; through the dimness left
in my eyes by many nights' weeping, I knew him. They said
he was to sail by the "Antigua." Madame Beck said so. She
lied, or she had uttered what was once truth; and failed to
contradict it, when it became false. The "Antigua" was gone,
and there stood Paul Emanuel.
Wvas I glad? A huge load left me.  Was it a fact to warrant joy?  I know not. Ask first what were the circumstan.
ces attendant on this respite? How far did this delay concern
me? WTere there not those whom it might touch more nearly?
After all, who may this young girl, this Justinie Marie be?
Not a stranger, reader; she is known to me by sight; she




OLD  AND  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.                   473
visits at the Rue Fossette; she is often of Madamrn  Becksa
Sunday parties.   She is a relation of both the Becks and
Walravens; she derives her baptismal name 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?
I felt very glad now, that the drug administered in the sweet
draught had filled me with a possession which made bed and
chamber intolerable.  I always, through my whole life, liked
to penetrate to the real truth; I like seeking the goddess in
her temple, and handling the veil, and daring the dread glance.
O Titaness amongst deities! The covered outline of thine aspect sickens often through its uncertainty, but define to us one
trait, show us one lineament, clear in awful sincerity; we
may gasp in untold terror, but with that gasp we drink in a
breath of thy divinity; our heart shakes, and its currents sway
like rivers lifted by earthquake, but we have swallowed
strength. To see and know the worst is to take from Fear her
main advantage.
The Walravens' party augmented in numbers, now became
very gay.  The gentlemen fetched  refreshments from  the
kiosk, all sat down on the turf under the trees; they drank
healths and sentiments; they laughed, they jested. M. Emanuel underwent some raillery, halfgood-humored, half, I thought,
malicious, especially on Madame Beck's part. I soon gathered
that his voyage had been temporarily deferred of his own will,
without the concurrence, even against the advice of his friends,
he had let the " Antigua" go, and had taken his berth in the
"Paul et Virginie." appointed to sail a iortnight later. It was
his reason for this resolve which they teased him  to assign,
and which he would only vaguely indicate as "the settlement of a little piece of business which he had set his heart
upon." What was this business' Nobody knew. Yes, there
was one who seemed partly, at least, in his confidence; a
meaning look passed between him and Justine Marie.  "La
petite va m'aider-n'est-ce pas?" said he.  The answer was
prompt enough, God knows!
" Mais oui, je vous aiderai de tout moin ceur.  Vous ferca
de moi tout ce que vous voudrea mon parrain."




474                    VI L LET TTE.
And this dear " prrain" took her hand and lifted it to hit
grateful lips.  Upon which demonstration, I saw the light.
complexioned young Teuton, Heinrich Muhler, grow restless
as if he did not like it.  He even grumbled a few words,
whereat M. Emanuel actually laughed in his face, and with
the ruthless triumph of the assured conqueror, he drew hi.
ward nearer to him.
M. Emanuel was indeed very joyous that night. He seemed
not one whit subdued by the change of scene and action impending.  He was the true life of the party; a little despotic
perhaps, determined to be chief in mirth, as well as in labor,
yet from moment to moment proving indisputably his right of
leadership. His was the wittiest word, the pleasantest anecdote, the frankest laugh.  Restlessly active, after his manner,
he multiplied himself' to wait on all; but oh! I saw which
was his favorite. I saw at whose feet he lay on the turf, I
saw whom he folded carefully from the night air, whom he
tended, watched, and cherished as the apple of his eye.
Still, hint and railery flew thick, and still I gathered that
while M. Paul should be absent, working for others, these
others, not quite ungrateful, would guard for him the treasure
he left in Europe.  Let him  bring them  an Indian fortune;
they would give him  in return a young bride and a rich inheritance. As for the saintly consecration, the vow of constancy, that was forgotten: the blooming and charming Present prevailed over the Past; and at length his nun was indeed
buried.
Thus it must be.  The revelation was indeed come.  Presentiment had not been mistaken in her impulse; there is a
kind of presentiment which never is mistaken; it was I who
had for a moment miscalculated; not seeing the true bearing
of the oracle, I had thought she muttered of vision when, in
truth, her prediction touched reality.
I might have paused longer upon what I saw; I might
have deliberated ere I drew inferences. Some perhaps would
have held the premises doubtful, the proofs insufficient; some
slow skeptics would have incredulously examined, ere they
conclusively accepted the project of a marriage between a
poor and unselfish man of forty, and his wealthy ward of
eighteen; but far from me such shifts and palliatives. far from
me such temporary evasion of the actual, such cowa-d fleeinr




OLL AND NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.                      475
from the dread, the swift-footed, the all-overtaking Fact, such
leeble suspense of submission to her the sole sovereign, such
paltering and faltering resistance to the Power, whose errand
is to march conquering and to conquer, such traitor defection
from the TRUTI.
No. I hastened to accept the whole plan.  I extended my
grasp and took it all in.  I gathered it to me with a sort oi
rage of haste, and folded it round me, as the soldier struck on
the field folds his colors about his breast.  I invoked Conviction to nail upon me the certainty, abhorred while embraced,
to fix it with the strongest spikes her strongest strokes could
drive; and when the iron had entered -ell my soul, I stood
up, as I thought renovated.
In my infatuation, I said, " Truth, you are a good mistress
to your faithful servants! While a lie pressed me, how I suffered! Even when the Falsehood is still sweet, still flattering
to the fancy, and warm  to the feelings, it wasted me with
hourly torment. The persuasion that affection was won could
not be divorced from  the dread that, by another turn of the
wheel, it might be lost.  Truth stripped away Falsehood, and
Flattery, and Expectancy, and here I stand-free!"
Nothing remained now  but to take my freedom  to my
chamber, to carry it with me to my bed and see what I could
mnake of it. The play was not yet indeed quite played out, I
might have waited and watched longer that love scene under
the trees, that sylvan courtship.  Had there been nothing of
love in the demonstration, my Fancy in this hour was so generous, so creative, she could have modelled for it the most
salient lineaments, and given it the deepest life and highest
color of passion.  But I would not look; I had fixed my resolve, but I would not violate my nature.  And then-something tore me so cruelly under my shawl, something so dug.into my side, a vulture so strong in beak and talon, I must be
alone to grapple with it. I think I never felt jealousy till
now.  This was not like enduring the endearments of Dr. John
and Paulina, against which while I sealed my eyes and my
ears, while I withdrew thence my thoughlts, my sense of harmony still acknowledged in it a charm. This was an outrage.
The love, born of beauty was not mine; I had nothing in
coirmmon with it: I could not dare to meddle with it, but an,
other love, venturing diffidently into life after long acquaintX2




476                     VILLETTE.
arlce, furnace-tried by pain, stamped by constancy, consolida.ted
by afiection's pure and durable alloy, submitted by intellect
to intellect's own tests, and finally wrought up, by his own
process, to his own unflawed completeness, this Love that
laughed at Passion, his last frenzies and his hot and hurried
extinction, in this Love I had a vested interest; and whatever
tended either to its culture or its destruction, I could not view
impassibly.
I turned from the group of trees and the " merrie companie"
in its shade.  Midnight was long past; the concert was over,
the crowds were thinning.  I followed the ebb.  Leaving the
radiant park and well-lit Haute-Ville (still well-lit, for this it
seems was to be " nuit blanche" in Villette), I sought the dim
lower quarter.
Dim I should not say, for the beauty of moonlight-forgotten in the park-here once more flowed in upon perception.
High she rode, and calm  and stainlessly she shone.  The
music and mirth of the fite, the fire and bright hues of those
lamps had out-done and out-shone her for an hour, but now,
again, her glory and her silence triumphed.  The rival lamps
were dying: she held her course like a white fate.  Drum,
trumpet, bugle, had uttered their clangor and were forgotten:
with pencil-ray she wrote on heaven and on earth records for
archives everlasting.  She and those stars seemed to me at
once the types and witnesses of truth all regnant.  The nightsky lit her reign: like its slow-wheeling progress, advanced
her victory-that onward movement which has been, and is,
and will be from eternity to eternity.
These oil-twinlkling streets are very still: I like them  fox
their lowliness and peace.  Homeward-bound burghers pass
me now and then, but these companies are pedestrian, make
little noise, and are soon gone.  So well do I love Villette under her present aspect, not willingly would I re-enter under a
roof, but that I am bent on pursuing my strange adventure to
a successful close, and quietly regaining my bed in 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 of' this quarter.  It comes this way-comes
very fast.  How loud sounds its rattle on the paved path 
The street is narrow an I I keep carefiully to the causeway




