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V  I  L  L  E  T  T  E. 


By  CURRER  BELL, 

AUTHOR    OF   "  JANE    EYRE,"    "  SHIRLEY,"    ETC. 


IN   THKEE   VOLUMES. 


VOL.  II. 


LONDON: 

SMITH,  ELDER  &  CO.,  65,  CORNHILL. 
SMITH,  TAYLOR  &  CO.,  BOMBAY. 


1853. 

The  Author  of  this  work  reserves  the  right  of  translating  it. 


London : 

Printed  by  Stewart  and  Murray', 

Old  Bailey. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  II. 


Chapter  Page 

XVII. — Auld  Lang  Syne 1 

XVIIL— La  Terrasse 29 

XIX. — We  quarrel 47 

XX.— The  Cleopatra             61 

XXI.— The  Concert 85 

XXIL— Reaction 126 

XXILL— The  Letter 160 

XXIV.— Yashti 179 

XXV. — M.  de  Bassompierre            ....  205 

XXVI. — The  Little  Countess          ....  232 

XXVn.— A  Burial 259 

XXVIII.— The  Hotel  Crecy       .         •         ...  288 


VILLETTE. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


AULD    LANG    SYNE. 


Where  my  soul  went  during  that  swoon  I 
cannot  tell.  Whatever  she  saw,  or  wherever  she 
travelled  in  her  trance  on  that  strange  night,  she 
kept  her  own  secret;  never  whispering  a  word  to 
Memory,  and  baffling  Imagination  by  an  indis- 
soluble 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 

VOL.    II.  B 


VILLETTE. 


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 
I  looked  on :  a  wall  was  not  a  wall — a  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  eye 
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  portico-step  ;  night  and 
tempest  were  excluded  by  walls,  windows,  and 
ceiling.  Into  some  house  I  had  been  carried, — but 
what  house  ? 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  O 

I  could  only  think  of  the  pensionnat  in  the  Rue 
Fossette.     Still  half-dreaming,  I  tried  hard  to  dis- 
cover in  what  room  they  had  put  me  ;  whether  the 
great  dormitory,  or  one  of  the  little  dormitories. 
I   was  puzzled,   because    I    could   not    make    the 
glimpses  of  furniture  I  saw,  accord  with  my  know- 
ledge 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   eye  fell  on  an   easy   chair 
covered  with  blue  damask.     Other  seats,  cushioned 
to  match,  dawned  on  me  by  degrees  ;  and  at  last 
I  took  in  the  complete  fact  of  a  pleasant  parlour, 
with  a  wood-fire  on  a  clear-shining  hearth,  a  carpet 
where  arabesques  of  bright  blue  relieved  a  ground 
of  shaded  fawn  ;  pale  walls  over  which  a  slight  but 
endless  garland  of  azure  forget-me-nots  ran  mazed 
and  bewildered   amongst  myriad  gold   leaves   and 
tendrils.     A    gilded    mirror   filled     up    the   space 
between  two  windows,  curtained  amply  with  blue 
damask.     In  this  mirror  I  saw  nivself  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. 


4  VILLETTE. 

It  was  obvious,  not  only  from  the  furniture,  but 
from  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  round  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  miniatures  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  ker- 
chiefs ;  the  pattern  of  the  lace  sleeve-ruffles.  Upon 
the  mantel-shelf  there  were  two  china  vases,  some 
relics  of  a  diminutive  tea-service,  as  smooth  as 
enamel  and  as  thin  as  egg-shell,  and  a  white 
centre-ornament,  a  classic  group  in  alabaster,  pre- 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  O 

served  under  glass.  Of  all  these  things  I  could 
have  told  the  peculiarities,  numbered  the  flaws  or 
cracks,  like  any  clairvoyante.  Above  all,  there  was 
a  pair  of  handscreens,  with  elaborate  pencil-draw- 
ings finished  like  line-engravings  ;  these,  my  very 
eyes  ached  at  beholding  again,  recalling  hours  when 
they  had  followed,  stroke  by  stroke  and  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  in  what  year  of  our  Lord  ?  For  all  these 
objects  were  of  past  days,  and  of  a  distant  country. 
Ten  years  ago  I  bade  them  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  environ- 
ment, serving  only  to  complicate  the  riddle  further. 
This  was  no  more  than  a  sort  of  native  bonne,  in 
a  common-place  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,. 


6  VILLETTE. 

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  marvelled  what  those 
scenes  and  days  could  now  have  to  do  with  me. 

Too  weak  to  scrutinize  thoroughly  the  mystery,  I 
tried  to  settle  it  by  saying  it  was  a  mistake,  a  dream, 
a  fever-fit ;  and  yet  I  knew  there  could  be  no  mis- 
take, and  that  I  was  not  sleeping,  and  I  believed  I 
was  sane.  I  wished  the  room  had  not  been  so  well 
lighted,  that  I  might  not  so  clearly  have  seen  the 
little  pictures,  the  ornaments,  the  screens,  the  worked 
chair.  All  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  Bretton. 
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  Damascus.  Had  a 
Genius  stooped   his   dark  wing  down  the  storm  to 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  / 

whose  stress  I  had  succumbed,  and  gathering  me 
from  the  church-steps,  and  "  rising  high  into  the 
air,"  as  the  eastern  tale  said,  had  he  borne  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  phial :  glass  in  hand,  she  approached  me. 
What  dark-tinged  draught  might  she  now  be  offer- 
ing ?  what  Genii-elixir  or  Magi-distillation  ? 

It  was  too  late  to  inquire — --I  had  swallowed  it  pas- 
sively, 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,  losing  at 
the  same  time  wish,  it  was  no  privation.  That  kind 
bonne  placed  a  screen  between  me  and  the  lamp ;  I 
saw  her  rise  to  do  this,  but  do  not  remember  seeing 


8  VILLETTE. 

her  resume  her  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  amongst 
trees,  denoting  a  garden  outside ;  sure  by  the  chill, 
the  whiteness,  the  solitude,  amidst  which  I  lay.  I 
say  whiteness — for  the  dimity  curtains,  dropped  before 
a  French  bed,  bounded  my  view. 

I  lifted  them  ;  I  looked  out.  My  eye,  prepared  to 
take  in  the  range  of  a  long,  large,  and  white-washed 
chamber,  blinked  bafHed,  on  encountering  the  limited 
area  of  a  small  cabinet — a  cabinet  with  sea-green 
walls ;  also,  instead  of  five  wide  and  naked  windows, 
there  was  one  high  lattice,  shaded  with  muslin  fes- 
toons :  instead  of  two  dozen  little  stands  of  painted 
wood,  each  holding  a  basin  and  an  ewer,  there  was  a 
toilette  table  dressed,  like  a  lady  for  a  ball,  in  a 
white  robe  over  a  pink  skirt ;  a  polished  and  large 
glass  crowned,  and  a  pretty  pincushion   frilled  with 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  ^ 

lace  adorned  it.  This  toilette,  together  with  a  small, 
low,  green  and  white  chintz  arm-chair,  a  wash-stand 
topped  with  a  marble  slab,  and  supplied  with  utensils 
of  pale-green  ware,  sufficiently  furnished  the  tiny 
chamber. 

Reader,  I  felt  alarmed!  Why?  you  will  ask. 
What  was  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,  con- 
founded as  I  was,  I  did  denv  it — there  remained  but 
to  conclude  that  I  had  myself  passed  into  an  abnor- 
mal state  of  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,  shining-black,  foliated  frame  of  that  glass; 
the  smooth,  milky-green  of  the  china  vessels  on  the 
stand  ;  the  very  stand  too,  with  its  top  of  gray  mar- 
ble, splintered  at  one  corner ; — all  these  I  was  com- 
pelled to  recognize  and  to  hail,  as  last  night  I  had, 


10  VILLETTE. 

perforce,  recognized  and  hailed  the  rosewood,    the 
drapery,  the  porcelain,  of  the  drawing-room. 

Bretton !  Bretton !  and  ten  years  ago  shone  re- 
flected 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?  Why 
hovered  before  my  distempered  vision  the  mere  fur- 
niture, while  the  rooms  and  the  locality  were  gone? 
As  to  that  pin-cushion  made  of  crimson  satin,  orna- 
mented with  gold  beads  and  frilled  with  thread-lace, 
I  had  the  same  right  to  know  it  as  to  know  the 
screens — I  had  made  it  myself.  Rising  with  a 
start  from  the  bed,  I  took  the  cushion  in  my  hand 
and  examined  it.  There  was  the  cipher  "L.  L.  B." 
formed  in  gold  beads,  and  surrounded  with  an 
oval  wreath  embroidered  in  white  silk.  These 
were  the  initials  of  my  godmother's  name — Louisa 
Lucy  Bretton. 

Am  I  in  England  ?  Am  I  at  Bretton?  I  muttered ; 
and  hastily  pulling  up  the  blind  with  which  the  lattice 
was  shrouded,  I  looked  out  to  try  and  discover  where 
I  was ;  half-prepared  to  meet  the  calm,  old,  handsome 
buildings  and  clean  gray  pavement  of  St.  Ann's 
Street,  and  to  see  at  the  end,  the  towers  of  the 
minster :  or,  if  otherwise,  fully  expectant  of  a  town 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  11 

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  mead-like  level,  a  lawn-terrace 
with  trees  rising  from  the  lower  ground  beyond — 
high  forest-trees,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  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  ex- 
cluded. Excluded  ?  No  !  For  as  I  arranged  my 
position  in  this  hope,  behold,  on  the  green  space 
between  the  divided  and  looped-up  curtains,  hung  a 
broad,  gilded  picture-frame  enclosing  a  portrait.  It 
was  drawn — well  drawn,  though  but  a  sketch — in 
water-colours  ;  a  head,  a  boy's  head,  fresh,  life-like, 
speaking,  and   animated.      It   seemed  a  youth  of 


12  VILLETTE. 

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  frame.  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  steady-beaming  shine  of  faith.  For  whatever 
sentiment  met  him  in  form  too  facile,  his  lips 
menaced,  beautifully  but  surely,  caprice  and  light 
esteem. 

Striving  to  take  each  new  discovery  as  quietly  as 
I  could,  I  whispered  to  myself — 

"  Ah  !  that  portrait  used  to  hang  in  the  breakfast- 
room,  over  the  mantel-piece  :  somewhat  too  high,  as 
I  thought.  I  well  remember  how  I  used  to  mount 
a  music-stool  for  the  purpose  of  unhooking  it,  hold- 
ing it  in  my  hand,  and  searching  into  those  bonny 
wells  of  eyes,  whose  glance  under  their  hazel  lashes 
seemed  like  a  pencilled  laugh  ;  and  well  I  liked  to 
note  the  colouring  of  the  cheek,  and  the  expression 
of  the  mouth."     I  hardly  believed  fancy  could  im- 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  13 

prove  on  the  curve  of  that  mouth,  or  of  the  chin; 
even  my  ignorance  knew  that  both  were  beautiful, 
and  pondered,  perplexed  over  this  doubt:  "How it 
was  that  what  charmed  so  much,  could  at  the  same 
time  so  keenly  pain?"  Once,  byway  of  test,  I  took 
little  Missy  Home,  and,  lifting  her  in  my  arms,  told 
her  to  look  at  the  picture. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  Polly  ?  "  I  asked.  She  never 
answered,  but  gazed  long,  and  at  last  a  darkness 
went  trembling  through  her  sensitive  eye,  as  she  said, 
"  Put  me  down."  So  I  put  her  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  reflec- 
tions 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, 


14  VILLETTE. 

wearing  widow's  silk,  and  sucli  a  cap  as  best  became 
her  matron  and  motherly  braids  of  hair.  Hers,  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  dis- 
tinct 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. 

"  Madam,  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  me  in  every  particular:  but  you 
speak  English,  do  you  not,  madam?" 

*  I  should  think  you  might  hear  that :  it  would 
puzzle  me  to  hold  a  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?" 


AITLD    LANG    SYNE.  15 

"  That  is  his  portrait  as  a  youth.     While  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  teacher  in  a  foreign  chool  here :  my  son 
recognized  you  as  such." 

"  How  was  I  found,  madam,  and  by  whom  1 " 

"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,  was 
abating;  for,  whereas  during  the  last  nine  days  I 
had  taken  no  solid  food,  and  suffered  from  continual 
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 


16  VILLETTE. 

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.  Besides,  I  kept 
thinking  of  the  son  of  that  tall  matron :  when 
should  I  see  him  ?    Certainly  not  till  I  left  my  room. 

At  last  the  bonne  came  to  make  my  bed  for  the 
night.  She  prepared  to  wrap  me  in  a  blanket  and 
place  me  in  the  little  chintz  chair;  but,  declining 
these  attentions,  I  proceeded  to  dress  myself.  The 
business  was  just  achieved,  and  I  was  sitting  down  to 
take  breath,  when  Mrs.  Bretton  once  more  appeared. 

"  Dressed  !"  she  exclaimed,  smiling  with  that 
smile  I  so  well  knew — a  pleasant  smile,  though  not 
soft; — "You  are  quite  better  then?  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 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  17 

in  her  voice  and  manner  that,  as  a  girl,  I  had  al- 
ways experienced  from  her — a  patronage  I  yielded  to 
and  even  liked ;  it  was  not  founded  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  rej}ly.  "  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  in  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 

VOL.  II.  c 


18  VILLETTE. 

mould,  which  alv-ays  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  or 
anything;  without  remonstrance  she  suffered  me 
to  have  my  own  way.  She  made  the  tea,  and  she 
took  up  the  newspaper.  I  liked  to  watch  every 
action  of  my  godmother;  all  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 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  19 

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  from 
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,  mama?"  demanded  the 
Unpunctual,  possessing  himself  irreverently  of  the 
abdicated  throne. 

"  Don't  you  deserve  cold  tea,  for  being  late  ?" 


20  VILLETTE. 

"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  it  for  me.     How  is  your  patient,  mama?" 

"Will  she  come  forward  and  speak  for  herself?" 
said  Mrs.  Bretton,  turning  to  my  corner;  and  at 
this  invitation,  forward  I  came.  Graham  courte- 
ously 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  particu- 
lars ;  meantime,  I  trust  you  really  do  feel  better." 

"  Much  better,"  I  said  calmly.  "  Much  better,  I 
thank  you,  Dr.  John." 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  21 

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  dis- 
covery was  not  of  to-day,  its  dawn  had  penetrated 
my  perceptions  long  since.  Of  course  I  remem- 
bered 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  an  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  re- 
buke. 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 


22  VILLETTE. 

of  former  clays.  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  dis- 
covery, had  not  suited  my  habits  of  thought,  or  as- 
similated with  my  system  of  feeling.  On  the  con- 
trary, 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. 

Well  I  knew  that  to  him  it  could  make  little  dif- 
ference, 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  "  Miss,"  and  "  Miss 
Lucy  ; "  he  never  heard  the  surname,  "  Snowe."  As 
to  spontaneous  recognition — though  I,  perhaps,  was 
still  less  changed  thanhe — the  idea  never  approached 
his  mind,  and  why  should  I  suggest  it? 

During  tea,  Dr.  John  was  kind,  as  it  was  his  na- 
ture to  be ;  that  meal  over,  and  the  tray  carried  out, 


AULD    LANG    SYNE.  23 

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  the  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  ob- 
served it  ?  " 

"Observed  what?  What  ails  the  Old  Lady  now? 
How  you  stare,  mama !  One  would  think  you  had 
an  attack  of  second-sight." 

"  Tell  me,  Graham,  of  whom  does  that  young  lady 
remind  you  ?  "  pointing  to  me. 

"  Mama,  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,  mama,  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 


24  VILLETTE. 


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  acknowledge. 
What  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Stupid  boy  !  look  at  her." 

Graham  did  look :  but  this  was  not  to  be  endured  ; 
I  saw  how  it  must  end,  so  I  thought  it  best  to  antici- 
pate. 

"  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.  Ann'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  daresay  she  was  pleased, 
and  I  know  I  was.     While  we  renewed  old  acquain- 


AL'LD    LANG    SYNE.  25 

tance,  Graham,  sitting  opposite,  silently  disposed  of 
his  paroxysm  of  astonishment. 

"  Mama  calls  me  a  stupid  boy,  and  I  think  I 
am  so;"  at  length  he  said,  "  for,  upon  my  honour, 
often  as  I  have  seen  you,  I  never  once  suspected 
this  fact:  and  yet  I  perceive  it  all  now.  Lucy 
Snowe !  To  be  sure !  I  recollect  her  perfectly,  and 
there  she  sits ;  not  a  doubt  of  it.  But,"  he  added, 
"  you  surely  have  not  known  me  as  an  old  acquain- 
tance all  this  time,  and  never  mentioned  it?" 

u  That  I  have,"  was  my  answer. 