OLD A ND NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.                    477
The carriage thunders past, but what do I see. as it rushca
by?  Surely something white fluttered from  that windowBurely a hand waved a handkerchief. Was that signal meant
for me?  Am I known?  WTho could recognize me?  That
is not M. de Bassompierre's carriage, nor Mrs. Bretton's; and
besides, neither the Hotel Crecy nor the chateau 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 was still; no fiacre had yet arrived with Madame and
Desir6e.  I had left the great door ajar; should I find it thus?
Perhaps the wind or some other accident may have thrown it
to with sufficient force to start the spring-bolt?  In that case,
hopeless became admission; my adventure must issue in
catastrophe.  I lightly pushed the heavy leaf: would it
yield?
Yes.  As soundless, as unresisting, as if some propitious
genius had waited on a sesame-charm, in the vestibule within.
Entering with bated breath, quietly making all fast, shoelessly
mounting the staircase, I sought the dormitory, and reached
my couch.
Aye! I reached it, and once more drew a free inspiration
Ihe next moment I almost shrieked-almost, but not quite;
thank Heaven!
Throughout the dormitory, throughout the house, there
reigned at this hour the stillness of death.  All slept, and in
such hush, it seemed that none dreamed.  Stretched on the
nineteen beds lay nineteen forms, at full length, and motionless.  On rmine-the twentieth couch —nothing ought to have
lain: I had left it void, and void should have found it. What,
then, do I see between the half-drawn curtains? What dark,
usurping shape, supine, long, and strange? Is it a robber
who has made his way through the open street-door, and lies
there in wait?  It looks very black, 1 think it looks-not human.  Can it be a wandering dog that has come in from the
street and crept and nestled hither?  Will it spring, will it
leap out if I approach?  Approach I must.  Courage! 0au
Ftep 5.




4:8                   V ILLETTE.
Myllcad reeled; for by the faint night-lamp. [ saw stretched
on my bed the old phantorn-the NUN.
A cry at this moment might have ruined me.  Be the
spectacle what it might, I could afford neither consternation,
scream, nor swoon. Besides, i was not overcome. Tempered
by late incidents, my nerves disdained hysteria. Warm from
illuminations, and music, and thronging thousands, thoroughly
lashed up by a new scourge, I defied spectra. In a moment,
without exclamation, I had rushed on the haunted couch;
nothig leceaped out, or sprung, or stirred; all the movement
was mine, so was all the life, the reality, the substance, the
force;as my instinct felt.  I tore her up-the incubus! I
held her on high-the goblin!. I shook her loose-the mystery   And down she fell-down all round me —down it
shreds and fragments-and I trode upon her.
Here again-behold the branchless tree, the unstabled
Rosinante; the film of cloud, the flicker of moonshine.  The
long nun proved a long bolster dressed in a long black stole,
and artfully invested with a white veil. The garments in very
truth-strange as it may seem-were genuine nun's garments,
and by some hands they had been disposed with a view tu
illusion.  Whence carme these vestments?  Who contrived
this artifice?  These questions still remained.  To the head.
bandage was pinned a slip of paper: it bore in pencil these
modking words:
T:'lhe nun of the attic bequeaths to Lucy Snowe her ward.
robe.  She will be seen in the Rue Fossette no more."
And what and who was she that had haunted me?  She,
I had actually seen three times?  Not a woman of my acquaintance had the stature of that ghost.  She was not of
female height.  Not to any man I knew could the machination, for a moment, be attributed.
Still mystified beyond expression, but as thoroughly, as
suddenly, relieved from all sense of the spectral and unearthl
ly; scorning also to wear out my brain with the fret of a
trivial though insoluble riddle, I just bundled together stole,
veil, and bandages, thrust them beneath my pillow, lay down,
listened till I heard the wheels of Madame's home-returning
fiacre, then turned, and worn out by many nights' vigils, conl
quered, too, perhaps, by the now reacting narcotic, I deeply
Blept.




TIE.HAPPY PAIRB                       479
CHAPTER XL.
THE HAPPY PAIR,
THE day succeeding this remarkable Midsummer night
proved no common day.  I do not mean that it brought signs
in hea.ven above, or portents on the earth beneath; nor do I
allude to meteorological phenomena, to storm, flood, or whirl
wind.  On the contrary: the sun rose jocund, with a July
face.  Morning decked her beauty with rubies, and so filled
her lap with roses, that they fell fiom her in showers, making
her path blush: the Hours woke fresh as nymphs, and emptying on the early hills their dew-vials, they stepped out dismantled of vapor: shadowless, azure, and glorious, they led
the sun's steeds on a burning and unclouded course.
In short, it was as fine a day as the finest summer could
boast:;but I doubt whether I was not the sole inhabitant of
the Rue Fossette, who cared or remembered to note this pleasant fact. Another thought busied all other heads; a thought,
indeed, which had its share in my meditations; but this mas.
ter consideration, not possessing for me so entire a novelty, so
overwhelming a suddenness, especially so dense a mystery, as
it offered to the majority of my co-speculators thereon, left
me somewhat more open than the rest, to any collateral ob
servation or impression.
Still, while walking in the garden, feeling the sunshine,
and marking the blooming and growing plants, I pondered
the same subject the whole house discussed.
What subject?
Merely this.  v When matins came to be said, there was a
place vacant in the first rank of boarders.  When breakfast
was served, there remained a cofiee-cup unclaimed.  When
the house-maid made the beds, she fbund in one, a bolster
laid lengthwise, clad in a cap and night-gown; and when
G.nevra Fanshawe's music-mistress came early, as usual, to
give the morning lesson, that accomplished and promising
young person, her pupil, failed utterly to be forthcoming.
High and low was Miss Fanshawe sought; through length




480                    VILLETTE.
and breadth was the house ransacked; vainly; not a trace,
not an indication, not so much as a scrape of a billet rewarded
the search; the nymph was vanished, engulfed in the past
night, like a shooting star swallowed up by darkness.
Deep was the dismay of surveillante teachers, deeper the
horror of the defaulting directress. Never had I seen Madame
Beck so pale or so appalled.. Here was a blow struck at her
tender part, her weak side; here was damage done to her interest.  How, too, had the untoward event happened?  By
what outlet had the fugitive taken wing? Not a casement
was found unfastened, not a pane of glass broken; all the
doors were bolted secure. Never to this day has Madame
Beck obtained satisfaction on this point, nor indeed has anybody else concerned, save and excepting one, Lucy Snowe,
who could not forget how, to facilitate a certain enterprise, a
certain great door had been drawn softly to its lintel, closed,
indeed, but neither bolted nor secure. The thundering carriage-and-pair encountered were now likewise recalled, as well
as that puzzling signal, the waved handkerchief.
From these premises, and one or two others, inaccessible to
any but myself, I could draw but one inference. It was a
case of elopement.  Morally certain on this head, and seeing
Madame Beck's profound embarrassment, I at last communicated my conviction. Having alluded to M. de Hamal's suit,
I found, as I expected, that Madame Beck was perfectly au
fait to that affair.  She had long since discussed it with Mrs.
Cholmondeley, and laid her own responsibility, in the business, on that lady's shoulders.  To ]iMrs. Cholmondeley and
MI. de Bassompierre she now had recourse.
We found that the Hotel Crecy was already alive to what
had happened.  Ginevra had written to her cousin Paulina,
vaguely signifying hymeneal intentions; communications had
been received from the family of de Hamal; M. de Bassompierre was on the track of the fugitives.  He overtook them
too late.
In the course of the week, the post brought me a note. I
may as well transcribe it; it contains explanation on more
than one point:
"DnB): OLD TIM" (short for Timon),-" I am off you seego,:e like a shot. Alfred and I intended to be married in thia