Dr.  John  commented  not.  I  supposed  he  re- 
garded my  silence  as  eccentric,  but  he  was  indulgent 
in  refraining  from  censure.  I  dare  say,  too,  he 
would  have  deemed  it  impertinent  to  have  interro- 
gated 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. 


26 


VILLETTE. 


"I  think  I  do!"  said  lie:  "I  think  I  was  even 
cross  with  you." 

"You  considered  me  a  little  bold,  perhaps?"  I 
inquired. 

"  Not  at  all.  Only,  shy  and  retiring  as  your 
general  manner  was,  I  wondered  what  personal  or 
facial  enormity  in  me  proved  so  magnetic  to  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  to  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 
front :  he  was  the  man  to  beat  her  down  with  smiles. 


AULD    LANG    SYNE. 


27 


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  not  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  man- 
sion, as  she  had  thought  fit  to  keep  unsold.  Hence 
my  bewilderment  at  the  phantoms  of  chairs,  and  the 
wraiths  of  looking  glasses,  tea  urns,  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 


28  VILLETTE. 

hangs  a  tale,  but  we  will  inquire  no   further   this 
evening.     Good  night,  Miss  Lucy." 

And  so,  he  kindly  led  me  to  the  door,  and  holding 
a  wax  candle,  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  attach- 
ment, not  offering  the  tender  solace  of  well-matched 
and  congenial  relationship ;  on  whom,  therefore,  but 
moderate  demand  of  affection  was  to  be  made,  of 
w^hom  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,  un- 
engrossing  and  tranquil :    quite  tranquil !' 

Still  repeating  this  word,  I  turned  to  my  pillow ; 
and,  still  repeating  it,  I  steeped  that  pillow  with  tears. 


LA    TERRASSE.  29 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


LA    TERRASSE. 


These  struggles  with  the  natural  character,  the 
strong  native  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  He  has  appointed — kneel  in  His 
presence,  and  pray  with  faith  for  light  in  darkness, 


30  VILLETTE. 

for  strength   in   piteous   weakness,  for  patience  in 
extreme   need.     Certainty,   at   some   hour,  though 
perhaps  not  your  hour,  the  waiting  waters  will  stir  ; 
in  some  shape,  though  perhaps  not  the  shape  you 
dreamed,  which  your  heart  loved,  and  for  which  it 
bled,  the  healing  herald  will  descend.     The  cripple 
and  the  blind,  and  the  dumb,  and  the  possessed,  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  j  the 
"  times  "  of  Heaven :  the  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  mourn- 
ing 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  carafe  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. 


LA  TERRASSE.  31 

"  Not  so,"  she  added,  and  dealing  with  me  at  once 
in  her  own  brusque,  energetic  fashion — that  fashion 
which  I  used  formerly  to  enjoy  seeing-  applied  to 
her  son,  and  by  him  vigorously  resisted — in  two 
minutes  she  consigned  me  captive  to  the  French 
bed. 

"  There  you  lie  till  afternoon,"  said  she.  "  My 
boy  left  orders  before  he  went  out  that  such  should 
be  the  case,  and  I  can  assure  you  my  son  is  master 
and  must  be  obeyed.  Presently  you  shall  have 
breakfast." 

Presently  she  brought  that  meal — brought  it  with 
her  own  active  hands — not  leaving  me  to  servants. 
She  seated  herself  on  the  bed  while  I  ate.  Now  it 
is  not  everybody,  even  amongst  our  respected 
friends  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 
to  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  drink  never 
pleased  me  so  well  as  when  it  came  through  her 
hands.  I  do  not  remember  the  occasion  when 
her  entrance  into  a  room  had  not  made  that  room 


32  VILLETTE. 

cheerier.  Our  natures  own  predilections  and  anti- 
pathies alike  strange.  There  are  people  from  whom 
we  secretly  shrink,  whom  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  brunette  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  that  overbearing  John  Graham 
had  not  put  his  veto  upon  such  a  proceeding. 
1  Now,  mama,'  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  to  my  own  quarters,  and  spare  you  my 
fine  company.  He  says,  Lucy,  he  thinks  you  have 
had  a  nervous  fever,  judging  from  your  look, — is 
that  so?" 


LA    TERRASSE.  33 


I  replied  that  I  did  not  quite  know  what  my  ail- 
ment had  been,  but  that  I  had  certainly  suffered 
a  good  deal,  especially  in  mind.  Further,  on  this 
subject,  I  did  not  consider  it  advisable  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  such  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  comple- 
ment of  crew,  a  captain  gay  and  brave,  and  ven- 
turous 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  harbour  on  such  a  night,  and  in 
such  a  scene :  her  crew  could  not  conceive  it ;  so  the 
half-drowned  life- boat  man  keeps  his  own  counsel, 
and  spins  no  yarns. 

She  left  me,  and  I  lay  in  bed  content :  it  was  good 
of  Graham  to  remember  me  before  he  went  out. 

My  day  was  lonely,  but  the  prospect  of  coming 

VOL.    II.  d 


34  VILLETTE. 

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  ful- 
filment, a  vague  impression  of  obligation  to  be 
employed — when  this  stirring  time  was  past,  and 
the  silent  descent  of  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  colour  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  colour  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  a  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 


LA  TERRASSE.  35 

sound    down    in    this   submarine   Lome,   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 
parlour ;  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. 

As  to  Mrs.  Bretton,  my  active  godmother — who,  I 
afterwards  found,  had  been  out  in  the  open  air  all 
day — lay  half-reclined  in  her  deep-cushioned  chair, 
actually  lost  in  a  nap.  Her  son  seeing  me,  came 
forward.  I  noticed  that  he  trod  carefully,  not  to 
wake  the  sleeper;  he  also  spoke  low:  his  mellow 
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 


36  VILLETTE. 

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  rnanoir  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 


LA    TERRASSE.  37 


that  it  was  in  some  sort  my  duty  to  speak  the  name 
he  meditated.  Of  course  he  was  ready  for  the  sub- 
ject: 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  the  Rue  Fossette,  and 
told  the  cuisiniere  that  you  were  safe  and  in  good 
hands.  Do  you  know  I  actually  found  that  she  had 
not  yet  discovered  your  absence  from  the  house  : 
she  thought  you  safe  in  the  great  dormitory.  With 
what  care  must  you  have  been  waited  on  !" 

"  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 


38  VILLETTE. 

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  bave  been  delighted  to  cook  me  cotelettes 
de  mouton,if  I  could  have  eaten  them." 

"  What  did  Madam  Beck  mean  by  leaving  you 
alone  ? " 

"  Madam  Beck  could  not  foresee  that  I  should 
fall  ill." 

u  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  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  re- 
marks. They  sounded  all  right,  I  thought,  and 
bore  the  safe  sanction  of  custom,  and  the  well  worn 
stamp  of  use. 


LA    TERIIASSE.  39 

i(  Miss  Snowe,"  recommenced  Dr.  John — my 
health,  nervous  system  included,  being  now  some- 
what to  my  relief,  discussed  and  done  with — "  is  it 
permitted  me  to  ask  what  ryour  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  out  homeward.  My  shortest  way  la}* 
through  the  BasseVille,  and  as  the  night  was  exces- 
sively 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 


40  VILLETTE. 

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  have  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  stop  ; 
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  Madam  Beck's  pension- 
nat.  She  was  perfectly  unconscious,  perfectly  blood- 
less, and  nearly  cold. 

"  '  What  does  it  all  mean?'  was  my  inquiry. 

"  He  communicated  a  curious  account :  that  vou 
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 


LA    TERRASSE.  41 

checked  his  garrulity  and  my  curiosity.  Your  con- 
fidences, 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, 
lie  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  uncon- 
sciously, have  blent  in  this  proceeding,  some  little  of 
the  subtility  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  con- 
fession, 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 
c  nervous  system.'  I  cannot  put  the  case  into 
words,  but,  my  days  and  nights  were  grown  intoler- 
able ;  a  cruel  sense  of  desolation  pained  my 
mind :  a  feeling  that  would  make  its  way,  rush 
out,  or  kill  me — like  (and  this  you  will  under- 
stand, Dr.  John)  the  current  which  passes 
througli  the  heart,  and  which,  if  aneurism  or  any 
other  morbid  cause  obstructs  its  natural  channels, 


42  VILLETTE. 

seeks  abnormal  outlet.  I  wanted  companionship, 
I  wanted  friendship,  I  wanted  counsel.  I  could  find 
none  of  these  in  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 
solitarv  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. 
John — smiling,  I  suppose,  at  my  bad  grammar. 

"  Change  of  air — change  of  scene  ;  those  are  my 
prescriptions,"  pursued  the  practical  young  doctor. 


LA    TEURASSE. 


43 


"  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  wan- 
derings— 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  knowr  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  succour,  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  himself.  He  would 
certainly  have  remained  with  you  till  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  for — the  physician's  last  visit  and  the 
priest's  last  rite ;  extreme  unction  could  not  be 
deferred.     Pere  Silas  and  myself  departed  together, 


44  VILLETTE. 

my  mother  was  spending  the  evening  abroad  ;  we 
gave  you  in  charge  to  Martha,  leaving  directions, 
which  it  seems  she  followed  successfully.  Now,  are 
you  a  Catholic  ?" 

"  ISTot  yet,"  said  I,  with  a  smile.  "And  never  let 
Pere  Silas  know  where  I  live,  or  he  will  try  to  con- 
vert 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  indul- 
gence to  which  she  had  succumbed,  and  fully  pre- 
pared to  deny  that  she  had  slept  at  all — her  son 
came  gaily  to  the  attack  : 

"Hushaby,  mama!  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.  Mama,  under  such  circumstances,  you 
always  remind  me  of'Titania." 

"  That  is  because  you,  yourself,  are  so  like  Bot- 
tom." 


LA    TERRASSE.  45 

"  Miss  Snowe — did  you  ever  hear  anything  like 
mania's  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. 
Graham,  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  not  my  six  feet 
of  iniquity  to  scold.  It  keeps  her  lively — it  main- 
tains the  wholesome  ferment  of  her  spirits." 

The  two  were  now  standing  opposite  to  each 
other,  one  on  each  side  the  fire-place ;  their  words 
were  not  very  fond,  but  their  mutual  looks  atoned 
for  verbal  deficiencies.  At  least,  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 


46  VILLETTE. 

passion  was  the  latest  born,  so  he  assigned  it  in  his 
emotions  Benjamin's  portion.  Ginevra !  Ginevra! 
Did  Mrs.  Bretton  yet  know  at  whose  feet  her  own 
young  idol  had  laid  his  homage  ?  Would  she 
ap|3rove  that  choice  ?  I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  could 
well  guess  that  if  she  knew  Miss  Fanshawe's  con- 
duct 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  per- 
verted, or  both.     Well — I  thought  so  too. 

That  second  evening  passed  as  sweetly  as  the 
first — mora  sweetly  indeed  :  we  enjoyed  a  smoother 
interchange  of  thought;  old  troubles  were  not  re- 
verted 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. 


WE    QUARREL.  47 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


WE    QUARREL. 


During  the  first  days  of  my  stay  at  the  Terrace, 
Graham  never  took  a  seat  near  me,  or  in  his  fre- 
quent 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  per- 
manently under  arms,  and  my  sympathy  desired  to 
keep  its  cornucopia  replenished  and  ready  for  out- 
pouring. At  last,  and  after  a  little  inward  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  travel- 


48  VILLETTE. 

ling,  I  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  impeach- 
ment :  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  lie  proceeded 
recklessly  to  unwind. 

"  Ginevra — Miss  Fanshawe,  has  accompanied  the 
Cholmondeleys  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  making  application  for  that  privilege." 

"  You  have  seen  letters  of  her  writing  ?" 

"  Yes ;  several  to  her  uncle." 

"They  will  not  be  deficient  in  wit  and  naivete', 
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,  un- 
equivocal applications  for  cash.) 


WE    QUARREL.  49 

"  And  her  handwriting  ?  It  must  be  pretty,  light, 
ladylike,  I  should  think  V 

It  was,  and  I  said  so. 

ls  I  verily  believe  that  all  she  does  is  well  done," 
said  Dr.  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 
honour  me  too  much  in  ascribing;  to  me  a  degree 
of  intimacy  with  Miss  Fanshawe  I  have  not  the 
felicity  to  enjo}*.  I  have  never  been  the  depositary 
of  her  plans  and  secrets.  Yrou  will  find  her  par- 
ticular friends  in  another  sphere  than  mine  :  amongst 
the  Cholmondeleys,  for  instance." 

He  actually  thought  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 

VOL.   II.  e 


50  VILLETTE. 

know  something  of  the  Cholmondeleys  ;  superficial, 
showy,  selfish  people :  depend  on  it,  at  heart 
Ginevra  values  you  beyond  a  score  of  such." 

"  You  are  very  kind."  I  said  briefty.  A  dis- 
claimer of  the  sentiments  attributed  to  me  burned 
on  my  lips,  but  I  extinguished  the  flame.  I  sub- 
mitted to  be  looked  upon  as  the  humiliated,  cast-off, 
and  now  pining  confidante  of  the  distinguished  Miss 
Fanshawe  :  but,  reader,  it  was  a  hard  submission. 

"  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  your  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  con- 
cerned, you  merit  no  respect;  nor  have  you  mine." 

I  got  up,  and  left  the  room  very  much  excited. 

This   little   scene  took   place   in    the    morning ; 


WE    QUARREL.  51 

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  vigour,    the  details  em- 
braced 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  con- 
struction 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  few  constructions  possess 
both,  some  neither.     Dr.  John  had  the  one  gift  in 
exquisite  perfection  ;   and  because  I  have  admitted 
that  he  was  not  endowed  with  the  other  in  equal 
degree,  the  reader  will  considerately  refrain  from 
passing  to  an  extreme,   and  pronouncing  him  ur- 
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  per- 
ception, miracles  of  intuition,  and  realize  disappoint- 


52  VILLETTE. 


ment.  This  night,  when  Dr.  John  entered  the 
room,  and  met  the  evening  lamp,  I  saw  well  and  at 
one  jjlance  his  whole  mechanism. 

To  one  who  had  named  him  "  slave,"  and,  on  any 

WW  if 

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  accu- 
sation 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  de- 
meanour seemed  grave,  perhaps  cold,  both  to  me 
and  his  mother.  And  yet  there  was  no  bad  feeling, 
no  malice,  no  rancour,  no  littleness  in  his  counte- 
nance, 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  I  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 


WE    QUARREL.  53 

all;  I  could  not  stand  it:  I  made  no  pretence  of 
capacity  to  wage  war  on  this  footing.  School 
solitude,  conventual  silence  and  stagnation,  any- 
thing 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,  among  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  mine  ;  but,  having  nothing  to  say, 
it  withdrew,  and  I  was  baffled.  After  tea,  he  sat 
sad  and  quiet,  reading  a  book.  I  wished  I  could 
have  dared  to  go  and  sit  near  him,  but  it  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." 

He  looked  up  from  his  book;  his  eyes  were  not 
cold  or  malevolent,  his  mouth  wras  not  cynical ;  he 
was  ready  and  willing  to  hear  what  I  might  have  to 
say :  his  spirit  was  of  vintage  too  mellow  and 
generous  to  sour  in  one  thunder-clap. 


54  VILLETTE. 

"  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  vour  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;  you  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  1 " 

"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,  as  I  will  put  away 


WE    QUARREL.  55 

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  well-wisher." 

"  I  am  your  sincere  well-wisher  :  you  are  right." 

Thus  our  quarrel  ended. 

Reader,  if  in  the  course  of  this  work,  vou  find 
that  my  opinion  of  Dr.  John,  undergoes  modifica- 
tion, 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  discovered. 

He  showred  the  fineness  of  his  nature  by  being 
kinder  to  me  after  that  misunderstanding  than 
before.  IN^ay,  the  very  incident  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  hither- 
to, all  through  our  two  lives,  glazed  the  medium 
through  which  we  exchanged  intercourse.  Those  few 
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  da}, 
so  long  as  we  continued  friends,  he  never  in  dis- 
course stood  on  topics  of  ceremony  with  me.    He 


56  VILLETTE. 

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  an- 
swered, my  wish  always  satisfied.  It  follows,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  I  continued  to  hear  much  of 
rt  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,  or  grieving, 
or  disappointing  him.  In  a  strange  and  new  sense? 
I  grew  most  selfish,  and  quite  powerless  to  deny  my. 
self  the  delight  of  indulging  his  mood,  and  being- 
pliant  to  his  will.  He  still  seemed  to  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.     Some- 


WE    QUARREL.  Ji 

times  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  impa- 
tience, that  in  my  own  mind,  I  felt  positive  Miss 
Fanshawe  must  intend  eventually  to  accept  him. 