TIE  HAPPY PAIE.                      481
way almost from the first; we never meant to be spliced in
the humdrum  way of other people; Alfred has too much
spirit for that, and so have I-Dieu merci! Do you know,
Alfred, who used to call you'the dragon,'.has seen so much
of you during the last few months, that he begins to feel
quite friendly towards you.  He hopes you won't miss him
now that he is gone; he begs to apologize for any little trouble
he may have given you.  He is afraid he rather inconvenienced you once when he came upon you in the grenier, just
as you were reading a letter seemingly of the most special interest; but he could not resist the temptation to give you a
start. you appeared so wonderfully taken up with your corres
pondent.  En revanche, he says you once frightened him by
rushing in fbr a dress or a shawl, or some other chiffon, at the
moment when he. had struck a light, and was going to take a
quiet whiff of his cigar, while waiting for me.
" Do you begin to comprehend by this time that MI. le
Comte de Hamal was the nun of the attic, and that he came
to see your humble servant?  I will tell you how he managed
it.  You know he has the entrde of the Athenee, where two,r three of his nephews, the sons of his eldest sister, Madame
de Melcy, are students. You know the court of the Athenee
is on the other side of the high wall bounding your walk, the
allee defendue.  Alfred can climb as well as he can dance or
ftnce; his amusement was to make the escalade of our pensionna.t by mounting, first the wall; then-by the aid of
that high tree overspreading the grand berceau, and resting
its boughs on the roof of the lower buildings of our premises
-he managed to scale the first classe and the grand salle.
One night, by the way, he fell out of this tree, tore down
some of the branches, nearly broke his own neck, and aftel
all, in running away, got a terrible fright, and was nearly
caught by two people, Madame Beck and M. Emanuel, he
thinks, walking in the alley. From the grand salle the ascent
is not difficult to the highest block of building, finishing in
the great garret. The sky-light, you know, is day and night
tfit halflopen for air; by the sky-light he entered.  Nearly
a year ago, I chanced to tell him our legend of the nun, that
suggested his romantic idea of the spectral disguise, which I
think you must allow he has very cleverly carried out.
" But for the nun's black gown and white veil, he would




482                    VILLETTE
have been caught again and again, both by yc a and that tige.
Jesuit, M. Paul.  He thinks you both capital ghost-seers, and
very brave. What I wonder at is, rather your secretiveness
than your courage.  How could you endure the visitations of
that long spectre, time after time, without crying out, telling
everybody, and rousing the whole house and neighborhood?
"  h, and how did you like the nulln as a bed-fellow?  J
dressed her up?-didn't I do it well?  Did you shriek when
you saw her?  I should have gone mad; but then you have
such nerves!-real iron and bend leather! I believe you feel
nothing. You havn't the same sensitiveness that a person of
my constitution has. You seem to me insensible both to pain
and fear and grief. You are a real old Diogenes.
" Well, dear grandmother! and are you not mightily angry
at my moonlight flitting and run-away match? I assure you
it is excellent fun, 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 married as well as they. M. de
Bassompierre was at first in a strange fume with Alfred; he
threatened a prosecution for' d6tournement de mineur,' and
I know not what; he was so abominably in earnest, that I
ifund myself forced to do a little bit of the melodramatic —
go down on my knees, sob, cry, drench three pocket-handkerchiefs.  Of course,'mon oncle' soon gave in; indeed,wwhere
was the use of making a fuss?  I am married, and that's all
about it.  He still says our marriage is not legal, because I
am not of age, forsooth! As if that made any difibrence! 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 that M. de Bassompierre will give me a decent portion, which will be very convenient, as dear Alfred
has nothing but his nobility, native and hereditary, and his
pay.  I only wish uncle would do things unconditionally, in
a generous, gentleman-like fashion; he is so disagreeable as
to make the dowry depend on Alfred's giving his written prorise that he will never touch cards or dice from the day it is
paid down. They accuse my angel of a tendency to play: i
don't know anything about that, but I do know he is a dear,
adorable creature.
"I cannot sufficien lly extol the genius with which De [la,




THE HAPPY PAIR.                       483
mal managed ouY flight  How clever in him  to select the
night of the fete, when Madarne (for he knows her habits),
as he said, would infallibly be absent at the concert in the
park.  I suppose you must have gone with her.  I watched
you rise and leave the dormitory about eleven o'clock. How
you returned alone, and on foot, I cannot conjecture. That
surely was you we met in the narrow old Rue St. Jean?
Did. you see me wave my handkerchief from the carriage
window?
"Adieu! Rejoice in my good luck: congratulate me on
my supreme happiness, and believe me, dear cynic and misan.
thrope, yours, in the best of health and spirits,
"GINEVRA LAURA DE HA~IAL,
nee FANSHAWE.
"P.S.-Remember, I am a countess now. Papa, mamma,
and the girls at home, will be delighted to hear that.'My
daughter, the Countess! My sister, the Countess.'  Bravo 
Sounds rather better than Mrs. John Bretton, hein?"
In winding up Mistress Fanshaw's memoirs, the reader will
no doubt expect to hear that she came finally to bitter expiation of her youthful levities.  Of course, a large share of
suffering lies in reserve for her future.
A few words will embody my further knowledge respecting
her.
I saw her towards the close of her honeymoon. She called
cmI Madame Beck, and sent for me into the salon.  She
rushed into my arms laughing. She looked very blooming and
beautiful: her curls were longer, her cheeks rosier than ever:
her white bonnet and her Flanders veil, her orange flowers
and her bride's dress, became her mightily.
"I have got my portion!" she cried at once; (Ginevra
ever stuck to the substantial; I always thought there was a
good trading element in her composition, much as she scorned
the " bourgeoisie;") "and uncle de Bassompierre is quite reconciled.  I don't mind his calling Alfred a' nincompoop'
that's only his coarse Scotch breeding; and I believe Paulina
envies me, and Dr. John is wild with jealousy-fit to blow




484                    VILLETTE.
his brains out —and I'm so happy! I really think I've hard,
ly anything left to wish for-unless it be a carriage and a
hotel, anl —oh! I must introduce'ou to'mon marl.'  Al
fred, come here!"
And Alfred appeared from the inner salon, where he was
talking to Madame Beck, receiving the blended felicitations
and reprimands of that lady.  I was presented under my various names: the Dragon, Diogenes, and Timon.  The young
Colonel was very polite.  He made me a prettily turned, neat.
ly-worded apology, about the ghost-visits, &c., concluding with
saying that " the best excuse for all his iniquities stood there!"
pointing to his bride.
And then the bride sent him back to Madame Beck, and
she took me to herself, and proceeded literally to suffocate me
with her unrestrained spirits, her girlish, giddy, wild nonsense.
She showed her ring exultingly; and she called herself Madame le Countesse de Hamal, and asked how it sounded, a
score of times. I said very little. I gave her only the crust
and rind of my nature.  No matter: she expected of me nothing better-she knew me too well to look for compliments
-my dry gibes pleased her well enough, and the more impassible and prosaic my mien, the more merrily she laughed
Soon after his marriage, M. de Ramal was persuaded tu
leave the army as the surest way of weaning him from certain
unprofitable associates and habits; a post of attache was procured for him, and he and his young wife went abroad.  I
thought she would forget me now, but she did not. For many
years, she kept up a capricious, fitful sort of correspondence.
During the first year or two, it was only of herself and Alfred
she wrote; then, Alfred faded in the background; herself
and a certain new comer prevailed; one Allred Fanshawe de
Bassompierre de Hamal began to reign in his father's stead.
There were great boastings about this personage, extravagant
amplifications upon miracles of precocity, mixed with vehement objurgations against the phelgmatic incredulity with
wshich I received them.  I didn't know " what it was to be a
nmother:" " unfeeling thing that I was, the sensibilities of the
maternal heart were Greek and Hebrew to me," and so on.
In due course of nature this young gentleman took his degrees
in teething, measles, hooping-cough: that was a terrible time
for mue —the mamma's letters became a perfect shout of afflie




FAUBOURG  CLOTILDE.                      485
hon —never was woman so put upon by calamity; never hu,
man being stood in such need of sympathy.  I was frightened
at first, and wrote back pathetically; but I soon found oi-s
there was more cry than wool in the business, and relapsed
into my natural cruel insensibility.  As to the youthful sufferer, he weathered each storm  like a hero.  Five times waa
that youth "in articulo mortis," and five times did he miraculously revive.
In the course of years there arose ominous murmuringa
against Alfred the First; M. de Bassompierre had to be appealed to, debts had to be paid, some of them of that dismal
and dingy order called " debts of honor;" ignoble plaints and
difficulties became frequent.  Under every cloud, no matter
what its nature, Ginevra, as of old, called out lustily for
sympathy and aid.  She had no notion of meeting any distress single-handed.  In some shape, from  some quarter oi
other, she was pretty sure to obtain her will, and so she got
on-fighting the battle of life by proxy, and, on the whole,
suffering as little as any human being I have ever known.
CHAPTER XLI
FAUBOURG CLOTILDE.
MUST I, ere I close, render some account of that Freedom
and Renovation which I won on the fete-night?  Must I tell
how I and the two stalwart companions I brought home from
the illuminated park bore the test of intimate acquaintance?
I tried them the very next day. They had boasted their
strength loudly when they reclaimed me from love and its
bondage, but upon my demanding deeds, not words, some
evidence of better comfort, some experience of a relieved life
— Freedom  excused himself, as for the present, impoverished
and disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had
died in the night suddenly.
I had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that cone
jecture might have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain




486                     \ILLETTE
the oppressive hour by reminders of the distorting and dis
coloring magic of jealousy.  After a short and vain struggle
I found myself brought back a captive to the old rack of sus
pense, tied down, and strained anew.
Shall I yet see him before he goes?  Will he bear me in
mind?  Does he purpose to come?  Will this day-will the
next hour bring him? or must I again assay that corroding
pain of long attent-that rude agony of rupture at the close,
that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at once uprooting hope
and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does the violence
cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes her
barrier!
It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held.
The boarders and teachers, after attending mass in the morn
ing, were gone a long walk in the country to take their gouter,
or afternoon meal at some farm-house.  I did not go with
them, for now but two days remained ere the " Paul et Virginic" must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance, a.
the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.
There was some joiners' work to do in the first classe, some
bench or desk to repair; holidays were often turned to account
for the performance of these operations, which could not be
executed when the rooms were filled with pupils.  As I sat
solitary, purposing to adjourn to the garden and leave the
coast clear, but too listless to fulfil my own intent, I heard,he workman coming.
Foreign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I
relieve it would take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive
a nail. While tying on my bonnet, which had hitherto hung
by its ribbons from my idle hand, I vaguely and momentarily
wondered to hear the step of but one "ouvrier."  I noted,
too-as captives in dungeons find sometimes dreary leisure to
note the merest trifles-that this man wore shoes, and not
sabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter,
coming to inspect, before he sent his journeyman.  I threw
sound me my scarf.  He advanced; he opened the door; my
back was turned towards it; I felt a little thrill-a curious
sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed.  I turned,
I stood in the supposed master-artisan's presence: looking
towards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, an:d m)
eves printed upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.




FAUBOURG CLOTILDE.                     487
Hundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven,
bring to the suppliant no fulfilment.  Once haply in life, one
golden gift falls prone in the lap-one boon fill and bright,
perfect from Fruition's mint.
M. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed
to travel-a surtout, guarded with velvet; I thought him
prepared for instant departure, and yet I had understood that
two days were yet to run before the ship sailed.  He looked
well, and cheerifl.  He looked kind and benign: he came in
with eagerness; he was close to me in one second; he was all
amity.  It might be his bridegroom-mood which thus brightened him.  Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sun.
shine with cloud.  If this were my last moment with him, 1
would not waste it in forced, unnatural distance.  I loved
him well-too well not to smite out of my path even Jealousy
herself, when she would have obstructed a kind farewell.  A
cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from his eyes,
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-I would taste the elixir, and pride should not
spill the cup.
The interview would be short, of course: he would say to
me just what he had said to each of the assembled pupils;
he would take and hold my hand two minutes; he would
touch my cheek with his lips for the first, last, only tinme
and then-no more.  Then, indeed, the final parting, then
the wide separation, the great gulf i could not pass to go to
him-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 lips expressed something almost like the wordless language of a mother who finds a child greatly and unexpectedly
changed, broken with illness, or worn out by want. A check
supervened.
" Paul, Paul 1" said a woman's hurried voice behind,' Paul,
come into the salon; I Lave yet a great many things to say tc
you-conversation for 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 in.
cmrutable instinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself




488                    VILLE TTE.
between me and M. Emanuel.  " Come, Paul I" she reitee
ated, her eye grazing me with its hard ray like a steel stylet
She pushed against her kinsman.  I thought he receded; 1
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
another fountain yielded under the strain: one breath from
M. Paul, the whisper, " Trust me!" lifted a load, opened an
outlet.  With many a deep sob, with thrilling, with icy
shiver. with strong trembling, and yet with relief-I wept.
"Leave her to me; it is a crisis; I will give her a cordial,
and it will pass," said the calm Madame Beck.
To be left to her and her cordial, seemed to me something
like being left to the poisoner and her bowl.  WVhen M. Paul
answered deeply, harshly, and briefly"Laissezumoi!" in the grim  sound I felt a music strange
strong, but life-giving.
"Laissez-moi!" he repeated-, his nostrils opening, and his
facial muscles all quivering as he spoke.
"But this will never do," said Madame, with sternness.
More sternly rejoined her kinsman" Sortez d'ici!"
" I will send for Pere Silas; on the spot I will send for
him," she threatened pertinaciously.
" Femme!" cried the professor, not now in his deep tones,
but in his highest and most excited key, " Femme  sortez a
l'instant!"
He was roused, and I loved him  in his wrath with a passion beyond what I had yet felt.
" What you do is wrong," pursued Madame; "it is an act
characteristic of men of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive, injudicious, inconsistent-a proceeding vexations, and not estimable in the view of persons of
steadier and more resolute character.
"You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me,"
said he, " but you shall see; the event shall teach you.  Mo.
deste," he continued less fiercely, " 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,  Of san.