"  Positive  !  It  was  easy  to  say  so,  but  had  I  any 
grounds  for  such  assurance?" 

"  The  best  grounds." 

"Now,  Lucy,  do  tell  me  what !" 

"  You  know  them  as  well  as  I ;  and,  knowing 
them  Dr.  John,  it  really  amazes  me  that  you  should 
not  repose  the  frankest  confidence  in  her  fidelity. 
To  doubt,  under  the  circumstances,  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  an  explanation 
— a  full  explanation  :  I  must  have  it." 

"  You  shall,  Dr.  John.  In  some  cases,  yoif  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 


58  VILLETTE. 

for  his  poor,  you  will  supply  his  altar  with  tapers, 
and  the  shrine  of  your  favourite  saint  you  will  do 
your  best  to  enrich :  Ginevra,  Dr.  John " 

"  Hush  !"  said  he,  "  don't  go  on." 

"  Hush,  I  will  riot:  and  go  on  I  will:  Ginevra  has 
had  her  hands  filled  from  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  flushed  all  over  the  face  of  her 
admirer. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said,  destructively  snipping  a 
skein  of  silk  with  my  scissors.  "  I  offered  them  to 
please  myself:  I  felt  she  did  me  a  favour  in  accept- 
ing them." 

"  She  did  more  than  a  favour,  Dr.  Johu  :  she 
pledged  her  very  honour  that  she  would  make  you 
some  return;  and  if  she  cannot  pay  you  in  affection, 
she  ought  to  hand  out  a  business-like  equivalent,  in 
the  shape  of  some  rouleaux  of  gold  pieces." 


WE    QUARREL.  59 

"  But  you  don't  understand  her  ;  she  is  far  too 
disinterested  to  care  for  my  gifts,  and  too  simple- 
minded  to  know  their  value." 

I  laughed  out:  I  had  heard  her  adjudge  to  every 
jewel  its  price  ;  and  well  I  knew  money-embarrass- 
ment, money-schemes,  money's  worth,  and  en- 
deavours to  realize  supplies,  had,  young  as  she  was, 
furnished  the  most  frequent,  and  the  favourite 
stimulus  of  her  thoughts  for  years. 

He  pursued.  "  You  should  have  seen  her  when- 
ever I  have  laid  on  her  lap  some  trifle;  so  cool,  so 
unmoved :  no  eagerness  to  take,  not  even  pleasure 
in  contemplating.  Just  from  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  chose  what  seemed  to  me 
pretty,  and  what  of  course  was  not  valueless),  the 
glitter  never  dazzled  her  bright  eyes :  she  would 
hardly  cast  one  look  on  my  gift." 

"  Then,  of  course,  not  valuing  it,  she  would  un- 
loose, and  return  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  for  such  a  repulse  she  was  too  good- 
natured.     She  would  consent  to  seem  to  forget  what 


60  VILLETTE. 

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  favourable  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  Fan- 
shawe's  na'iuete  was  assumed  ;  it  led  me  dubiously 
to  conjecture  that  perhaps,  in  spite  of  his  passion 
for  her  beauty,  his  appreciation  of  her  foibles  might 
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  closed  the  con- 
versation. 


THE    CLEOPATKA. 


61 


CHAPTER    XX. 


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  1  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  chateau.  I  suppose  she  had 
resolved  within  herself  to  see  what  manner  of  place 
Dr.  John  inhabited.     Apparently,  the  pleasant  site 


62  VILLETTE. 

and  neat  interior  surpassed  her  expectations ;  she 
eulogized  all  she  saw,  pronounced  the  blue  salon 
"  une  piece  magnifique,"  profusely  congratulated 
me  on  the  acquisition  of  friends,  "  tellement  dignes, 
aimables,  et  respectables/'  turned  also  a  neat  com- 
pliment in  my  favour,  and,  upon  Dr.  John  coming 
in,  ran  up  to  him  with  the  utmost  buoyancy,  open- 
ing 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  embel- 
lished 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  catherine-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  graver  than  a  sage.  Strange  little 
woman ! 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  63 

I  went  back  and  teased  Dr.  John  about  Madame' s 
devotion  to  him.  How  he  laughed !  What  fun 
shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  recalled  some  of  her  fine 
speeches,  and  repeated  them,  imitating  her  voluble 
delivery  !  He  had  an  acute  sense  of  humour,  and 
was  the  finest  company  in  the  world — when  he  could 
forget  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,  be- 
neath 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.  Bret- 
ton's  and  his  mother's.  They  liked  to  communicate 
happiness,  as  some  like  to  occasion  misery  :  they  did 


64  VJLLETTE. 

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  oc- 
cupied 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,  con- 
fused, or  oppressed.  What  he  did  was  accomplished 
with  the  ease  and  grace  of  all-sufficing  strength ; 
with  the  bountiful  cheerfulness  of  high  and  un- 
broken 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  note-worthy  in- 
formation. He  never  seemed  to  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 


THE    CLEOPATRA.  65 

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  dis- 
course ;  and  the  fact  of  his  speaking  direct  from  his 
own  resources,  and  not  borrowing  or  stealing  from 
books — here  a  dry  fact,  and  there  a  trite  phrase,  and 
elsewhere  a  hackneyed  opinion — ensured  a  fresh- 
ness, 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  nobler 
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  philan- 
thropist as  the  physician.  I  understood  presently 
that — cheerfully,  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. 

VOL.  II.  p 


66  VILLETTE. 

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 :  there  was  no  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 ;  shown 
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  con- 
tradiction in  the  two  views  which  have  been  given 
of  Graham  Bretton — the  public  and  private — the 
out-door  and  the  in-door  view.  In  the  first,  the 
public,  he  is  shown  oblivious  of  self;  as  modest  in 
the  display  of  his  energies,  as  earnest  in  their  exer- 
cise.    In  the  second,  the  fireside  picture,  there  is 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  67 

expressed  consciousness  of  what  he  has  and  what 
he  is ;  pleasure  in  homage,  some  recklessness  in 
exciting,  some  vanity  in  receiving  the  same.  Both 
portraits  are  correct. 

It  was  hardly  possible  to  oblige  Dr.  John  quietly 
and  in  secret.  When  you  thought  that  the  fabri- 
cation of  some  trifle  dedicated  to  his  use  had  been 
achieved  unnoticed,  and  that,  like  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  completion.  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, 
teasing,  loving  wont.  If  Lucy  Snowe  were  dis- 
covered to  have  put  her  hand  to  such  work,  he 
planned,  in  recompense,  some  pleasant  recreation. 


68  VILLETTE. 

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  !  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 
dearly  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 
intelligence  of  its  demeanour  under  the  ordeal  of  a 
conversable  sociable  visitation  of  pictures,  historical 
sites   or  buildings,  or  any  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. 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  69 

Meantime,  I  was  happy ;  happy,  not  always  in 
admiring,  but  in  examining,  questioning,  and  form- 
ing conclusions.  In  the  commencement  of  these 
visits,  there  was  some  misunderstanding  and  conse- 
quent 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.  Dis- 
covering gradually  that  a  wronderful  sense  of  fatigue 
resulted  from  these  conscientious  efforts,  I  began  to 
reflect  whether  I  might  not  dispense  with  that  great 
labour,  and  concluded  eventually  that  I  might,  and 
so  sank  sujiine  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  pic- 
ture 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  cY ceuvres  bearing 
great  names,  "  These  are  not  a  whit  like  nature. 
Nature's  daylight  never  had  that  colour ;  never  was 
made  so  turbid,  either  by  storm  or  cloud,  as  it  is 
laid  out   there,  under  a  sky  of  indigo :   and  that 


70  VILLETTE. 

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,  excel- 
lent 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 ;  and  there  her 
glory  in  a  sunny  southern  day.  An  expression  in 
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  friends. 

One  day,  at  a  quiet  early  hour,  I  found  myself 
nearly  alone  in  a  certain  gallery,  wherein  one  par- 
ticular picture  of  pretentious  size,  set  up  in  the  best 
light,  having  a  cordon  of  protection  stretched  before 
it,  and  a  cushioned  bench  duly  set  in  front  for  the 
accommodation   of  worshipping  connoisseurs,  who, 


THE    CLEOPATRA.  71 

having'  gazed  themselves  off  their  feet,  might  be 
fain  to  complete  the  business  sitting :  this  picture, 
I  say,  seemed  to  consider  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  re- 
ception of  a  commodity  of  bulk,  would  infallibly 
turn  from  fourteen  to  sixteen  stone.  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  do  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 
sofa.  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, 


72  VILLETTE. 

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  curtain  upholstery  smothered 
the  couch  and  cumbered  the  floor.  On  referring 
to  the  catalogue,  I  found  that  this  notable  pro- 
duction bore  name  "  Cleopatra." 

Well,  I  was  sitting  wondering  at  it  (as  the  bench 
was  there,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  take  advan- 
tage 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  claptrap ;  the  room,  almost 
vacant  when  I  entered,  began  to  fill.  Scarcely 
noticing  this  circumstance  (as,  indeed,  it  did  not 
matter  to  me)  I  retained  my  seat;  rather  to  rest 
myself  than  with  a  view  to  studying  this  huge, 
dark-complexioned  gipsy-queen;  of  whom,  indeed, 
I  soon  tired,  and  betook  myself  for  refreshment 
to  the  contemplation  of  some  exquisite  little  pictures 
of  still  life  :  wild-flowers,  wild- fruit,  mossy  wood- 
nests,  casketing  eggs  that  looked  like  pearls 
seen    through   clear   green    sea- water ;    all    hung 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  73 

modestly  beneath  that  coarse  and  preposterous 
canvass. 

Suddenly  a  light  tap  visited  my  shoulder.  Start- 
ing, turning,  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  m'  amuse. " 

"  Vous  vous  amusez !  et  a  quoi,  s'il  vous  plait  ? 
Mais  d'abord,  faites-moi  le  plaisir  de  vous  lever : 
prenez  mon  bras,  et  allons  de  l'autre  cote." 

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  insub- 
ordination 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  1 " 

"  No,  monsieur.  Dr.  Bretton  brought  me 
here." 

"Dr.  Bretton  and  Madame  his  mother,  of 
course  ? " 


74  VILLETTE. 


t< 


No  ;  only  Dr.  Bretton." 

"  And  he  told  you  to  look  at  that  picture  1 " 

"  By  no  means  :  I  found  it  out  for  myself." 

M.  Paul's  hair  was  shorn  close  as  raven  down, 
or  I  think  it  would  have  bristled  on  his  head. 
Beginning  now  to  perceive  his  drift,  I  had  a  certain 
pleasure  in  keeping  cool,  and  working  him  up. 

"  Astounding  insular  audacity  !  "  cried  the  Pro- 
fessor.   "  Singulieres  femmes  que  ces  Anglaises  !" 

"  What  is  the  matter,  monsieur  V 

"  Matter !  How  dare  you,  a  young  person,  sit 
coolly  down,  with  the  self-possession  of  a  garcon, 
and  look  at  that  picture  1 " 

"  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 
ought  not  to  be  here  alone." 

"  If,  however,  I  have  no  society — no  party,  as  you 
say?  And  then,  what  does  it  signify  whether  I 
am  alone,  or  accompanied  ?  nobody  meddles   with 


me." 


**  Taisez-vous,  et  asseyez-vous  la — la  ! ,:  Setting 
down  a  chair  with  emphasis  in  a  particularly  dull 
corner,  before  a  series  of  most  specially  dreary 
"  cadres." 


THE    CLEOPATRA.  75 

"  Mais,  monsieur." 

"  Mais,  mademoiselle,  asseyez  vous,  et  ne  bougez 
pas — entendez-vous?  jusqu' a  ce  qu'on  vienne  vous 
cherclier,  ou  que  je  vous  donne  la  permission." 

"Quel  triste  coin!"  cried  I,  "et  quels  laids  tableaux!" 

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  remark- 
able 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  prie-dieu  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  disconsolate  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 


76  VILLETTE. 

gray  as  burglars,  and  cold  and  vapid  as  ghosts. 
What  women  to  live  with  !  insincere,  ill-humoured, 
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  round  the  Lioness,  from  whose  vicinage 
I  had  been  banished ;  nearly  half  this  crowd  were 
ladies,  but  M.  Paul  afterwards  told  me,  these 
were  "  cles  dames,"  and  it  was  quite  proper  for 
them  to  contemplate  what  no  "  demoiselle  "  ought  to 
glance  at.  I  assured  him  plainly  I  could  not  agree 
in  this  doctrine,  and  did  not  see  the  sense  of  it ; 
whereupon,  with  his  usual  absolutism,  he  merely 
requested  my  silence,  and  also,  in  the  same  breath, 
denounced  my  mingled  rashness  and  ignorance. 
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 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  77 

was  obeying   orders,    and    not    breaking    bounds. 
By  and  by,  he  again  accosted  me. 

"Had   I   not  been   ill?"  he   wished    to   know: 
"  he  understood  I  had." 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  now  quite  well." 

"  Where  had  I  spent  the  vacation?" 

"  Chiefly    in    the    Rue    Fossette ;     partly    with 
Madame  Bretton." 

"  He   had   heard   that  I  was   left   alone  in  the 
Rue  Fossette ;  was  that  so?" 

"  Not  quite  alone  :  Marie  Broc  "  (the  cretin)  "  was 
with  me." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  varied  and  contra- 
dictory expressions  played  rapidly  over  his  coun- 
tenance. Marie  Broc  was  well  known  to  M.  Paul ; 
he  never  gave  a  lesson  in  the  third  division  (contain- 
ing the  least  advanced  pupils),  that  she  did  not  occa- 
sion in  him  a  sharp  conflict  between  antagonistic  im- 
pressions. Her  personal  appearance,  her  repulsive 
manners,  her  often  unmanageable  disposition,  irri- 
tated 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 — 


78  VILLETTE. 

sucli  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  attach- 
ments 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  ordinary 
minds  fear  and  dislike ;  yet  it  was  an  error  to  fear 
him :  nothing  drove  him  so  nearly  frantic  as  the 
tremor  of  an  apprehensive  and  distrustful  spirit; 
nothing  soothed  him  like  confidence  tempered  with 
gentleness.  To  evince  these  sentiments,  however,  re- 
quired 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  cour- 
age;   and,  perhaps,  charity.      Yours  are  not  the 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  79 

qualities    which     might     constitute     a    Sister    of 
Mercy." 

[He  was  a  religious  little  man,  in  his  way :  the 
self-denying  and  self-sacrificing  part  of  the  Catholic 
religion  commanded  the  homage  of  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  infi- 
nitely 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 


80  VILLETTE. 

not  cast  in  an  heroic  mould  ;  your  courage  will  not 
avail  to  sustain  you  in  solitude ;  it  merely  gives  you 
the  temerity  to  gaze  with  sang-froid  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  pre- 
sent disposition  to  begin. 

"Cleopatra!"  I  repeated,  quietly.  "  Monsieur,  too, 
has  been  looking  at  Cleopatra ;  what  does  he  think 
of  her?" 

"  Cela  ne  vaut  rien,"  he  responded.  ct  line  femme 
superbe — une  taille  d'imperatrice,  des  formes  de 
Junon,  mais  une  personne  dont  je  ne  voudrais  ni 
pour  femme,  ni  pour  fille,  ni  pour  sceur.  Aussi  vous 
ne  jeterez  plus  un  seul  coup  d' ceil  de  sa  cote." 