I   UBOURG  CLOTILDE.                    489
rificing myself I made no difficulty, but my heart is pained
by what I see; it zmst have and give solace.  Leave me f"
This time, in the " leave me," there was an intonation so
bitter and so imperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck
herself could for one rmoment delay obedience; but she stood
f.rm; she gazed upon him dauntless; she met his eye, forbid.
dcing and fixed as stone. She was opening her lips to retort;
I saw over all M. Paul's face a quick rising light and fire: I
can hardly tell how he managed the movement; it did not
acern violent; it kept the fbrm of courtesy; he gave his hand;
it scarce touched her, I thought; she ran, she whirled from
the room; she was gone and the door shut in one second.
This flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as
he told me to wipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm,
dropping from time to time a stilling, solacing word. Ere long
I sat beside him once more myself-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.
"at kills me to be forgotten, monsieur," I said.  "All these
weary days I have not heard from you one word, and I was
crushed with the possibility, growing to certainty, that you
would depart without saying 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 proof that I can be a firm friend? Without
clear proof this hand will not lie 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 listen now."
"Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good
distance into the town. I came on purpose to fetch you."
Without questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or
offering the semblance of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet:
I was ready.
The route he took was by the boulevards: le several times
made me sit down on the seats stationed under the lime-trees;
he did not ask if I was tired, but looked, and drew his own
conciusions,
"All them  weary days," said he; repeating my words, wite




490                    VILLETTE.
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 imperfectly and hesitatingly. "All
these weary days," I have not for one hour forgotten you.
Faithful women err il this, that they think themselves the
sole faithful of God's creatures. On a very fervent and living
truth to myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any
quarter; but    look at me."
I lifted my happy eyes: they were happy now, or they
would have been no interpreters of my heart.
" Well," said he, after some seconds' scrutiny, " there is no
denying that signature: Constancy wrote it; her pen is of
iron.  Was the record painful?"
" Severely painful," 1 said, with truth.  " Withdraw  hew
hand, monsieur; I can bear its inscribing force no more."
"Elle est toute pale," said he, speaking to himself; " cette
figure la me fait mal."
"kh!  I am not pleasant to look at  ~?"
I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I
never remember the time when I had not a haunting dread
of what might be the degree of my outward deficiency; this
dread pressed me at the moment with special force.
A great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet
eyes grew suffused and glistening under their deep Spanish
lashes: he started up; " Let us walk on."
"Do I displease your eyes rmuch,?"  I took courage to
urge: the point had its vital import for me.
He stopped, and gave me a abiort, strong answer-an answer which silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied.  Ever
after that, I knew what I was for him; and what I might
be for the rest of the world, I ceased painfully to care. Was
it weak to lay so much stress on an opinion about appearance?  I fear it might be-I fear it was; but in that case I
must avow no light share of wealkness.  I must own a great
fear of displeasing-a strong wish moderately to please
vaul.
Whither we rambled, I scarce know.  Our walk was long,
l'et seemed short; the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M.
Emanuel talked rf his voyage —he thought of staying away




FAUBOURG  CLOTILDE.                    491
three years. On his return from Guadaloupe, he looked for.
ward to release from liabilities and a clear course; and what
did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? he asked.
I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent and keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped
the idea?
" Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what
would enable me to put it in practice."
"He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared
I should miss him there too much-I should feel desolate —
should grow sad?'i
This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.
"Still," said he, speaking low, "there i.; another objection
to your present residence.  I should wish to write to you
sometimes: it would not be well to have any uncertainty
about the safe transmission of letters; and in the Rue Fossette    in short, our Catholic discipline in certain matters
-though justifiable and expedient-might possibly, under
peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication-perhaps abuse."
"But if you write," said I, "I m7ust have your letters; and
will have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not
keep them from me.  I am a Protestant: I will not bear that
kind of discipline: monsieur, I will not."
"Doucement-douc ement," rejoined he; "we will contrive a plan; we have our resources: soyez tranquille."
So speaking, he paused.
We were now returning from the long walk. We had
reached the middle of a clean Faubourg, where the houses
were small, but looked pleasant.  It was before the white
door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had halted.
" I call here," said he.
He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he
opened and entered at once.  Ushering me in, he shut the
door behind us. No servant appeared.  The vestibule was
small, like the house, but freshly and tastefully painted: its
dista closed in a French window with vines trained about the
panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass. Silence
reigned in this dwelling.
Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlor, or salon
-very tiny, but T thought, very pretty.  Its delicate walls
y




492                    VILLETTE.
were tinged like a blush; its floor was waxed; a square of
brilliant carpet covered its centre; its small round table shone
like the mirror over its hearth; there was a little couch, a lit
tle chiffoniere; the half-open, crimson-silk door of which,
showed porcelain on the shelves; there was a French clock,
a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; the recess
of the single ample window was filled with a green stand,
bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant
glowing in bloom; in one corner appeared a gueridon with a
marble top, and upon it a work-box, and a glass filled with
violets in water.  The lattice of this room  was open; the
Duter air breathing through, gave freshness, 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 by the deep-pervading hush.
" We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this
nut-shell," he replied.
" 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 and oven, with a few but bright brasses, two chairs and
a table. A small cupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.
"There is a coffee service of china in the salon," said
M. Paul, as I looked at the six green and white dinner-plates;
the four dishes, the cups and jugs to match.
Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse of two pretty cabinets of sleeping rooms;
finally, I was once more led below; and we halted with a
certain ceremony before a larger door than had yet been
opened.
Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the
lock of this door. He opened, put me in befbre him.
"Voici!" he cried.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously
clean, though bare, compared with those I had hitherto seen.
The well-scoured boards were carpetless; it contained two
rows of green benches, and desks, with an alley down the




FAUBOURG  CLOTILDE.                      493
centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher's chair and table;
behind them a tableau.  On the walls hung two maps; in
the windows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was
a minature classe-complete, neat, pleasant.
"It is a school then?" said I. " Who keeps it? I never
heard of an establishment in this faubourg."
" Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?" asked
he, taking from his surtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them  into my hand.  I looked, I readprinted in fair characters:"Externat de demoiselles.  Numero 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 to memory.  Certain points, crises, certain feelings,
joys, griefs, and amazements, when reviewed, must strike us
as things wildered and whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.
I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the
ten minutes succeeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the
experience of my earliest year of life: and yet the first thing
distinct to me is the consciousness that I was speaking very
fast, repeating over and over again: —
"Did you do this, M. Paul?  Is this your house?  Did
you furnish it?  Did you get these papers printed?  Do you
mean me?  Am  I the directress?  Is there another Lucy.nowe?  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, and I bad 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 about three mortal weeks from house-painter to
upholsterer, from  cabinet-maker to charwoman.  Lucy and
Lucy's cot, the sole thoughts in his head!"
I hardly knew what to do.  I first caressed the soft velvet




494                   VILLETTE.
on his cuff, and then I stroked the hand it surrounded.  It
was his foresight, his goodness, his silent, strong, effective
goodness, that overpowered me by their proved reality.  It
was the assurance of his sleepless interest which broke on me
like a light fiom heaven; it was his (I will dare to say it)
his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In
the midst of all, I forced myself to look at the practical.
" The trouble!" I cried, "and the cost! Had you money
M. Paul?"
"Plenty of money! said he heartily.  "The disposal of my
large teaching-connection put me in possession of a handsome
sum: with part of it I determined to give myself the richest
treat that I have known or shall know. I like this. I have
reckoned on this hour day and night lately. I would not come
near you, because I would not forestall it. Reserve is neither
my virtue nor my vice. If I had put myself into your power,
and you had begun withyour questions of look and lip —Where
have you been, M. Paul?  What have you been doing?
What is your mystery?-my solitary first and last secret would
presently have unravelled itself in your lap.  Now," he pur
sued, "you shall live here and have a school; you shall em
ploy yourself while I am away; you shall think of me some
times; you shall mind your health and happiness for 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
and willingly.  "I will be your faithful steward," I said; " I
trust at your coming the account will be ready.  Monsieur.,
monsieur, you are too good!"
In such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: they could not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice, dissolved or shivered in the effort. He
watched me still: he gently raised his hand to stroke my hair;
it touched my lips in passing; I pressed it close, I paid it tribute.  He was my king; royal for me had been 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 shaded the ouiet faubourg.  M. Paul claimed my hospi




FAUBOURG CLOTILDE.                    495
tality; occupied and afoot since morning, he needed refresh.
ment; he said I should offer him chocolate in my pretty gold
and white china service. He went out and ordered what was
needful from the restaurant.; he placed the small gueridon
and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window
under the screening vines.  With what shy joy I accepted
my part as hostess, arranged the salver, served the benefactoxguest.
This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of
the faubourg were round us, fields extended beyond.  The air
was still, mild and fresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the
cypresses, and the roses, looked up a moon so lovely and so
halcyon, the heart trembled under her smile; a star shone
subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of pure love.  In
a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale
statue leaned over the play of waters.
M. Paul talked to me.  His voice was so modulated that
it mixed harmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the
musical sigh, in which 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 light linger; leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to that time which needs a ray
il retrospect!
Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate
of fresh summer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in
green leaves, formed the whole; but it was what we both
liked better than a feast, and I took a delight inexpressible in
tending MI. Paul.  I asked him whether his friends, Pere 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.  To speak truth, there has been to
me in this matter a refinement of enjoyment 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 and needful
eaution! How many times has she saucily insinuated that all
my affairs are the secret of TF:lichinelle!"