"  But  I  have  looked  at  her  a  great  many  times 
while  Monsieur  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  admire  them,  allow  me  to  vacate  my 
seat  and  leave  you  to  their  contemplation." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  grimacing  a  half-smile, 


THE   CLEOPATRA.  81 

or  what  he  intended  for  a  smile,  though  it  was  but 
a  grim  and  hurried  manifestation.  "  You  nurs- 
lings of  Protestantism  astonish  me.  You  un- 
guarded Englishwomen  walk  calmly  amidst  red-hot 
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  one  side  1 " 

"How!  At  what  are  you  gazing  now?  You 
are  not  recognizing  an  acquaintance  amongst  that 
group  of  jeunes  gens  Vs 

"  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  Hamal.  What  a  very  finished,  highly- 
polished  little  pate  it  was !  What  a  figure,  so  trim 
and  natty !  What  womanish  feet  and  hands ! 
How  daintily  he  held  a  glass  to  one  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 

VOL.  I'.  G 


82  VILLETTE. 

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  character  by  his  looks  and  movements, 
I  temporarily  forgsot  M.  Paul ;  in  the  interim  a 
group  came  between  that  gentleman  and  me ;  or 
possibly  his  scruples  might  have  received  another 
and  worse  shock  from  my  present  abstrac- 
tion, causing  him  to  withdraw  voluntarily :  at 
any  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 
Hesperides  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  would  watch* 

He  approached  de  Hamal ;  he  paused  near  him  ; 


THE    CLEOPATRA.  83 

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  eve  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  tcachably ;  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  informa- 
tion 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 


84  VILLETTE. 

thought  of  the  Cleopatra  (after  making  him  laugh 
by  telling  him  how  Professor  Emanuel  had  sent  me 
to  the  right-about,  and  taking  him  to  see  the  sweet 
series  of  pictures  recommended  to  my  attention.) 

"Pooh!"  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  little  to  my 
liking.     Compare  that  mulatto  with  Ginevra  !  " 


THE    CONCERT.  85 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


THE     CONCERT. 


One  morning,  Mrs.  Bretton,  coming  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  is  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," 


86  VILLETTE. 

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  he  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,  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  recom- 
mended 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  grande  tenue,  and  requested 


THE   CONCERT.  87 

to  look  in  the  glass.  I  did  so  with  some  fear  and 
trembling ;  with  more  fear  and  trembling,  I  turned 
away.  Seven  o'clock  struck ;  Dr.  Bretton  was 
come ;  my  godmother  and  I  went  down.  She 
was  clad  in  brown  velvet ;  as  I  walked  in  her 
shadow,  how  I  envied  her  those  folds  of  grave, 
dark  majesty !  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  satis- 
fied 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  li^ht  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 


88  VILLETTE. 

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  forth  to  the  open  chaus- 
see,  the  passage  through  the  city  gates,  the  lights 
there  burning,  the  guards  there  posted,  the  pre- 
tence of  inspection  to  which  we  there  submitted, 
and  which  amused  us  so  much — all  these  small 
matters  had  for  me,  -in  their  novelty,  a  peculiar 
exhilarating  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  hi<rli  noon.  How  brilliant  seemed  the 
shops !  How  glad,  gay,  and  abundant  flowed  the 
tide  of  life  along  the  broad  pavement!     While  I 


THE    CONCERT. 


89 


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,  as  at 
this  very  hour,  it  was  my  wont  to  wander  all 
solitary,  gazing  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  car- 
riages all  tending  in  one  direction,  and  soon  the 
front  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  bustle  and  a  great  crowd,  but  I  do  not  dis- 
tinctly remember  further  details,  until  I  found 
myself  mounting  a  majestic  staircase  wide  and 
easy  of  ascent,  deeply  and  softly  carpeted  with 
crimson,  leading  up  to  great  doors  closed  solemnly, 
and  whose  panels  were  also  crimson-clothed. 


90  VILLETTE. 

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  dis- 
closed a  hall — grand,  wide,  and  high,  whose  sweep- 
ing circular  walls,  and  domed  hollow  ceiling,  seemed 
to  me  all  dead  gold  (thus  with  nice  art  was  it  stain- 
ed), 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  dra- 
pery hung,  wherever  carpets  were  spread,  or 
cushions  placed,  the  sole  colour  employed  was 
deep  crimson.  Pendant  from  the  dome,  flamed 
a  mass  that  dazzled  -me — a  mass,  I  thought,  of 
rock  -  crystal,  j  sparkling  with  facets,  streaming 
with  drops,  ablaze  with  stars,  and  gorgeously 
tinged  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  Lamp — were  not 
hovering  in  the  lustrous  and  ^perfumed  atmosphere 
of  the  cupola,  guarding  its  wondrous  treasure. 

"We  moved  on — I  was  not  at  all  conscious  whither 
— but  at  some  turn  we  suddenly  encountered  ano- 


THE    CONCERT.  91 

ther  party  approaching  from  the  opposite  direction. 
I  just  now  see  that  group,  as  it  flashed  uj)on  me  for 
one  moment.  A  handsome  middle-aged  lady  in 
dark  velvet ;  a  gentleman  who  might  be  her  son — 
the  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 
other  two — and  for  the  fraction  of  a  moment,  be- 
lieved them  all  strangers,  thus  receiving  an  impartial 
impression  of  their  appearance.  But  the  impression 
was  hardly  felt  and  not  fixed,  before  the  conscious- 
ness that  I  faced  a  great  mirror,  filling  a  compart- 
ment 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  "  giftie"  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  general  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 


92  V1LLETTE. 

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 
seldom  wear  any  ;  the  smooth  hair,  closely  braided, 
supplies  a  sufficient  contrast  to  the  smoother  cheek 
and  brow ;    the  dress  cannot  be  too  simple ;   the 


THE    CONCERT.  93 

rounded     arm    and     perfect   neck   require   neither 
bracelet  nor  chain. 

With  one  of  these  beauties  I  once  had  the  honour 
and  rapture  to  be  perfectly  acquainted  :  the  inert 
force  of  the  deep,  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 — a  sort  of  mark  for  all  eyes,  and  quite  con- 
scious that  so  she  was,  but  proof  to  the  magnetic 
influence  of  gaze  or  glance  :  cold,  rounded,  blonde, 
and  beauteous,  as  the  white  column,  capitalled 
with  gilding,  which  rose  at  her  side. 

Observing  that  Dr.  John's  attention  was  much 
drawn  towards  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? 


94  VILLETTE. 

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  address  myself  to  my  mother.  Mama,  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.  (  Mama,  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 


THE    CONCERT.  95 

satin  dress,  and  hair  of  paler  brown,  with  '  reflets 
satines  *  as  those  of  her  robe.  Would  you  notj  feel 
proud,  mama,  if  I  were  to  bring  that  goddess 
home  some  day,  and  introduce  her  to  you  as 
Mrs.  Bretton,  junior?" 

"  You  will  bring  no  goddess  to  La  Terrasse  :  that 
little  chateau  will  not  contain  two  mistresses ;  es- 
pecially if  the  second  be  of  the  height,  bulk,  and 
circumference  of  that  mighty  doll  in  wood  and 
wax,  and  kid  and  satin.' ' 

"Mama,  she  would  fill  your  blue  chair  so 
admirably ! " 

"  Fill  my  chair  ?  I  defy  the  foreign  usurper  !  a 
rueful  chair  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  overflow- 
ing  with  life;  round  two  grand  pianos,  placed 
about  the  centre,  a  white  flock  of  young  girls,  the 
pupils  of  the  Conservatoire,  had  noiselessly  poured. 


96  VILLETTE. 

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 
pianiste,  and  also  the  first  music  teacher  in  Villette; 
he  attended  twice  a  week  at  Madame  Beck's  pen- 
sionat,  to  give  lessons  to  the  few  pupils  whose 
parents  were  rich  enough  to  allow  their  daughters 
the  privilege  of  his  instructions ;  his  name  was 
M.  Josef  Emanuel,  and  he  was  half-brother  to 
M.  Paul :  which  potent  personage  was  now  visible  in 
the  person  of  the  second  gentleman. 

M.  Paul  amused  me ;  I  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,  restrain- 
ing, 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  1  What  had  he  to  do  with 
music  or  the  Conservatoire — he  who  could  hardly 
distinguish  one  note  from  another  ?     I  knew  that  it 


THE    CONCERT.  §7 

was  his  love  of  display  and  authority  which  had 
brought  him  there — a  love  not  offensive,  only  because 
so  naive.  It  presently  became  obvious  that  his 
brother,  M.  Josef,  was  as  much  under  his  control 
as  were  the  girls  themselves.  Never  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  pro- 
fessor set.  Insufferable  to  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  regal  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  Kin"", 
the  Queen,  the  Court  of  Labassecour. 

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  spe- 
cimens of  European  royalty.  By  whomsoever 
majesty  is  beheld  for  the  first  time,  there  will  always 

VOL.    IT.  H 


98  VILLETTE. 

be  experienced  a  vague  surprise  bordering  on  disap- 
pointment, 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.  Look- 
ing out  for  a  king  and  queen,  and  seeing  only 
a  middle-aged  soldier  and  a  rather  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 
hand.  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  all  that  brilliant 
throng.  Hypochondria  has  that  wont,  to  rise  in  the 
midst  of  thousands — dark  as  Doom,  pale  as  Malady, 
and  well   nigh   strong   as   Death.      Her  comrade 


THE    CONCERT.  99 

and  victim  thinks  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  melancholy.     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  that  princess  seemed ; 
not  beautiful,  not   at  all   like  the  women  of  solid 
charms  and  marble  feelings  described  a  page  or  two 
since.     Hers  was  a  somewhat  slender  shape;  her 
features,   though  distinguished    enough,    were   toe*/ 
suggestive  of  reigning  dynasties    and    royal]  lines 
to    give    unqualified    pleasure.      The     expressi  on 
clothing  that  profile  was  agreeable  in  the  pre  sent 
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.     T>ie  Queen's 
eye,   however,  was  her  own  ;   and   pity,  goodness, 


100  VILLETTE. 

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  Due  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  be- 
clouded abstraction,  and  desirous  to  rouse  him  from 
it  by  drawing  his  attention  to  their  son.  She  often 
bent  her  head  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. 
Pull  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 
i  lot  discover  that  one  soul  present  was  either  struck 
or  touched. 

"vxVith  the  King  and  Queen  had  entered  their  court, 
comprising  two  or  three  foreign  ambassadors ;  and 
with  tLiem  came  the  elite  of  the  foreigners  then 
resident  in  Villette.  These  took  possession  of  the 
crimson  L  enches ;  the  ladies  were  seated ;  most 
of  the  men    remained  standing :  their  sable   rank, 


THE    CONCERT. 


101 


lining  the  back  ground,  looked  like  a  dark  foil  to 
the  splendour  displayed  in  front.  Nor  was  this 
splendour  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.  Here  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  was  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  five-and- 
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.  Here  was  a 
pair  of  Madame  Beck's  late  pupils — Mesdemoiselles 
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. 


102  VILLETTE. 

the  second  division.  In  English,  thev  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 
dejeuner "  was  a  real  world's  wonder — to  be  ex- 
ceeded only  by  the  fact  of  her  actually  pocketing 
slices  she  could  not  eat.  Here  be  truths — whole- 
some truths,  too. 

I  knew  another  of  these  seraphs — the  prettiest, 
or,  at  any  rate,  the  least  demure  and  hypocri- 
tical-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,  curled,  and  flowing.  She  chatted 
away  volubly,  and  seemed  full  of  a  light-headed 
sort  of  satisfaction  with  herself  and  her  position. 
I  did  not  look  at  Dr.  Bretton ;   but  I  knew  that 


THE    CONCERT.  103 

he,  too,  saw  Ginevra  Fanshawe :  be  bad  become  so 
quiet,  be  answered  so  briefly  bis  mother's  remarks, 
he  so  often  suppressed  a  sigh.  Why  should  he 
sigh?  He  had  confessed  a  taste  for  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  favour  him.  Our  seat  was  not  far  from  the 
crimson  benches;  we  must  inevitably  be  seen 
thence,  by  eyes  so  quick  and  roving  as  Miss  Fan- 
shawe'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  wish- 
ing to  be  immediately  recognized :  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  neighbour ;  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 


104  VILLETTE. 

crasse.  The  young  ladies  of  the  Conservatoire, 
being  very  much  frightened,  made  rather  a  tre- 
mulous exhibition  on  the  two  grand  pianos.  M. 
Josef  Emanuel  stood  by  them  while  they  played ; 
but  he  had  not  the  tact  or  influence  of  his  kinsman, 
wlio,  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  incom- 
parably the  greater :  M.  Josef  could  not  do  this. 

Following  the  white  muslin  pianistes,  came  a 
fine,  full-grown,  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  minstrel,  has  often  moved 
me  more  deeply. 

Afterwards  stepped  forth  a  gentleman,  who,  bend- 
ing his  body  a  good  deal  in  the  direction  of  the 
King  and  Queen,  and  frequently  ^approaching  his 
white-gloved    hand    to   the    region    of   his    heart, 


THE    CONCERT.  105 

vented  a  bitter  outcry  against  a  certain  "faussc 
Isabelle."  I  thought  lie  seemed  especially  to 
solicit  the  Queen's  sympathy  :  but,  unless  I  am 
egregiously  mistaken,  her  Majesty  lent  her  attention 
rather  with  the  calm  of  courtesy  than  the  earnest- 
ness of  interest.  This  gentleman's  state  of  mind 
was  very  harrowing,  and  I  was  glad  when  he 
wound  up  his  musical  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  Labasse- 
couriens.  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  performance — timid  instru- 
mental 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.  Bret- 
ton  :  I  could  not  forget  him,  nor  cease  to  question 
how  he  was  feeling,  what  he  was  thinking,  whe- 
ther he  was  amused  or  the  contrary.  At  last  he 
spoke. 


106  VILLETTE. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  it  all,  Lucy  ?  You  are 
very  quiet,"  he  said,  in  his  own  cheerful  tone. 

li  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  re- 
marks, with  so  much  equanimity  and  composure 
that  I  began  to  think  he  had  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  home- 
liness in  Sunday  array,  it  would  sound  all  very 
fine." 

"  Ginevra  saw  you,  I  think  ? " 


THE    CONCERT.  107 

"  So  do  I  think  so.  I  have  had  my  eye  on  her 
several  times  since  you  withdrew  yours ;  and  I 
have  had  the  honour  of  witnessing  a  little  spectacle 
which  you  were  spared." 

I  did  not  ask  what :  I  waited  voluntary  informa- 
tion ;  which  was  presently  given. 

"  Miss  Fanshawe,"  he  said,  "  has  a  companion 
with  her — a  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  Ginevra 
will  have  gained  ground  in  her  estimation  by 
making  a  butt  of  her  neighbours." 

"What  neighbours?" 

"  Merely  myself  and  my  mother.  As  to  me  it 
is  all  very  natural :  nothing,  I  suppose,  can  be 
fairer  game  than  the  young  bourgeois  doctor ;  but 
my  mother  1  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 


108  .    VILLETTE. 

melancholy  King.  She  is  not  actuated  by  malevo- 
lence, 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." 

<c  To  speak  the  honest  truth,  without  any  false 
rant  or  assumed  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  Lit  up  amused  me.  By  way  of  having  the 
full  benefit  of  your  lights,  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,  I  should  yet  be  the 
humblest  of  her  servants.  She  might  have  scoffed  at 
me,  and,  while  wounding,  she  would  not  soon  have 


THE    CONCERT.  109 

alienated  me :  through  myself,  she  could  not  in 
ten  years  have  done  what,  in  a  moment,  she  has 
done  through  my  mother." 

He  held  his  peace  awhile.  Never  hefore  had  I 
seen  so  much  fire  and  so  little  sunshine  in  Dr. 
John's  blue  eye,  as  just  now. 

"Lucy,"  he  recommenced,  "  look  well  at  my 
mother,  and  say,  without  fear  or  favour,  in  what 
light  she  now  appears  to  you." 

"  As  she  always  does, — an  English,  middle  -class 
gentlewoman  ;  well,  though  gravely  dressed,  habi- 
tually independent  of  pretence,  constitutionally 
composed  and  cheerful." 

"  So  she  seems  to  me — bless  her !  The  merry 
may  laugh  with  mama,  but  the  weak  only  will 
laugh  at  her.  She  shall  not  be  ridiculed,  with  my 
consent  at  least;  nor  without  my — my  scorn — my 
antipathy — my " 

He  stopped  :  and  it  was  time — for  he  was  getting 
excited — more  it  seemed  than  the  occasion  war- 
ranted. I  did  not  then  know  that  he  had  witnessed 
double  cause  for  dissatisfaction  with  Miss  Fan- 
shawe.  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 


110  VILLETTE. 

striking  phase.  Yet  the  rare  passion  of  the 
constitutionally  suave  and  serene,  is  not  a  plea- 
sant spectacle;  nor  did  I  like  the  sort  of  vindic- 
tive thrill  which  passed  through  his  strong  young 
frame. 

"  Do  I  frighten  you,  Lucy?"  he  asked. 

"  I  cannot  tell  why  you  are  so  very  angry." 

"  For  this  reason,"  he  muttered  in  my  ear : 
"  Ginevra  is  neither  a  pure  angel  nor  a  pure-minded 
woman." 

"  Nonsense !  you  exaggerate :  she  has  no  great 
harm  in  her." 

"  Too  much  for  me.  I  can  see  where  you  are 
blind.  Now,  dismiss  the  subject.  Let  me  amuse 
myself  by  teasing  mama :  I  will  assert  that  she  is 
flagging.     Mama,  pray  rouse  yourself." 

"  John,  I  will  certainly  rouse  you,  if  you  are 
not  better  conducted.  Will  you  and  Lucy  be  silent, 
that  T  may  hear  the  singing  V* 

They  were  then  thundering  in  a  chorus,  under 
cover  of  which  all  the  previous  dialogue  had  taken 
place. 

"  You  hear  the  singing,  mama !  Now,  I  will 
wager  my  studs — which  are  genuine — against  your 
paste  brooch " 


THE    CONCERT.  Ill 

"My  paste  brooch,  Graham?  Profane  boy! 
you  know  that  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  attention  during  the  last 
half  hour." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  observe  them." 

"Why  not?  Because  one  of  them  satirically 
levels  her  eye-glass  at  me  ?  She  is  a  pretty,  silly 
girl:  but  are  you  apprehensive  that  her  titter  will 
discomfit  the  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 


112  VILLETTE. 

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 — 
reappeared  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  assist- 
ants were  at  his  beck  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  pre- 
judice 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  characteristics  of  his  physiognomy, 
rendered  conspicuous  now  by  the  contrast  with  a 
throng  of  tamer  faces  :  the  deep,  intent  keenness  of 
his  eye,  the  power  of  his  forehead — pale,  broad,  and 
full — the  mobility  of  his  most  flexible  mouth.  He 
lacked  the  calm  of  force,  but  its  movement  and  its 
fire  he  signally  possessed. 


THE    CONCERT.  113 

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  ani- 
mated scene.  The  long  cloud  of  gentlemen,  break- 
ing 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  stiflingly  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 

VOL.  II.  i 


114  VILLETTE. 

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  wrap- 
ped in  a  fur  shawl.  We  took  some  turns  on  the 
pavement;  in  passing  under  a  lamp,  Graham  en- 
countered my  eye. 

"  You  look  pensive,  Lucy :  is  it  on  my  ac- 
count ? " 

"  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-complaint.  I  may  be  stung, 
I  may  seem  to  droop  for  a  time,  but  no  pain  or 
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  the  old  lady  for  a  dozen  beauties.  That 
sneer  did  me  all  the  good  in  the  world.  Thank 
you,  Miss  Fanshawe  ! "  And  he  lifted  his  hat  from 
his  waved  locks,  and  made  a  mock  reverence. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  thank  her.     She  has  made 


THE    CONCERT. 


11. 


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." 

"  /heated  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." 

iC  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.  Hap- 
pening to  glance  round— indeed  I  half  fancied  I 
heard  my  name  pronounced — I  saw  quite  near,  the 
ubiquitous,  the  inevitable  M.  Paul.  He  was  look- 
ing at  me  gravely  and  intently :  at  me,  or  rather, 
at  my  pink  dress  —  sardonic  comment  on  which 
gleamed  in  his  eye.  Now  it  was  his  habit  to  in- 
dulge in  strictures  on  the  dress,  both  of  the  teachers 


116  VILLETTE. 

and  pupils,  at  Madame  Beck's — a  habit  which 
the  former,  at  least,  held  to  be  an  offensive  imper- 
tinence :  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  en- 
croachment 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, 

"  Ay,  keep  close  to  my  side,  Lucy  :  these  crowd- 
ing burghers  are  no  respecters  of  persons." 

I  could  not,  however,  be  true  to  myself.  Yielding 
to  some  influence,  mesmeric  or  otherwise — an  in- 
fluence unwelcome,  displeasing,  but  effective — I 
again  glanced  round  to  see  if  M.  Paul  was  gone. 
No,  there  he  stood  on  the  same  spot,  looking  still, 
but  with  a  changed  eye ;  he  had  penetrated  my 
thought  and  read  my  wish  to  shun  him.  The  mock- 
ing but  not  ill-humoured  gaze  was  turned  to  a 
swarthy  frown,  and  when  I  bowed,  with  a  view  to 


THE    CONCERT.  117 

conciliation,  I  got  only  the  stiffest  and  sternest  of 
nods  in  return. 

"  Whom  have  you  made  angry,  Lucy  ? "  whis- 
pered Dr.  Bretton,  smiling.  "  Who  is  that  savage- 
looking  friend  of  yours?" 

"  One  of  the  professors  at  Madame  Beck's :  a 
very  cross  little  man." 

"He  looks  mighty  cross  just  now:  what  have 
you  done  to  him?  What  is  it  all  about?  Ah, 
Lucy,  Lucy  !  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this." 

"  No  mystery,  I  assure  you.  M.  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  to  all  round  him,  that 
a  very  uncomfortable  pressure  was  the  conse- 
quence. 

"  I  think  he  is  what  he  himself  would  call 
'  mediant,' "  said  Dr.  Bretton.  I  thought  so, 
too. 


118  VILLETTE. 

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  airy  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  exchange;  but  I  could  not  be 
brought  to  hear  reason,  and  to  this  day  I  keep  my 
cigar-case:  it  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  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  looked 
at  it  with  a  mixture  of  reverence  and  embarrass- 
ment highly  provocative  of  laughter.  The  contem- 
plation 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  treat- 


THE    CONCERT.  119 

ment  or  stowage  it  ought  to  receive  :  if  bis  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  band-box  whence  it  had  issued. 
Graham  was  quite  cheerful  all  the  evening,  and 
his  cheerfulness  seemed  natural  and  unforced.  His 
demeanour,  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  be- 
traved  no  weakness  which  harassed  all  vour  feelings 
with  considerations  as  to  how  its  faltering  must  be 
propped  ;  from  him  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  heart:  beside  him  was  rest  and  refuge 
— around  him,  fostering  sunshine. 


120  VILLETTE. 

And  yet  lie  had  neither  forgiven  nor  forgotten 
Miss  Fanshawe.  Once  angered,  I  doubt  if  Dr. 
Bretton  were  to  be  soon  propitiated — once  alien- 
ated, whether  he  were  ever  to  be  reclaimed.  He 
looked  at  her  more  than  once ;  not  stealthily  or 
humbly,  but  with  a  movement  of  hard}'',  open  ob- 
servation. 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  twice  lifted  her  hand  and  arm  ;  a 
handsome  bracelet  gleamed  upon  the  latter.  I  saw 
that  its  gleam  flickered  in  Dr.  John's  eye — quicken- 
ing 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  certain  to  find  favour :  no  grisette  has  a 
more  facile  faculty  of  acceptance.  Strange!  for  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 


THE    CONCERT.  121 

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  con- 
nections as,  in  their  opinion,  demand  display  ; 
stringent  necessity  of  circumstances  and  inherent 
thoughtlessness  of  disposition  combined,  have  en- 
gendered 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  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  look- 
ing at  her  and  De  Hamal.  I  felt  it  before  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. " 


122  VILLETTE. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  You  have  long  been  aware 
of  the  flirtation  they  keep  up  ?  " 

"  Ay,  flirtation  !  That  might  be  an  innocent  girl- 
ish wile  to  lure  on  the  true  lover ;  but  what  I  refer 
to  was  not  flirtation  :  it  was  a  look  marking  mutual 
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  ex- 
aggerated 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  honour. 

"  The  only  thing, "  said  I,  "  with  which  you  may 
safely  trust  her.  She  would  unscrupulously  damage 
a  husband's  purse  and  property,  recklessly  try  his 
patience  and  temper  :  I  don't  think  she  would 
breathe,  or  let  another  breathe,  on  his  honour. ,: 

"  You  are  becoming  her  advocate,"  said  he.  "  Do 
you  wish  me  to  resume  my  old  chains  1 ' 

"  No :  I  am  glad  to  see  you  free,  and  trust  that 
free  you  will  long  remain.  Yet  be,  at  the  same  time, 
just." 


THE    CONCERT.  123 

"  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  counte- 
nance. Mama,  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,  mama,  you  are  the  most  unfading  of  ever- 
greens, 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  for  our 
speedy  adjournment.  " 

"  Indolent  young  man  !  You  wish  you  were  in 
bed,  no  doubt ;  and  I  suppose  you  must  be  humoured. 
There  is  Lucy,  too,  looking  quite  done  up.  For 
shame,  Lucy  !  At  your  age,  a  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. " 


124  VILLETTE. 

Which  she  did  accordingly.  I  offered  to  relieve 
lier,  but  was  shaken  off  with  kindly  contempt  :  my 
godmother  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,  apos- 
trophizing 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  an- 
nounced his  conviction  that  she  intended  one  day  to 
wear  it. 

The  night  was  now  very  cold  and  very  dark,  but 
with  little  delay  we  found  the  carriage.  Soon  we 
were  packed  in  it,  as  warm  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  occupied  in 
talking  and  laughing,  not  noticing  the  aberration — 


THE    CONCERT.  125 

till  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,  for  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  cham- 
bers. I  took  off  my  pink  dress  and  lace  mantle 
with  happier  feelings  than  I  had  experienced  m 
putting  them  on.  Kot  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. 


126  VILLETTE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


REACTION. 


Yet  three  days,  and  then  I  must  go  back  to  the 
Pensionnat.  I  almost  numbered  the  moments  of 
these  clays  upon  the  clock  ;  fain  would  I  have 
retarded  their  flight ;  but  they  glided  by  while 
I  watched  them  :  they  were  already  gone  while  I 
yet  feared  their  departure. 

"  Lucy  will  not  leave  us  to-day,"  said  Mrs. 
[Bretton,  coaxingly,  at  breakfast ;  "  she  knows  we 
can  procure  a  second  respite." 

61  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.  1 
must  go  this  morning:  I  must  go  directly;  my 
trunk  is  packed  and  corded." 

It  appeared,  however,  that  my  going  depended 
upon  Graham  ;  he  had  said  he  would  accompany 


REACTION.  127 

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  shapes  of  the  paving-stones 
which  1  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  suppliant.  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  was  a  pleasant 


128  VILLETTE. 

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  half-boarders  took  their  departure — con- 
sequently, Rosine  was  on  the  alert. 

"  Don't  come  in,"  said  I  to  him;  but  he  stepped 
a  moment  into  the  well-lighted  vestibule.  I  had 
not  wished  him  to  see  that  "  the  water  stood  in  my 
eyes,"  for  his  was  too  kind  a  nature  ever  to  be 
needlessly  shown  such  signs  of  sorrow.  He  always 
wished  to  heal — to  relieve — when,  physician  as  he 
was,  neither  cure  nor  alleviation  were,  perhaps,  in 
his  power. 

"  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." 


REACTION.  129 

"  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  me! — 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  neces- 
sary 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  1 "  I  questioned, 
as  I  sank  tired  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

VOL.    IT.  K 


ISO  VILLETTE. 

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  cannot  be  continued — it  may  not  be  re- 
j^eated.  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. 
Reason  still  whispered  me,  laying  on  my  shoulder 
a  withered  hand,  and  frostily  touching  my  ear  with 
the  chill  blue  lips  of  eld. 

"  If,"  muttered  she,  "  if  he  should  write,  what 
then  ?  Do  you  meditate  pleasure  in  replying  ? 
Ah,  fool  I  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 


REACTION.  131 

is  good  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  ?  " 

"  'Sever!"  declared  Reason. 

I  groaned  under  her  bitter  sternness.  Never — 
never — oh,  hard  word !  This  hag,  this  Reason, 
wTould  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, 


132  VILLETTE. 

our  sweet  Help,  our  divine   Hope.     We  shall  and 
must  break  bounds  at  intervals,  despite  the  terrible 
revenge   that   awaits   our   return.     Reason   is  vin- 
dictive as  a  devil :  for  me,  she  was  always  envenomed 
as  a  step-mother.     If  I   have   obeyed   her   it   has 
chiefly  been  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  for  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   forsaken :    sternly  has   she  vowed 
her    stores    held    nothing    more   for    me — harshly 
denied  my  right  to  ask  better   things.  .  .  .  Then, 
looking  up,  have  I  seen  in  the  sky  a  head  amidst 
circling   stars,    of    which   the    midmost    and    the 
brightest    lent   a  ray   sympathetic   and   attent,    A 
spirit,   softer     and     better    than     Human   Reason, 
has   descended  with  quiet    flight    to    the   waste — 
bringing   all   round  her  a  sphere  of  air  borrowed 
of  eternal   summer ;   bringing  perfume   of  flowers 
which  cannot  fade — fragrance  of  trees  whose  fruit 
is  life ;  bringing  breezes  pure  from  a  world  whose 
day  needs  no  sun  to  lighten  it.     My  hunger   has 


REACTION.  133 

this  good  angel  appeased  with  food,  sweet  and 
strange,  gathered  amongst  gleaning  angels,  gar- 
nering 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,  succourable  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  faith- 
ful to  thy  worship.  A  dwelling  thou  hast,  too 
wTide  for  wralls,  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  com- 


134  VILLETTE. 

fort :  '•'  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  !  How  deeply  I  drank 
of  the  ice-cold  water  in  my  carafe  !  This  was  always 
my  cordial,  to  which,  like  other  dram-drinkers,  I  had 
eager  recourse  when  unsettled  by  chagrin. 

Ere  long  the  bell  rang  its  reveillee  to  the  whole 
school.  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  wThen  I  first  came  ;  but  now  I  began  to  associate 


REACTION.  135 

with  them  a  sense  of  comfort,  and  liked  them,  as  in 
England,  we  like  a  fireside. 

Sitting  down  before  this  dark  comforter,  I  pre- 
sently 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  happi- 
ness 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  illu- 
mine— hushing  the  impulse  to  fond  idolatry,  check- 
ing the  longing  out-look  for  a  far-off  promised  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,  sus- 
tained, 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 


136  VILLETTE. 

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.  I 
had  not  till  that  moment  known  that  tears  were  on 
my  cheek,  but  I  felt  them  now. 

This  was  a  strange  house,  where  no  corner  was 
sacred  from   intrusion,  where  not  a   tear  could  be 
shed,  nor  a  thought  pondered,  but  a  spy  was  at  hand 
to  note  and  to  divine.     And  this  new,  this  out-door, 
this  male  spy,  what  business  had  brought  him  to  the 
premises  at  this  unwonted  hour?     What   possible 
right  had  he  to  intrude  on  me  thus  ?     No  other  pro- 
fessor would  have  dared  to  cross  the  carre  before  the 
class-bell  rang.      M.  Emanuel  took  no  account  of 
hours  nor  of  claims :  there  was  some  book  of  refe- 
rence 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." 


REACTION.  137 

"  Vous  ctes  malade  de  coeur  et  d'humeur,"  he 
pursued.  "  You  are  at  once  mournful  and  mutinous. 
I  see  on  your  cheek  two  tears  which  I  know  are 
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  hour — excuse — " 

"  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  ad- 
dressed 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  ;  I  sat 
silent. 

"  You  look,"  said  he,  "  like  one  who  would 
snatch  at  a  draught  of  sweet  poison,  and  spurn 
wholesome  bitters  wTith  disgust." 

"  Indeed,  I  never  liked  bitters  ;  nor  do  I  believe 


138  VILLETTE. 

them  wholesome.  And  to  whatever  is  sweet,  he  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  ad- 
minister it  ;  and,  as  to  the  well-beloved  poison,  I 
would,  perhaps,  break  the  very  cup  which  held  it." 

I  sharply  turned  my  head  away,  partly  because 
his  presence  utterly  displeased  me,  and  partly  be- 
cause 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  conver- 
sation— 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 


REACTION.  139 

sank  on  my  arms  and  the  table.  I  wept  bitterly, 
though  quietly.  He  sat  a  while  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  as  jocund- 
looking  as  the  young  lady  who  placed  herself  in  the 
seat  opposite  mine,  fixed  on  me  a  pair  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  round  as  apples.  I  had  seen 
her  last  in  elegant  evening  attire.  I  don't  know  that 
she  looked  less  charming  now  in  her  school-dress,  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. 


140  VILLETTE. 

"  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 : 
stocking's  to  mend,  perhaps  V  I  never  gave 
Ginevra  a  minute's  or  a  farthing's  credit  for  dis- 
interestedness." 

"Crabbed  and  crusty  as  ever!"  said  she.  "I 
expected  as  much  :  it  would  not  be  you  if  you  did 
not  snub  one.  But  now,  come,  grandmother,  I 
hope  you  like  coffee  as  much,  and  pistolets  as  little 
as  ever:  are  you  disposed  to  barter?" 

il  Take  your  own  way." 