496                   VILLETTE.
This was true enough: I had not spared hir on this ioint,
nor perhaps on any other that was assailable.  Magnificent.
minded, grand-hearted, dear, faulty little man! You deserved
candor, and from me always had it.
Continuing my queries, I asked tc whom the house belonged, who was my landlord, the amount of my rent.  Be
instantly gave me these particulars in writing; he had fore.
seen and prepared all things.
The house was not M. Paul's-that I guessed; he was
hardly the man to become a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absence of the saving faculty;
he could get, but not keep; he needed a treasurer. The teneinent, then, belonged to a citizen in the Basse-Ville-a man
of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding: " a
friend of yours, Miss Lucy a person who has a most respectful regard for you." And, to my pleasant surprise, I found
the landlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered
and kind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a
seat that eventful night in the Park.  It seems 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 what it would have been, for a house of equal size, nearr
the centre of Villette.
" And then," observed M. Paul, "should fortune not favor
you, though I think she will, I have the satisfaction to think
you are in good hands; M. Miret will not be extortionate:
the first year's rent you already have in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and herself. 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, the Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service."
" Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object?
It would become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly
expect at the outset to number aristocrats in my little dayschool; I care not if they never come. I shall be proud to
receive M. Miret's daughters."
"Besides these," pursued he, "another pupil offers, who
will come daily to take lessons in English; and, as she is rich




FAUBOURG CLOTILDE.                     497
she will pay handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward,
Justine Marie Sauveur."
What is in a name?-what in three words?  Till this
moment I had listened with living joy-I had answered with
gleeful quickness; a name froze me; three words struck me
mute.  The effect could not be hidden, and indeed I scarce
tried to hide it.
" What now?" said M. Paul.
"Nothing."
"Nothing!  Your countenance changes; your color and
your very eyes fade.  Nothing! You must be ill; you have
some suffering; tell me what?"
I had nothing to tell.
He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though
I continued silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance, he waited with patience.
"Justine Marie is a good girl," said he; "docile and amiable; not quick-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 Paul Carlos: tell him the grief."
His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned
me towards him. "Do you know Marie Justine?" said he
again.
The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably.  It did not prostrate-no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through my veins-recalling an
hour of quick pain, many days and nights of heart-sickness.
Near me, as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had long
twined his life in mine-far as had progressed, and near as
was achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation-the
very suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be
heard only with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe,
a disdainful resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human
eye or cheek could hide the flame, nor any truth-accustom, 
human tongue curb the cry.
I want to tell you something," [ said; "I want to tell
s'u alli




498                    VILLET IE.
"Speak, Lucy; come near; speak.  Who prizes you if 1.
do not?  Who is your friend, if not Emanuel?  Speak!"
I spoke.  All leaped from  my lips.  I lacked not wordf
now; fast I narrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed oD
my tongue.  I went back to the night in the park; I men.
tioned the medicated draught-why it was given-its goad.
ing effect-how it had torn rest from under my head, shaken
me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a
vivid yet solemn fancy-a summer-night solitude on turf,
under trees, near a deep, cool lakelet.  I told the scene realized(; the crowd, the masques, the music, the lamps, the
splendors, the guns booming afar, the bells sounding on high.
All I had encountered I detailed, all I had recognized, 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 incit d me to
proceed; he spurred me by the gesture, the smile, the halfword.  Before I had half done, he held both my hands, he
consulted my eyes with a most piercing glance: there was
something in his face which tended neither to calm nor to put
me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his own system of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think
I deserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I
merited severity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I
seemed imperious and unreasonable; for I forbade Justine
Marie my door and roof; he smiled, betraying delight. Warm,
jealous, and haughty, I knew not till now that my nature had
such a mood; he gathered me near his heart.  I was full of
faults; he took them and me all home.  For the moment of
utmost mutiny, he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These
words caressed my ear;"Lucy, take my love.  One day share my life. Be my
dearest, first on earth."
We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight-such
moonlight as fell on Eden-shining through the shades of the
Great Garden, and haply gilding a path glorious, for a step
divine-a Presence nameless. Once in their lives some men and
women go back to these first fresh days of our great Sire and
iother —taste that grand mtr ming's dew-bathe in its sunrise




FINIS                         499
In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marit
Sauveur had always been regarded with the dffection proper
to a daughter-how, with M. Paul's consent, she had been
affianced for months to one Heinrich Miihler, a wealthy
young German merchant, and was to be married in the course
of a year.  Some of M. Emanuel's relations and connections
would, indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a
view to securing her fortune in the family; but to himself the
wheme was repugnant, and the idea totally inadmissible.
We reached Madame Beck's door.  Jean Baptiste's clock
tolled nine.  At this hour, in this house, eighteen months
since, had this man at my side, bent before me, looked into
my face and eyes, and arbitered my destiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed and decreed.  How dilterem
the look —how far otherwise the fate 
He deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have
spread over me its beam  like a banner.  Once-unknown,
and unloved, I held him harsh and strange; the low stature,
the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, the manner, displeased me.  Now, penetrated with his influence, and living
by his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness by heart-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 prophecy.  Love is no oracle.  Fear sometimes imagines a vain thing. Those years of absence! How
had I sickened over their anticipation! The woe they must
bring seemed certain as death. I knew the nature of their
course: I never had doubt how it would harrow as it went.
The Juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load.  Seeing him draw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed
soil-I, the prostrate votary-felt beforehand the annihilating,raunch.
Strange to say-strange yet true and owning many paral
Y2




B00                    VILLETTE.
lels in life's experience-that anticipatory craunch proved all
-yes —nearly all the torture.  The great Juggernaut, in hig
great chariot, drew on lofty, loud, and sullen. He passed
quietly, like a shadow sweeping the sky, at noon. Nothing
but chilling dimness was seen or felt. I looked up. Chariot
and demon charioteer were gone by; the votary still lived.
M. Emanuel was away three years.  Reader, they were
the three happiest years of my life. Do you scout the para.
dox? Listen.
I commenced my school; I worked-I worked hard.  I
deemed myself the steward of his property, and determined,
God willing, to render a good account.  Pupils came-burgh.
ers at first-a higher class ere long. About the middle of the
second year an unexpected chance threw into my hands an
additional hundred pounds: one day I received from England
a letter containing that sum. It came from Mr. Marchmont,
the cousin and heir of my dear and dead mistress.  He was
just recovering from a dangerous illness; the money was a
peace-offering to his conscience, reproaching him in the matter
of; I know not what, papers or memoranda found after his
kinswoman's death-naming or recommending Lucy Snowe.
Mrs. Barrett had given him my address.  How far his conscience had been sinned against, I never inquired. I asked
no questions, but took the cash and made it useful.
With this hundred pounds I ventured to take the house adjoining mine.  I would not leave that which M. Paul had cho.
sen, in which he had left, and where he again expected to find
me. My externat became a pensionnat; that also prospered.
The secret of my success did not lie so much in myself, in
any endowment, any power of mine, as in a new state of circumstances, a wonderfully changed life, a relieved heart. The
spring which moved my energies lay far away beyond seas,
in an Indian isle. At parting, 1 had been left a legacy; such
a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a
motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprizing, 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 th-s genial flame sustained itself, or lived
wholly on a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A gene.
rous provider supplied bounteous fuel.  I was Pp.l.r.d, oJ chlil