This  way  consisted  in  a  habit  she  had  of  making 
me  convenient.  She  did  not  like  the  morning  cup  of 
coffee;  its  school  brewage  not  being  strong  or  sweet 
enough  to  suit  her  palate ;  and  she  had  an  excel- 
lent appetite,like  any  other  healthy  school-girl,  for  the 
morning  pistolets  or  rolls,  which  were  new-baked 
and  very  good,  and  of  which  a  certain  allowance 
was  served  to  each.  This  allowance  beino-  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 


REACTION.  141 

was  glad  of  the  draught ;  hunger  I  had  none,  and 
with  thirst  I  was  parched.  I  don't  know  why  I 
choose  to  give  my  bread  rather  to  Ginevra  than 
to  another ;  nor  why,  if  two  had  to  share  the  con- 
venience of  one  drinking-vessel,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened— 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,  or  think  (oftenest  the 
latter)  there  alone,  till  the  nine  o'clock  bell  threw 
open  all  doors,  admitted  the  gathered  rush  of  ex- 
ternes  and  demi-pensionnaires,  and  gave  the  signal 
for  entrance  on  that  bustle  and  business  to  which, 
till  five  p.  m.,  there  was  no  relax. 

I  was  just  seated  this  morning,  when  a  tap  came 
to  the  door. 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle,"  said  a  pensionnaire, 
entering  gently ;  and  having  taken  from  her  desk 
some  necessary  book  or  paper,  she  withdrew  on  tip- 


142  VILLETTE. 

toe,  murmuring,  as  she  passed  me,  "  Que  mademoi- 
selle est  appliquee ! " 

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  solemnly  used  to 
warn  me  not  to  study  too  much,  lest  "  the  blood 
should  all  go  to  my  head."  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  plainly  stamped;  flagging  inevitably 
over  characterless  books,  however  clever  and  meri- 
torious:  perceiving  well   that,  as  far   as   my  own 


REACTION.  143 

mind  was  concerned,  God  had  limited  its  powers 
and  its  action — thankful,  I  trust,  for  the  gift  be- 
stowed, but  unambitious  of  higher  endowments, 
not  restlessly  eager  after  higher  culture. 

The  polite  pupil  was  scarcely  gone,  when,  un- 
ceremoniously, 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.  When  I  first  came,  it  would  happen 
once  and  again  that  a  blunt  German  would  clap  me 
on  the  shoulder,  and  ask  me  to  run  a  race ;  or  a 
riotous  Labassecourienne  seize  me  by  the  arm  and 
drag  me  towards  the  play-ground  :  urgent  pro- 
posals to  take  a  swing  at  the  "  Pas  de  Geant," 
or  to  join  in  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 


144  VILLETTE. 

bear  it.  Ginevra  Fanshawe  made  no  scruple  of — 
at  times — catching  me  as  I  was  crossing  the  carre, 
whirling  me  round  in  a  compulsory  waltz,  and 
heartily  enjoying  the  mental  and  physical  discom- 
fiture her  proceeding  induced.  Ginevra  Fanshawe  it 
was  who  now  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  salon  !  " 

"  Not  till  I  have  had  a  talk  with  you,  chere  amie. 
I  know  where  you  have  been  spending  your  vaca- 
tion, 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  tail- 
leuse?" 

"  Tittle-tattle :  how  prettily  it  begins  !  My  tail- 
leuse  ! — 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  compatriote — the  learned  '  ourse  Britannique/ 
And  so,  Ourson,  you  know  Isidore  ?  n 

"  I  know  John  Bretton." 


REACTION.  ]45 

"  Oh,  hush  !"  (putting  her  fingers  in  her  ears)  "  you 
crack  my  tympanums  with  your  rude  Anglicisms. 
But,  how  is  our  well-beloved  John?  Do  tell  me 
about  him.  The  poor  man  must  be  in  a  sad  wray. 
What  did  he  say  to  my  behaviour  the  other  night  X 
Wasn't  I  cruel?" 

"Do  you  think  I  noticed  you  ?  " 

"It  was  a  delightful  evening.  Oh,  that  divine 
de  Hamal !  And  then  to  watch  the  other  sulking 
and  dying  in  the  distance ;  and  the  old  lady — my 
future  mama-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  un- 
easy :  Mrs.  Bretton  will  survive  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  Madame  de  Hamal." 

"  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  ?     Do  you  wTant  him  to  give  you  up  ?  " 

VOL.    II.  L 


146  VILLETTE. 

"Oh!  you  know  lie  cant  do  that:  but  wasn't  he 
mad  ? " 

"Quite  mad,"  I  assented;  "as  mad  as  a  March 
hare." 

"  Well,  and  how  ever  did  you  get  him  home  ? " 

"  How  ever,  indeed  !  Have  you  no  pity  on  his 
poor  mother  and  me  ?  Fancy  us  holding  him 
tight  down  in  the  carriage,  and  he  raving  between 
us,  fit  to  drive  everybody  delirious.  The  very  coach- 
man went  wrong,  somehow,  and  we  lost  our  way." 

"You  don't  say  so?  You  are  laughing  at  me. 
iSTow,  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  transcends  description." 

"Oh,  but  describe  it — you  know  it  is  such  fun  ! ' 

"  Fun  for  you,  Miss  Fanshawe  ;  but"  (with  stern 
gravity)  "  you  know  the  proverb — l  What  is  sport  to 
one  may  be  death  to  another.'  " 

"Go  on,  there's  a  darling  Timon." 

"  Conscientiously,  I  cannot,  unless  you  assure  mo 
you  have  some  heart." 


REACTION.  147 

"  I  have — sucli  an  immensity,  you  don't  know  ! ' 

"  Good !  In  that  case,  you  will  be  able  to  con- 
ceive Dr.  Graham  Bretton  rejecting*  his  supper  in 
the  first  instance  —  the  chicken,  the  sweet-bread 
prepared  for  his  refreshment,  left  on  the  table  un- 
touched.    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  1 " 

"  Say  !  Can't  you  imagine  him  demanding  his 
divine  Ginevra,  anathematizing  that  demon,  De 
Hamal — raving  about  golden  locks,  blue  eyes,  white 
arms,  glittering  bracelets?" 

"  No,  did  he  ?     He  saw  the  bracelet  ?  " 

"  Saw  the  bracelet  ?  Yes,  as  plain  as  I  saw  it : 
and,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  also  the 
brand-mark  with  which  its  pressure  has  circled 
your  arm.  Ginevra,"  (rising,  and  changing  my 
tone)  "  come,  we  will    have  an  end    of  this.      Go 


148  VILLETTE. 

away  to  your  practising."  And  I  opened  the 
door. 

"  But  you've  not  told  me  all." 

"  You  had  better  not  wait  until  I  do  tell  you  all. 
Such  extra  communicativeness  could  give  you  no 
pleasure.     March ! " 

"  Cross  thing ! "  said  she;  but  she  obeyed  :  and, 
indeed,  the  first  classe  was  my  territory,  and  she 
could  not  there  legally  resist  a  notice  of  quittance 
from  me. 

Yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  never  had  I  been  less 
dissatisfied  with  her  than  I  was  then.  There  wras 
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  com- 
posure. 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  from 
the  passionate  pain  of  change  to  the  palsy  of  custom. 


REACTION.  149 

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  non- 
clialante.  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  Made- 
moiselle coolly  perused  the  address,  and  deliberately 
studied  the  seal. 

A  letter  !  The  shape  of  a  letter  similar  to  that 
had  haunted  my  brain  in  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 
rebuff  from  Disappointment:  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  corridor.  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. 


150  VILLETTE. 

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  get  seated,  to  enforce 
perfect  silence,  to  take  out  my  work,  and  to  com- 
mence it  amidst  the  profoundest  and  best  trained 
hush,  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  instead  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  room,  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  I  had  seen  in  Rosine's  hand — the 
letter  whose  face  of  enamelled  white  and  single 
Cyclop's-eye  of  vermilion-red  had  printed  them- 
selves so  clear  and  perfect  on  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  M. 


REACTION.  151 

Paul,  with  his  unwarrantably  interfering  habits,  had 
taken  from  the  portress,  and  now  delivered  it 
himself. 

I  might  have  been  angry,  but  had  not  a  second 
for  the  sensation.  Yes  :  I  held  in  my  hand  not  a 
slight  note,  but  an  envelope,  which  must,  at  least, 
contain  a  sheet :  it  felt,  not  flimsy,  but  firm,  substan- 
tial, satisfying.  And  here  was  the  direction,  i(  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 
impress  of  initials,  ie  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  imagina- 
tion 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  full 
surely  loathe  ;  longing  deliriously  for  natural  and 
earth-grown  food,  wildly  praying  Heaven's  Spirits  to 
reclaim  their  own  spirit-dew  and  essence — an  aliment 


152  V1LLETTE. 

divine,  but  for  mortals  deadly.  It  was  neither  sweet 
hail,  nor  small  coriander-seed — neither  slight  wafer, 
nor  luscious  honey,  I  had  lighted  on;  it  was  the  wild 
savoury  mess  of  the  hunter,  nourishing  and  salu- 
brious meat,  forest -fed  or  desert -reared,  fresh, 
healthful,  and  life-sustaining.  It  was  what  the  old 
dying  patriarch  demanded  of  his  son  Esau,  pro- 
mising him  in  requital  the  blessing  of  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  little  man,  though  he 
had  good  points. 

Did  I  read  my  letter  there  and  then  ?  Did  I 
consume  the  venison  at  once  and  with  haste,  as  if 
Esau's  shaft  flew  every  day  1 

1  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 


REACTION.  153 

creep  up-stairs  and  spy  me,  I  opened  a  drawer,  un- 
locked 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  if 
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  !  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  fell  on  me. 

"  Was  I  the  mistress  of  these  girls  ?  Did  I 
profess  to  teach  them  the  conduct  befitting  ladies  ? 
— and  did  I  permit  and,  he  doubted  not,  encourage 
them  to  strangle  their  mother-tongue  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  ?     Was   this 


154  VILLETTE. 

modesty  ?  He  knew  better.  It  was  a  vile  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  insup- 
portable petites  maitresses,  and  confine  himself  to 
teaching  the  A  B  C  to  the  babies  of  the  third 
lvision. 

What  could  I  say  to  all  this?  Really  nothing; 
and  I  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  of  a  first  class,  with  its  preten- 
tious book-cases,  its  green-baized  desks,  its  rubbish 
of  flower-stands,  its  trash  of  framed  pictures  and 
maps,  and  its  foreign  surveillante,  forsooth  ! — it 
seemed  to  be  the  fashion  to  think  there  that  the 
Professor  of  Literature  was  not  worthy  of  a  reply  ! 
These  were  new  ideas  ;  imported,  he  did  not  doubt, 
straight  from  '  la  Grande  Bretaigne':  they  savoured 
of  island  insolence  and  arrogance." 

Lull  the   second — the  girls,   not   one  of    whom 


REACTION.  155 

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  ven- 
turing 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  l'intention  de  m'in- 
sulter?"  said  he  to  me,  in  a  low,  furious  voice, 
as  he  thus  outraged,  under  pretence  of  arranging, 
the  fire. 

It  was  time  to  soothe  him  a  little  if  possible. 

ei  Mais,  monsieur,"  said  I,  "  I  wTould  not  insult 
you  for  the  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  fear.  Still  there 
certainly  was  something  in  M.  Paul's  anger — a 
kind  of  passion  of  emotion — that  specially  tended  to 


156  VILLETTE. 

draw  tears.     I  was  not  unhappy,  nor  much  afraid, 
yet  I  wept. 

"  Allons,  allons !  "  said  he  presently,  looking 
round  and  seeing  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.  Here,  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  was  unused  to  him  and  his 
impulses,  would  naturally  have  bungled  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,  resuuiing  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 


REACTION.  157 

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." 

i(  Ah !  it  is  too  good  to  read  at  once  :  you 
save  it,  as,  when  I  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  suddenly-rising  warmth  in  my  face  from 
revealing  as  much. 

"  You  promise  yourself  a  pleasant  moment," 
said  he, l(  in  reading  that  letter ;  you  will  open  it 
when  alone — n'est  ce  pas?  Ah!  a  smile  answers. 
Well,  well !  one  should  not  be  too  harsh ;  '  la 
jeunesse  n'a  qu'un  temps. 

"  Monsieur,  monsieur !  "  I  cried  or  rather  whis- 
pered after  him,  as  he  turned  to  go,  "  do  not  leave  me 
under  a  mistake.  This  is  merely  a  friend's  letter. 
Without  reading  it,  I  can  vouch  for  that." 


158  VILLETTE. 

"  Je  congois,  je  concois :  on  sait  ce  que  c'est 
qa'un  ami.     Bon-jour,  mademoiselle  !  " 

"  But,  monsieur,  here  is  your  handker- 
chief." 

"  Keep  it,  keep  it,  till  the  letter  is  read,  then 
bring'  it  me ;  I  shall  read  the  billet's  tenor  in 
your  eyes." 

When  he  was  gone,  the  pupils  having  already 
poured  out  of  the  school-room  into  the  berceau,  and 
thence  into  the  garden  and  court  to  take  their  cus- 
tomary recreation  before  the  five  o'clock  dinner,  I 
stood  a  moment  thinking,  and  absently  twisting  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  paletot-sleeve  and  stretched 
over  my  shoulder  ;  it  caught  the  extemporized 
plaything  and  bore  it  away  with  these  sullen  words : 


REACTION.  159 

"  Je  vois  bien  que  vous  vous  moquez  de  moi  et 
tie  mes  effets." 

Really  that  little  man  was  dreadful :  a  mere 
sprite  of  caprice  and  ubiquity  :  one  never  knew 
either  his  whim  or  his  whereabout. 


160 


VILLETTE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


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  lit  in  the  refectory  ;  when  the  externes  were 
gone  home,  the  clashing  door  and  clamorous  bell 
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  acceptance  of  my  petition 
at  the  hands  of  my  friend  Goton,  who  answered 
"  Mais  certainement,  chou-chou,  vous  en  aurez  deux, 
si  vous  voulez."  And,  light  in  hand,  I  mounted 
noiseless  to  the  dormitory. 

Great  was  my  chagrin  to  find  in  that  apartment  a 
pupil    gone  to   bed   indisposed, —  greater    when    I 


THE    LETTER.  161 

recognized  amid  the  muslin  night-cap  borders,  the 
et  figure  chiffonee  "  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  present  appearance  of  repose 
might  be  but  a  ruse,  assumed  to  cover  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  sweep- 
ing and  purification  by  candle-light,  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  con- 
fusion. 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. 

VOL.    II.  m 


162  VILLETTE. 

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  lon°\ 

«  Will  it  be  cool  ?— will  it  be  kind  ?  " 

It  was  kind. 

To  my  checked,  bridled,  disciplined  expectation, 
it  seemed  very  kind ;  to  my  longing  and  famished 
thought  it  seemed,  perhaps,  kinder  than  it  was. 

So  little  had  I  hoped,  so  much  had  I  feared ; 
there  was  a  fullness  of  delight  in  this  taste  of  frui- 
tion— such,  perhaps,  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 


THE    LETTER. 


163 


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  pleasure ;  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   held — 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 


164  VILLETTE. 

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  from  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 ;  affirm  that  I  was  unsettled  by  the  excite- 
ment of  that  letter  ;  declare  that  I  dreamed  :  this  I 
vow — I  saw  there — in  that  room — on  that  night — 
an  image  like — a  nun. 

I  cried  out ;  I  sickened.  Had  the  shape  ap- 
proached me  I  might  have  swooned.  It  receded  :  I 
made  for  the  door.  How  I  descended  all  the  stairs 
I  know  not.  By  instinct  I  shunned  the  refectory, 
and  shaped  my  course  to  Madame's  sitting-room  :  I 
burst  in.     I  said — 

"  There  is  something  in  the  grenier :  I  have  been 


THE    LETTER.  165 

there :  I  saw  something.     Go  and  look  at  it,  all  of 
you! 

I  said,  "All  of  you  ;"  for  the  room  seemed  to  me 
full  of  people,  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 ;  the  sight  of  the  gentle- 
men 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  fol- 
lowed :  they  were  obliged  to  come. 


166  VILLETTE. 

Lo  !  When  I  readied  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 
for  that  now,  and  not  for  the  nun. 

"  My  letter  !  my  letter  ! "  I  panted  and  plained, 
almost  beside  myself.  I  groped  on  the  floor,  wring- 
ing 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  1  did  not 
answer  ;  they  ransacked  all  corners ;  they  prattled 
about  this  and  that,  disarrangement  of  cloaks,  a 
breach  or  crack  in  the  sky-light — I  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 


THE    LETTER.  167 

ray  eyes  ?  Had  I  recognized  the  tone  ?  Did  I  now 
Jook  on  the  face  of  the  writer  of  that  very  letter? 
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  pre- 
sent in  the  salle  a  manner  when  I  entered. 

"  Was  it  my  letter,  Lucy  1" 

"  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  not  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 


168  VILLETTE. 

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  answer- 
ing 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  to  me  as  the  well  is  to  the  parched  wayfarer — 
as  the  sun  to  the  shivering  jail-bird.  I  remember 
him  heroic.  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. 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not  read  it,"  said  he ;  "  or  you 
would  think  nothing  of  it ! " 

"  I  read  it,  but  only  once.     I   want   to   read   it 


THE    LETTER.  169 

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. 
Why  is  it  not  better  worth  such  tears,  and  such 
tenderly  exaggerating  faith  ! " 

Curious,  characteristic  manoeuvre !  His  quick 
eye  had  seen  the  letter  on  the  floor  where  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  reo-ainins:  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  j;>roceeded,  «  how  do  you  feel 
physically  ?  Are  you  growing  calmer  ?  Not  much  ; 
for  you  tremble  like  a  leaf  still." 


170  VILLETTE. 

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  f  something,'  not  defining  what.  Was 
it  a  man  ?     Was  it  an  animal?     What  was  it?" 

"  I  never  will  tell  exactly  what  I  saw,"  said  I, 
is  unless  some  one  else  sees  it  too,  and  then  I  will 
give  corroborative  testimony ;  but  otherwise,  I  shall 
be  discredited  and  accused  of  dreaming." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Dr.  Bretton  ;  "  I  will  hear  it  in 
my  professional  character :  I  look  on  you  now  from 
a  professional  point  of  view,  and  I  read,  perhaps,  all 
you  would  conceal — in  your  eye,  which  is  curiously 
vivid  and  restless  ;  in  your  cheek,  which  the  blood 
has  forsaken ;  in  your  hand,  which  you  cannot 
steady.     Come,  Lucy,  speak  and  tell  me." 

"  You  would  laugh ?  " 

"  If  you  don't  tell  me  you  shall  have  no  more 
letters." 

"You  are  laughing  now." 

"  I  will  again  take  away  that  single  epistle :  being 
mine,  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  reclaim  it." 


THE    LETTER.  171 

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  practise  as  a  conjuror 
if  I  liked.  Mama  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  to  see  both :  far  more  then  than  now — for  now 
you  are  strong,  and  strength  dispenses  with  sub- 
tlety. But  still,  Dr.  John,  you  have  what  they  call 
in  this  country  '  un  air  fin,'  that  nobody  can  mis- 
take.    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  humoured 
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 


172  VILLETTE. 

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  un- 
spoken complaint  —  the  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,  perish- 
ing sepulchral  garret  —  that  dungeon  under  the 
leads,  smelling  of  damp  and  mould,  rank  with 
pthisis  and  catarrh  :  a  place  you  never  ought  to 
enter — that  you  saw,  or  thought  you  saw,  some 
appearance  peculiarly  calculated  to  impress  the 
imagination.  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?" 


THE    LETTER.  173 

"  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  de- 
pressed ;  repose  marked  his  attitude  —  attention 
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 


]  74  VILLETTE. 

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  on  :  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  on  and  resulting  from  long-continued 
mental  conflict." 

"  Oh,  Doctor  John — I  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
being  liable  to  such  an  illusion  !  It  seemed  so  real. 
Is  there  no  cure? — no  preventive?" 

"Happiness  is  the  cure — a  cheerful  mind  the 
preventive :  cultivate  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    LETTER.  175 

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." 

u  About  Ginevra  Fanshawe — eh  ?  " 

"  Did  she  not  sometimes  make  you  miserable  ?  ' 

"Pooh!  stuff!  nonsense!     You  see  lam  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 


176  VILLETTE. 

and  flirts  in  Christendom  ?  I  would  give  gold  on 
the  spot  just  to  see  you  snap  your  ringers.  Try 
the  manoeuvre." 

"  If  I  were  to  bring  Miss  Fanshawe  into  your 
presence  just  now?" 

"  I  vow,  Lucy,  she  should  not  move  me :  or,  she 
should  move  me  but  by  one  thing  —  true,  yes, 
and  passionate  love.  I  would  accord  forgiveness  at 
no  less  a  price." 

"  Indeed  !  a  smile  of  hers  would  have  been  a 
fortune  to  you  a  while  since." 

"  Transformed,Lucy :  transformed !  Remember, you 
once  called  me  a  slave!  but  I  am  a  free  man  now  !  ' 
He  stood  up :  in  the  port  of  his  head,  the  carriage 
of  his  figure,  in  his  beaming  eye  and  mien,  there 
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  dis- 
posed to  exact  love  for  love — passion  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  ! " 


THE    LETTER.  177 

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  to-night,  think  you  ? ' 

"  I  don't  think  she  will." 

"  Give  her  my  compliments,  if  she  does — Dr. 
John's  compliments — 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  im- 
portant 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." 

li  Cold  and  fixed,"  was  my  reply. 

"  No,  no,  we'll  none  of  her:  she  shall  not  haunt 
yon,  Lucy.  Give  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.'  " 


VOL.  II.  n 


178  VILLETTE. 

And  had  there  been  anything  in  the  garret? 
What  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 
she  thought  they  hung  much  as  usual :  and  as  for 
the  broken  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.  Madame  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 
coming  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  mind,  whether  that 
strange  thing  was  of  this  world,  or  of  a  realm  be- 
yond the  grave ;  or  whether  indeed  it  was  only  the 
child  of  maladv,  and  I  of  that  malady  the  prey. 


VASHTI. 


179 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

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  secresy ;  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  light  out  of  that  beauteous  sky,  which  till 
now  the  starved  hollow  never  saw. 

A  new  creed  became  mine — a  belief  in  happiness. 

It  was  three  weeks  since  the  adventure  of  the 
garret,  and  I  possessed  in  that  case,  box,  drawer  up 
stairs,  casketed  with  that  first  letter,  four  com- 
panions  like  to  it,  traced  by  the  same   firm  pen, 


180  VILLETTE. 

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  two  last  there  were  three  or 
four  closing  lines  half-gay,  half-tender,  "  by  feeling 
touched,  but  not  subdued."  Time,  dear  reader,  mel- 
lowed them  to  a  beverage  of  this  mild  quality  ;  but 
when  I  first  tasted  their  elixir,  fresh  from  the  fount 
so  honoured,  it  seemed  juice  of  a  divine  vintage  :  a 
draught  which  Hebe  might  fill,  and  the  very  gods 
approve. 

Does  the  reader,  remembering  what  was  said 
some  pages  back,  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 :  I  bowed  down  in  the  house  of  Rhn- 
mon,  and  lifted  the  heart  at  another  shrine.  I 
wrote  to  these  letters  two  answers — one  for  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 


VASHTI.  181 

pen,  and,  with  deep  enjoyment,  poured,  out  our  .sin- 
cere heart.  When  we  had  done — when  two  sheets 
were  covered  with  the  language  of  a  strongly-ad- 
herent 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,  from  the  commencement, 
through  the  whole  progress  of  an  acquaintance,  they 
have  never  once  been  cheated  of  the  conviction  that 
to  do  so  would  be  to  commit  a  mortal  absurdity  : 
nobody  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  deeply-honouring  attach- 
ment— 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  light- 
nings 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  re- 
vengeful, snatch  the  full  sheets,  read,  sneer, 
erase,    tear    up,    re-write,    fold;,    seal,    direct,   and 


182  VILLETTE. 

send   a   terse,   curt   missive    of   a   page.     She   did 
right. 

I  did  not  live  on  letters  only  :  I  was  visited,  I  was 
looked  after ;  once  a  week  I  was  taken  out  to  La 
Terrasse ;  always  I  was  made  much  of.  Dr.  Bretton 
failed  not  to  tell  me  why  he  was  so  kind  :  "  To  keep 
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  ac- 
count of  that  white  face- cloth,  and  those  cold  gray 
eyes :  the  moment  he  heard  of  those  odious  parti- 
culars," he  affirmed,  "  consummate  disgust  had  in- 
cited him  to  oppose  her  ;  he  was  determined  to  try 
whether  he  or  she  was  the  cleverest,  and  he  only 
wished  she  would  once  more  look  in  upon  me  when 
he  was  present : "  but  that  she  never  did.  In  short, 
he  regarded  me  scientifically  in  the  light  of  a  patient, 
and  at  once  exercised  his  professional  skill,  and  gra- 
tified his  natural  benevolence,  by  a  course  of  cordial 
and  attentive  treatment. 

One  evening,  the  first  in  December,  I  was  walk- 
ing by  myself  in  the  carre  ;  it  was  six  o'clock  ;  the 
elasse-doors  were  closed ;  but  within,  the  pupils, 
rampant  in  the  license  of  evening  recreation,  were 
counterfeiting  a  miniature  chaos.     The   carre  was 


VASHTI.  183 

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  re- 
main 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  suddenly  heard  breathing  and  rust- 
ling, 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 ! "  cried  Rosine,  bursting 
in,  lamp  in  hand,  from  the  corridor,  "  On  est  Ki 
pour  vous  au  salon." 


184  VILLETTE. 

Madame  saw  me,  I  saw  Madame,  Rosine  saw  us 
both  :  there  was  no  mutual  recognition.  I  made 
straight  for  the  salon.  There  I  found  what  I  own 
I  anticipated  I  should  find — Dr.  Bretton ;  but  he 
was  in  evening-dress. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  said  he ;  "  my 
mother  has  sent  it  to  take  you  to  tlje  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 
despairingly  at  my  dark  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  fervour. 

"  I  '11  go ;  I  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,"  I 
vowed.      And   away  I  flew,  never   once   checked, 


VASHTI.  185 

reader,  by  the  thought  which  perhaps  at  "this  "mo- 
ment checks  you :  namely  that  to  go  anywhere  with 
Graham  and  without  Mrs.  Bretton  could  be  objec- 
tionable. 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, 
and  went  aloft  fearless,  almost  thoughtless.  I  un- 
locked the  door,  I  plunged  in.  The  reader  may 
believe  it  or  not,  but  when  I  thus  suddenly  entered, 
that  garret  was   not  wholly  dark  as  it  should  have 


186  VILLETTE. 

been :  from  one  point  there  shone  a  solemn  light, 
like  a  star,  but  broader.  So  plainly  it  shone,  that 
it  revealed  the  deep  alcove  with  a  portion  of  the 
tarnished  scarlet  curtain  drawn  over  it.  Instantly, 
silently,  before  my  eyes,  it  vanished  ;  so  did  the 
curtain  and  alcove  :  all  that  end  of  the  garret 
became  black  as  night.  I  ventured  no  research ; 
I  had  not  time  nor  will ;  snatching  my  dress,  which 
hung  on  the  wall,  happily  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:  im- 
possible to  arrange  hair  or  fasten  hooks-and-eyes 
with  such  fingers,  so  I  called  Xtosine  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  ac- 
curately —  in  short,  did  her  work  like  the  neat- 
handed  Phillis  she  could  be  when  she  chose.  Hav- 
ing 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. 


VASHTI.  187 

"  What  is  this,  Lucy  ? "  said  he,  looking  down 
at  me  narrowly.  "  Here  is  the  old  excitement. 
Ha  !  tlie  nun  a^ain  ? " 

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." 

le  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  so 
on.  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  carriage. 


188  VILLETTE. 

The  theatre  was  full  —  crammed  to  its  roof : 
royal  and  noble  were  there ;  palace  and  hotel  had 
emptied  their  inmates  into  those  tiers  so  thronged 
and  so  hushed.  Deeply  did  I  feel  myself  privi- 
leged in  having  a  place  before  that  stage  ;  I  longed 
to  see  a  being  of  whose  powers  I  had  heard  reports 
which  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 :  a  great  and  new  planet  she  was  :  but  in  what 
shape  ?     I  waited  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  judgment-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  flame. 


VASHTI.  189 

For  awhile — a  long*  while — I  thought  it  was  only 
a  woman,  though  an  unique  woman,  who  moved 
in  might  and  grace  before  this  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 
strength — for  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  dis- 
embowelled, make  a  meeker  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  that  stage  empress  ;  and  she 
stood  before  her  audience  neither  yielding  to,  nor 


190  VILLETTE. 

enduring,  nor  in  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  fall-fed  flesh 
he  worshipped :  let  all  materialists  draw  nigh  and 
look  on. 

I  have  said  that  she  does  not  resent  her  grief. 
No ;  the  weakness  of  that  word  would  make  it  a 
lie.  To  her,  what  hurts  becomes  immediately  em- 
bodied :  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  abhor- 
rence. 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.  Wicked, 
perhaps,  she  is,  but   also  she  is  strong ;   and^her 


VASHTI.  191 

strength  has  conquered  Beauty,  has  overcome 
Grace,  and  bound  both  at  her  side,  captives  peer- 
lessly fair,  and  docile  as  fair.  Even  in  the  uttermost 
frenzy  of  energy  is  each  maenad  movement  royally, 
imperially,  incedingly  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  con- 
fines, 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  gift- 
ing that  slight  rod  of  Moses,  could,  at  one  waft, 
release  and  re-mingle  a  sea  spell-parted,  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   equal 


192  VILLETTE. 

efflux  of  sacred  essence  descend  one  day  from 
above  ? 

What  thought  Dr.  Graham  of  this  being  ? 

For  long  intervals  I  forgot  to  look  how  he  de- 
meaned himself,  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  on  vision  and  to  sensation. 
I  had  seen  acting  before,  but  never  anything  like 
this  :  never  anything  which  astonished  Hope  and 
hushed  Desire  ;  which  outstripped  Impulse  and 
paled  Conception  ;  which,  instead  of  merely  irri- 
tating 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  judg- 
ment, pronounced  Dr.  Bretton  a  serious,  impas- 
sioned man,  too  grave  and  too  impressible.  Not  in 
such  light  did  I  ever  see  him:  no  such  faults  could 
I  lay  to  his  charge.  His  natural  attitude  was  not 
the   meditative,  nor   his   natural   mood  the  senti- 


VASHTI.  193 

mental ;  impressionable  he  was  as  dimpling  water,  but, 
almost  as  water,  uuimpressible :  the  breeze,  the  sun, 
moved  him — metal  could  not  grave,  nor  fire  brand. 
Dr.  John  could  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  in- 
fluences his  eyes  and  lips  gave  bright,  soft,  sweet 
welcome,  beautiful  to  see  as  dyes  of  rose  and  silver, 
pearl  and  purple,  embuing  summer  clouds ;  for 
what  belonged  to  storm,  what  was  wild  and  intense, 
dangerous,  sudden,  and  flaming,  he  had  no  sym- 
pathy, and  held  with  it  no  communion.  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  than  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  not  look  down  on  the  tides  of  the  channel  more 
calmly  than  he  watched  the  Pythian  inspiration  of 
that  night. 

VOL.    II.  O 


194  VILLETTE. 

Looking  at  his  face,  I  longed  to  know  his  exact 
opinions,  and  at  last  I  put  a  question  tending  to 
elicit  thern.  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  1 "  I 
wished  to  know. 

"  Hin-m-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  ivere  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 


VASHTI.  195 

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-conquer- 
ing foe — nothing  heard  but  her  throes,  her  gasp- 
ings,  breathing  yet  of  mutiny,  panting  still  defiance  : 
when,  as  it  seemed,  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,  would  see,  would  hear, 
would  breathe,  would  live,  up  to,  within,  well  nigh 
leyond  the  moment  when  death  says  to  all  sense 
and  all  being — 

H  Thus  far  and  no  farther  !  " 

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.  rt  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  chaos. 

And  Dr.  John  ?  Reader,  I  see  him  yet,  with  his 
look  of  comely  courage  and  cordial  calm. 


196  VILLETTE. 

"  Lucy  will  sit  still,  I  know,"  said  he,  glancing 
down  at  me  with  the  same  serene  goodness,  the 
same  repose  of  firmness  that  I  have  seen  in  him 
when  sitting  at  his  side  amid  the  secure  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  trouble,  thwart  his 
will,  or  make  demands  on  his  attention.  We  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 
gentleman  standing  before  us,  was  suddenly  struck 
from  her  protector's  arms  by  a  big,  butcherly  in- 
truder, and  hurled  under  the  feet  of  the  crowd. 
Scarce  two  seconds  lasted  her  disappearance.     Gra- 


VASHTI.  197 

ham  rushed  forwards;  he  and  the  gentleman,  a 
powerful  man  though  gray-haired,  united  their 
strength  to  thrust  back  the  throng ;  her  head  and 
long  hair  fell  back  over  his  shoulder :  she  seemed 
unconscious. 