FINIS                         501
all stint; I was not suffered to fear penury; I was not tried
with suspense.  By every vessel he wrote; he wrote as he
gave and as he loved, in full-handed, full-hearted plentitude.
He wrote because he liked to write; he did not abridge, because he cared not to abridge.  He sat down, he took pen
and paper, because he loved Lucy and had much to say to her;
because he was faithful and thoughtful, because he was ten
der and true.  There was no sham and no cheat, and no Itollow unreal in him.  Apology never dropped her slippery oil
on his lips-never proffered, by his pen, her coward feints and
paltry nullities: he would give neither a stone, nor an excuse-neither a scorpion, nor a disappointment; his letters
were real food that nourished, living water that refreshed.
And was I grateful?  God knows! I believe that scarce
a living being so remembered, so sustained, dealt with in kind
so constant, honorable and noble, could be otherwise than
grateful to the death.
Adherent to his own religion (in him was not the stuff of
which is made the facile apostate), he freely left me my pure
faith.  He did not tease nor tempt.  He said:"Remain a Protestant.  My little English Puritan, I love
Protestantism  in you.  I own its severe charm.  There is
som:ething in its ritual I cannot receive myself; but it is the
sole creed for'Lucy.'"
All Rome could not put into him  bigotry, nor the Propaganda itself make him a real Jesuit.  He was born honest,
and not false —artless, and not cunning-a freeman, and not
a slave.  His tenderness had rendered him ductile in a priest's
hands, his affection, his devotedness, his sincere pious enthusiasm  blinded his kind eyes sometimes, made him  abandon
justice to himself to do the work of craft, and serve the ends
of selfishness; but these are faults so rare to find, so costly to
their owner to indulge, we scarce know whether they will not
one day be reckoned amongst the jewels.
And now the three years are past: M. Emanuel's return
is fixed. It is Autumn; he is to be with me ere the mists of
lTc-vcmber come.  My school flourishes, my house is ready;
I have made him a little library, filled its shelves with the
books   lie eft'n my care   I have cultivated out of love f6i




502                    VILLETTE.
him (I was naturally no florist) the plants he preferred, and
some of them are yet in bloom. I thought I loved him when
he went away; I love him  now  in another degree; he is
more my own.
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 ad
Yance; the wind takes its autumn moan; but-he is coming.
The skies hang full and dark-a rack sails from the west;
the clouds cast themselves into strange forms-arches and
broad radiations; there rise resplendent mornings-glorious,
royal, purple as monarch in his state; the heavens are one
flame; so wild are they, they rival battle at its thickest-so
bloody, they shame Victory in her pride. I know some signs
of the sky; I have noted them  ever since childhood.  God,
wvatch that sail! Ol! guard it!
The wind shifts to the west.  Peace, peace, Banshee"keening" at every window! It will rise-it will swell-it
shrieks out long: wander as I may through the house this
night, I cannot lull the blast.  The advancing hours make it
strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchers hear and fear a
wild south-west storm.
That storm roared frenzied for seven days.  It,id 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 perfect work,
would he fold the wings whose waft was thunder-the tremor
of whose plumes was storm.
Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony
on waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered-not uttered till, when the hush came, some could not feel
it: till, when the sun returned, 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 to conceive the delight of joy born again fresh out.f great terror, the rapture of rescue from peril, the wondrous
2prrieve from dread, the fruition of return. Let them picture
anion and a happy succeeding life.
Madame Beck prospered all the days ot her life; so did
PFre Silas; Madame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth yea)
before she died.  Farewell.




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TERENCE.-SOPHROCLES.-JUVENAL.-XENOPHON.-IOMER'S ILIAD.
-HOMIER'S ODYSSIY.-H]ERODOTUS.-DEMOSTHENES (2 vols.).THUCYDIDE:S. SHYL.-S LUS. -EURPIDrEiS (2 vols.).-LivY (2 vols.).
-PLATO [Select Dialogues].
LIVINGSTONE'S SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary Travels and Researches in South Afiica: including a Sketch of Sixteen Years' Residence in the Interior of Africa, and a Journey from the Cape of Good
Hope to Loanda on the West Coast; thence across the Continent, down
the River Zambesi, to the Eastern Ocean. By DAVID LIVINGSTONE,
LL.D., D.C.L. With Portrait, Maps, and Illustrations.  8vo, Cloth,
$4 50; Sheep, $5 00; Ialf Calf, $6 75.
LIVINGSTONE'S ZAMBESI. Narrative of an Expedition to the Zambesi and its Tributaries, and of the Discovery of the Lakes Shirwa and
Nyassa, 1858-1864. By DAVID and CHARLES LIVINGSTONE. With
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LIVINGSTONE'S LAST JOURNALS.  The Last Journals of David
Livingstone, in Central Africa, from 1865 to his Death. Continued by
a Narrative of his Last Moments and Sufferings, obtained from his
Faithful Servants Chuma and Susi. By HORACE WALLER, F.R.G.S.,
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GROTE'S HISTORY OF GREECE.  12 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $18 00'
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Yalzable and lfzteresting Woarks for Public and Private Libraries.  5
RECLUS'S EARTH. The Earth: a Descriptive History of the Phenomena of the Life of the Globe. By rLISEE RECLUS. With 234 Maps
and Illustrations, and 23 Page Maps printed in Colors. 8vo, Cloth,
$5 00; Half Calf, $7 25.
RECLUS'S OCEAN.  The Ocean, Atmosphere, and Life.  Being the
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ELISEE RECLUS. Profusely Illustrated with 250 Maps or Figures, and
27 Maps printed in Colors. 8vo, Cloth, $6 00; Half Calf, $8 25.
NORDHIOFF'S COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES OF THE  UNITED
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NORDHOFF'S CALIFORNIA.  California: for Health, Pleasure, and
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NORDHIOFF'S NORTHERN CALIFORNIA, OREGON, AND THE
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PARTON'S CARICATURE. Caricature and Other Comic Art, in All
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RAWLINSON'S MANUAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY. A Manual
of Ancient History, from the Earliest Times to the Fall of the Western
Empire.  Comprising the History of Chaldea, Assyria, Media, Baby.
lonia, Lydia, Phoenicia, Syria, Judea, Egypt, Carthage, Persia, Greece,
Macedonia, Parthia, and Rome.  By GEORGE RAWLINSON, M.A.,
Camden Professor of Ancient History in the University of Oxford.
12mo, Cloth, $1 46.
NICHOLS'S ART EDUCATION. Art Education applied to Industry.
By GEORGE WARD NICHOLS, Author of "The Story of the Great
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BAKER'S ISMAILIA. Ismailia: a Narrative of the Expedition to Cen-.
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BOSWELL'S JOHNSON.  The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., including a Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides.  By JAMES BOSWELL,
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'6  Valuable and Interesting Works for Public and Private Libraries.
VAN-LENNEP'S BIBLE LANDS.  Bible Lands: their Modern Cus.
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VAN-LENNEP, D.D. Illustrated with upward of 350 Wood Engravings
and two Colored Maps.  838 pp., 8vo, Cloth, $5 00; Sheep, $6 00;
Half Morocco, $8 00.
VINCENT'S LAND OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT. The Land of
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SHAKSPEARE.  The Dramatic Works of William Shakspeare.  With
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SMILES'S HISTORY OF THE  HUGUENOTS.  The Huguenots:
their Settlements, Churches, and Industries in England and Ireland.
By SAMUEL SIlLES.  With an Appendix relating to the Huguenots in
America. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
SMILES'S HUGUENOTS AFTER THE REVOCATION. The Huguenots in France after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes; with a
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SMILES'S LIFE  OF THE STEPHENSONS.  The Life of George
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SQUIER'S PERU.  Peru: Incidents of Travel and Exploration in the
Land of the Incas.  By E. GEORGE SQUIER, M.A., F.S.A., late U. S.
Commissioner to Peru, Author of "Nicaragua," "Ancient Monuments
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STRICKLAND'S (Miss) QUEENS OF SCOTLAND.  Lives of the
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THE "CHALLENGER" EXPEDITION. TheAtlantic: an Account
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BOURNE'S LIFE OF JOHN LOCKE. The Life of John Locke. B3
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$5 00.




'aliuable and Interesting Works for Public and Private Libraries.   7
ALISON'S HISTORY OF EUROPE. FIRST SERIES: From the Commencement of the French Revolution, in 1789, to the Restoration of
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WALLACE'S GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION OF ANIMALS.
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and Illustrations. In 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10 00.
WALLACE'S MALAY ARCHIPELAGO.  The Malay Archipelago:
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RUSSEL WALLACE. With Ten Maps and Fifty-one Elegant Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50.
BLUNT'S BEDOUIN TRIBES OF THE EUPHRATES. Bedouin
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Map and Sketches by the Author.  8vo, Cloth, $2 50.
GRIFFIS'S JAPAN. The Mikado's Empire: Book I. History of Japan,
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THOMPSON'S PAPACY AND TIlE CIVIL POWER. The Papacy
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U. S. Navy. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 00.
TIHE POETS AND POETRY OF SCOTLAND: From the Earliest
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LEWIS's HISTORY OF GERMANY. - ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY.
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CAMERON'S ACROSS AFRICA. Across Africa. By VERNEY LovETT CAMERON, C.B., ]).C. L., Commander Royal Navy, Gold Medalist Royal Geographical Society, &c. With a Map and Numerous Illus.
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This work embraces in one volume:
I, ON A F'RESH REVISION OF THE ENGLISH NEW TESTAMENT.  BvJ. B. LIGHTFOOT, D.D., Canon of St. Paul's,
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Revised.  196 pp.
II. ON THE AUTHORIZED VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT in Connection with some Recent Proposals for its
Revision.  By RICHARD  CHENEVIXI TREiNCi, D.D., Archbishop of Dublin. 194 pp.
III. CONSIDERATIONS ON  THE  REVISION  OF THE  EN-.
GLISH VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. By C.
J. ELLICOTT, D.D., Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol. 178 pp.
ADDISON'S COMPLETE WORKS.  The Works of Joseph Addison,
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ANNUAL RECORD OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY. The Annual
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BROUGHAM'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Life and Times of Henry, Lord
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BULWER'S HORACE. The Odes and Epodes of Horace. A Metrical
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LORD LYTTON.  With Latin Text from the Editions of Orelli, Macleane, and Yonge. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
BULWER'S KING ARTHIUR.  King Arthur.  A Poem.  By LORD
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BULWER'S PROSE WORKS.  The Miscellaneous Prose VWorks of
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DAVIS'S CARTHAGE. Carthage and her Remains:being rn Account
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Valuable and Interesting Works for Public and Private Libraries.  9
CARLYLE'S FREDERICK THE GREAT. History of Friedrich II.,
called Frederick the Great. By THOMAS CARLYLE. Portraits, Maps,
Plans, &c. 6 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $12 00; Sheep, $14 40; Half Calf,
$22 50.
CARLYLE'S FRENCI REVOLUTION. The French Revolution: a
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$4 30; Half Calf, $7 00.
CARLYLE'S OLIVER CROMWELL. Oliver Cromwell's Letters and
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$4 30; Half Calf, $7 00.
BARTH'S NORTH AND  CENTRAL AFRICA. Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa: being a Journal of an Expedition undertaken under the Auspices of H.B.M.'s Government, in the
Years 1849-1855. By HENRY BARTH, Ph.D., D.C.L.  Illustrated.
3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $12 00; Sheep, $13 50; Half Calf, $18 75.
THOMSON'S LAND  AND  BOOK.  The Land and the Book; or,
Biblical Illustrations drawn from the Manners and Customs, the Scenes
and the Scenery, of the Holy Land. By W. M. THOMSON, D.D., Twenty-five Years a Missionary of the A.B.C.F.M. in Syria and Palestine.
WVith two elaborate Maps of Palestine, an accurate Plan of Jerusalem,
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TENNYSON'S COMPLETE POEMS.  The Poetical Works of Alfed
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$1 50.
CRUISE OF THE  " CHALLENGER."  Voyages,over many Seas,
Scenes in many Lands.  By W. J. J. SPRY, R.N. With Map and IIl
lustrations.  Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
DU CHAILLU'S AFRICA.  Explorations and Adventures in Equatorial Afiica: with Accounts of the Manners and Customs of the People, and of the Chase of the Gorilla, the Crocodile, Leopard, Elephant,
Hippopotamus, and other Animals. By PAUL B. Du CHAILLU. Illustrated.  8vo, Cloth, $5 00; Sheep, $5 50; Half Calf, $7 25.
DU CHAILLU'S ASHANGO LAND.  A Journey to Ashango Land,
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CHAILLU. Illustrated.  8vo, Cloth, $5 00; Sheep, $5 50; Half Calf,
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WHITE'S MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW. The Massacre
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the Reign of Charles IX.  By HENRY WHITE, M.A. With Ilustra.
tions. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1 75.




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DRAPER'S SCIENTIFIC MEMOIRS.  Scientific Memoirs; being Experimental Contributions to a Knowledge of Radiant Energy. By JOHN
WILLIAMT DRAPER, M.D., LL.D. With a Portrait. 8vo, Cloth, $3 00.
DRAPER'S CIVIL WAR.  Iistory of the American Civil War. By
JOHN W. DRAPER, M.)., LL.D.  3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, Beveled Edges,
$10 50; Sheep, $12 00; Half Calf, $17 25.
DRAPER'S INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE.
A History of the Intellectual Development of Europe.  By JOHN W.
DRAPER, M.D., LL.D. New Edition, Revised. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth,
$3 00; Half Calf, $6 50.
DRAPER'S AMERICAN CIVIL POLICY.  Thoughts on the Future
Civil Policy of America.  By JOHN WV. DRAPER, M.)., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry and Physiology in the University of New York.
Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 00; Half Morocco, $3 75.
WOOD'S HOMES WITHOUT  HANDS.  Homes Without Hands:
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their Principle of Construction.  By J. G. WOOD, M.A., F.L.S.  Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $4 50; Sheep or Roan, $5 00; Half Calf, $6 75.
ABBOTT'S DICTIONARY OF RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE. A
Dictionary of Religious Knowledge, for Popular and Professional Use;
comprising full Information on Biblical, Theological, and Ecclesiastical
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ABBOTT'S FREDERICK THE GREAT.  The History of Frederick
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ABBOTT'S HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. The
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Sheep, $5 50; Half Calf, $7 25.
ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.  The History of Napoleon
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Portraits on Steel.  2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10 00; Sheep, $11 00; Half
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ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.  Napoleon at St. Helena: or, Interesting Anecdotes and Remarkable Conversations of the
Emperor during the Five and a Half Years of his Captivity. Collected
from the Memorials of Las Casas, O'Meara, Montholon, Antommarchi,
and others. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
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