"  Trust  her  with  me  ;  I  am  a  medical  man,"  said 
Dr.  John. 

"  If  you  have  no  lady  with  you,  be  it  so,"  was  the 
answer.  "  Hold  her,  and  I  will  force  a  passage  : 
we  must  get  her  to  the  air." 

"  I  have  a  lady,"  said  Graham,  "  but  she  will  be 
neither  hindrance  nor  incumbrance." 

He  summoned  me  with  his  eye  :  we  were  sepa- 
rated. Resolute,  however,  to  rejoin  him,  I  pene- 
trated 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  obeyed  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  Dr.  Bretton,  when  we  got  into  the  street. 


198  VILLETTE. 

"  An  Englishman.  And  I  sj)eak  to  a  country- 
man?" was  the  reply. 

"  Right.  Be  good  enough  to  stand  here  two 
minutes,  whilst  I  find  my  carriage." 

"  Papa,  I  am  not  hurt,"  said  a  girlish  voice, 
"  am  I  with  papa?" 

"You  are  with  a  friend,  and  your  father  is  close 
at  hand." 

"  Tell  him  I  am  not  hurt,  except  just  in  my 
shoulder.  Oh,  my  shoulder!  They  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 
of  drapery  and  position  for  the  ease  of  his  suffering 
burden.  She  suppressed  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  her  age  ? " 

"  I  am  not  a  child — I  am  a  person  of  seventeen," 
responded  the  patient  demurely  and  with  dignity. 
Then,  directly  after : 

"  Tell  papa  to  come  ;  I  get  anxious." 


VASHTI.  199 

The  carriage  drove  up  ;  her  father  relieved  Gra- 
ham ;  hut  in  the  exchange  from  one  hearer  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  1 ' 

"  My  own  carriage  is  here :  I  will  seek  it,  and 
accompany  you." 

"  Be  pleased,  then,  to  follow  us."  And  he  named 
his  address  :  "  The  Hotel  Crecy,  in  the  Rue  Crecy." 

We  followed  ;  the  carriage  drove  fast ;  myself 
and  Graham  were  silent.  This  seemed  like  an  ad- 
venture. 

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,  and  stopped  at  Numcro  2  on  the  second 
landing ;   the  first  floor  comprising  the  abode  of  I 


200  VILLETTE. 

know  not  what  "  prince  Russe,"  as  Graham  informed 
me.  On  ringing  the  bell  at  a  second  great  door,  we 
were  admitted  to  a  suite  of  very  handsome  apart- 
ments. Announced  by  a  servant  in  livery,  we  en- 
tered 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  arm-chair,  one  or  two 
women  busy  about  it,  the  iron-gray  gentleman 
anxiously  looking  on. 

"  Where  is  Harriet  1  I  wish  Harriet  would  come 
to  me,"  said  the  girlish  voice,  faintly. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Hurst  ?"  demanded  the  gentle- 
man impatiently  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,"  in- 
terposed the  young  lady ;  "  but  I  am  so  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  see- 


VASHTI. 


201 


ing  what  the  faint  and  sinking-  girl  wished  to  have 
done,  I  did  it  for  her. 

I  was  still  occupied  in  the  arrangement,  when 
Graham  drew  near ;  he  was  no  less  skilled  in  sur- 
gery than  medicine,  and,  on  examination,  found  that 
no  further  advice  than  his  own  was  necessary  to  the 
treatment  of  the  present  case.  He  ordered  her  to 
be  carried  to  her  chamber,  and  whispered  to  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 
muslin  ;  the  bed  seemed  to  me  like  snow-drift  and 
mist — spotless,  soft,  and  gauzy.  Making  the  women 
stand  apart,  I  undressed  their  mistress,  without  their 
well-meaning  but  clumsy  aid.  I  was  not  in  a  suf- 
ficiently collected  mood  to  note  with  separate  distinct- 
ness every  detail  of  the  attire  I  removed,  but  I 
received  a  general  impression  of  refinement,  delicacy, 
and  perfect  personal  cultivation ;  which,  in  a  period 
of  after-thought,  offered  in  my  reflections  a  singular 
contrast  to  notes  retained  of  Miss  Ginevra  Fan- 
shawe's  appointments. 


202  VILLETTE. 

This  girl  was  herself  a  small,  delicate  creature, 
but  made  like  a  model.  As  I  folded  back  her  plen- 
tiful yet  line  hair,  so  shining  and  soft,  and  so 
exquisitely  tended,  I  had  under  my  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 — capable,  probably,  of 
much  significance  at  another  hour  and  under  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  deli- 
cate exterior,  and  her  lip  wore  a  curl — I  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  demeanour  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,  say- 


VASHTI.  203 

ing  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  ex- 
amination :  if  he  did,  he  was  cautious  not  to  check  or 
discomfit  it  by  any  retaliatory  look.  I  think  he  per- 
formed his  work  with  extreme  care  and  gentleness, 
sparing  her  what  pain  he  could ;  and  she  acknow- 
ledged as  much,  when  he  had  done,  by  the  words  : — 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor,  and  good  night,"  very 
gratefully  pronounced  :  as  she  uttered  them,  how- 
ever, it  was  with  a  repetition  of  the  serious,  direct 
gaze,  I  thought,  peculiar  in  its  gravity  and  intent- 
ness 

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  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 


204  VILLETTE. 

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  incipient  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. 


M.    DE    BASSOMPIEERE.  205 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

M.    DE    BASSOMPIEREE. 

Those  who  live  in  retirement,  whose  lives  have 
fallen  amid  the  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  of  a  freer 
world.  Unaccountably,  perhaps,  and  close  upon 
some  space  of  unusually  frequent  intercourse — some 
congeries  of  rather  exciting  little  circumstances, 
whose  natural  sequel  would  rather  seem  to  be  the 
quickening  than  the  suspension  of  communication — 
there  falls  a  stilly  pause,  a  wordless  silence,  a  long 
blank  of  oblivion.  Unbroken  always  is  this  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 


206  VILLETTE. 

other  token  that  indicated  remembrance,  comes  no 
more. 

Always  there  are  excellent  reasons  for  these 
lapses,  if  the  hermit  but  knew  them.  Though  he  is 
stagnant  in  his  cell,  his  connections  without  are  whirl- 
ing 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 
milestones — that  same  interval,  perhaps,  teems  with 
events,  and  pants  with  hurry  for  his  friends. 

The  hermit — if  he  be  a  sensible  hermit — will 
swallow  his  own  thoughts,  and  lock  up  his  own 
emotions  during  these  weeks  of  inward  winter.  He 
will  know  that  Destiny  designed  him  to  imitate,  on 
occasion,  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  him  up,  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   singing   of 


M.   DE   BASSOMPIEREE.  207 

liberated  streams  will  call  him  to  kindly  resurrec- 
tion. 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  sup- 
posed 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  for  me  seven  weeks  as  bare  as  seven  sheets  of 
blank  paper :  no  word  was  written  on  one  of  them ; 
not  a  visit,  not  a  token. 

About  the  middle  of  that  time  I  entertained  fan- 
cies that  something  had  happened  to  my  friends 
at  La  Terrasse.  The  mid-blank  is  always  a  be- 
clouded 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  accu- 
mulation— roll  back  upon  him  with  a  force  which 
savours  of  vindictiveness.  Night,  too,  becomes  an 
unkindly  time,  and  sleep  and  his  nature  cannot 
agree  :  strange  starts  and  struggles  harass  his 
couch ;  the  sinister  band  of  bad  dreams,  with  horror 
of  calamity,  and  sick  dread  of  entire  desertion   at 


208  VILLETTE. 

their  head,  join  the  league  against  him.  Poor 
wretch!  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,  and — above  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  Ml  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  acknow- 
ledged them  so  :  but  it  was  a  rough  and  heavy  road 
to  travel,  and  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 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIERRE.  209 

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.  Unfor- 
tunately I  knew  it  too  well,  and  tried  as  vainly  as 
assiduously  to  cheat  myself  of  that  knowledge; 
dreading  the  rack  of  expectation,  and  the  sick  col- 
lapse of  disappointment  which  daily  preceded  and 
followed  upon  that  well-recognized  ring. 

I  suppose  animals  kept  in  cages,  and  so  scantily 
fed  as  to  be  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  unspeak- 
able oppression.  The  letter — the  well-beloved  let- 
ter— would  not  come ;  and  it  was  all  of  sweetness  in 
life  I  had  to  look  for. 

In  the  very  extremity  of  want,  I  had  recourse 
again,  and  yet  again,  to  the  little  packet  in  the  case 

YOL.  II.  p 


210  VILLETTE. 

— the  five  letters.  How  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. 

Heading  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  damp  of  night,  drooping  care- 
less and  heavy  upon  her  neck.  I  had  hardly  time 
to  recasket  my  treasures  and  lock  them  up  when  she 
was  at  my  side :  her  humour  seemed  none  of  the  best. 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIERRE.  211 

"  It  has  been  a  stupid  evening :  they  are  stupid 
people/'  she  began. 

"  Who  ?  Mrs.  Cholmondeley  ?  I  thought  you 
always  found  her  house  charming." 

ff  I  have  not  been  to  Mrs.  Cholmondeley's.', 

"  Indeed  !     Have  you  made  new  acquaintance  ?  " 

(i  My  uncle  de  Bassompierre  is  come." 

"  Your  uncle  de  Bassompierre  !  Are  you  not 
glad  ? — I  thought  he  was  a  favourite." 

"  You  thought  wrong :  the  man  is  odious ;  I 
hate  him." 

"  Because  he  is  a  foreigner  ?  or  for  what  other 
reason  of  equal  weight  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  a  foreigner.  The  man  is  English 
enough,  goodness  knows ;  and  had  an  English  name 
till  three  or  four  years  ago ;  but  his  mother  was 
a  foreigner,  a  de  Bassompierre,  and  some  of  her 
family  are  dead  and  have  left  him  estates,  a  title, 
and  this  name :  he  is  quite  a  great  man  now." 

et  Do  you  hate  him  for  that  reason  ?  " 

"  Don't  I- know  what  mama  says  about  him  ?  He 
is  not  my  own  uncle,  but  married  mama's  sister. 
Mama  detests  him ;  she  savs  he  killed  aunt  Ginevra 
with  unkindness:  he  looks  like  a  bear.  Such  a 
dismal  evening ! "  she  went  on.     "I'll  go  no  more 


212  VILLETTE. 

to  his  big  hotel.  Fancy  me  walking  into  a  room 
alone,  and  a  great  man  fifty  years  old  coming  for- 
wards, and  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation  ac- 
tually turning  his  back  upon  me,  and  then  abruptly 
going  out  of  the  room.  Such  odd  ways !  I  dare- 
say his  conscience  smote  him,  for  they  all  say  at 
home  I  am  the  picture  of  Aunt  Ginevra.  Mama 
often  declares  the  likeness  is  quite  ridiculous." 

"  Were  you  the  only  visitor  ?  " 

"  The  only  visitor  ?  Yes,  then  there  was  missy, 
my  cousin  :  little  spoiled,  pampered  thing." 

"  M.  de  Bassompierre  has  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes :  don't  tease  one  with  questions.  Oh 
dear !  I  am  so  tired." 

She  yawned.  Throwing  herself  without  cere- 
mony on  my  bed,  she  added,  "  It  seems  Made- 
moiselle was  nearly  crushed  to  a  jelly  in  a  hubbub 
at  the  theatre  some  weeks  ago." 

"  Ah  !  indeed.  And  they  live  at  a  large  hotel  in 
the  Rue  Crecy  ?  " 

w  Justement.     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

s<  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 


M.   DE   BASSOMPIERRE.  213 

de  Bassompierre  apartments:  it  seems  'my  son 
John '  attended  missy  on  the  occasion  of  her  acci- 
dent— accident  ?  Bah  !  All  affectation !  I  don't 
think  she  was  squeezed  more  than  she  richly  de- 
serves for  her  airs.  And  now  there  is  quite  an  in- 
timacy struck  up :  I  heard  something  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  and  her  boy." 

"  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Bretton  were  at  M.  de  Bassom- 
pierre's  this  evening  ?  " 

u  Ay,  ay !  as  large  as  life ;  and  missy  played 
the  hostess.     What  a  conceited  doll  it  is ! n 

Soured  and  listless,  Miss  Fanshawe  was  begin- 
ning to  disclose  the  causes  of  her  prostrate  condition. 
There  had  been  a  retrenchment  of  incense,  a  diver- 
sion or  a  total  withholding  of  homage  and  atten- 
tion  :  coquetry  had  failed  of  effect,  vanity  had 
undergone  mortification.  She  lay  fuming  in  the 
vapours. 

"Is  Miss  de  Bassompierre  quite  well  now?':  I 
asked. 

As  well  as  you  or  I,  no  doubt ;  but  she  is  an 


a 


214  VILLETTE. 

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  fmy 
son  John '  prohibiting  excitement,  etcetera — faugh ! 
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 ! '  " 

" c  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." 

(i  Passionate  thing !  Your  face  is  the  colour  of  a 
coquelicot.  I  wonder  what  always  makes  you  so 
mighty  testy  a  Fendroit  du  gros  Jean  ?  e  John 
Anderson,  my  joe,  John!'  Oh!  the  distinguished 
name ! " 

Thrilling  with  exasperation,  to  which  it  would 
have  been  sheer  folly  to  have  given  vent — for  there 
was  no  contending  with  that  unsubstantial  feather, 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIEEEE.  215 

that  mealy-winged  moth — I  extinguished  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  withdrawn  to  the  first 
classe.  The  dreaded  hour,  the  post-hour,  was  near- 
ing,  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  beyond  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  incomprehensible  to  the 
healthy.  The  north  and  east  owned  a  terrific  in- 
fluence, making  all  pain  more  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  re- 
member leaving  the  classe,  and  running  down 
without   bonnet   to   the   bottom  of    the   long    gar- 


216  VILLETTE. 

den,  and  then  lingering  amongst  the  stripped 
shrubs ;  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  becoming 
wholly  unfit  to  support.  I  lingered  as  long  as  I 
dared  without  fear  of  attracting  attention  by  my 
absence.  I  muffled  my  head  in  my  apron,  and  stop- 
ped my  ears  in  terror  of  the  torturing  clang,  sure 
to  be  followed  by  such  blank  silence,  such  barren 
vacuum  for  me.  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 
unheard.  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  cor- 
respondent on  earth,  from  that  one  it  must  come. 
He  remembered  me  yet.  How  deep  a  pidse  of 
gratitude  sent  new  life  through  my  heart. 

Drawing  near,  bending  and  looking  on  the  letter, 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIERKE.  217 

in  trembling  but  almost  certain  hope  of  seeing  a 
known  hand,  it  was  my  lot  to  find,  on  the  con- 
trary, an  autograph  for  the  moment  deemed  un- 
known— a  pale  female  scrawl,  instead  of  a  firm 
masculine  character.  I  then  thought  fate  was  too 
hard  for  me,  and  I  said,  audibly,  "  This  is  cruel." 

But  I  got  over  that  pain  also.  Life  is  still  life, 
whatever  its  pangs  :  our  eyes  and  ears  and  their 
use  remain  with  us,  though  the  prospect  of  what 
pleases  be  wholly  withdrawn,  and  the  sound  of  what 
consoles  be  quite  silenced. 

I  opened  the  billet :  by  this  time  I  had  recog- 
nized its  handwriting  as  perfectly  familiar.  It  was 
dated  M  La  Terrasse,"  and  it  ran  thus : — 

"  Dear  Lucy, — It  occurs  to  me  to  inquire  what 
you  have  been  doing  with  yourself  for  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 


218  TILLETTE. 

him  clown  :  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  sis^ht  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  wit- 
nessing cruel  sufferings — 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  night  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  you  know  him  and  all 
his  iniquities,  and  I  am  but  an  elderly  simpleton  to 
make  hin  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 


M.   DE   BAS80MPIERRE.  219 

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  ser- 
vants, have  an  hotel,  and  lead  the  fashion  amongst 
the  English  clan  in  Villette. 

"  Talking  of  sky-blue  turbans,  I  wished  you  had 
been  with  us  the  other  evening.  He  had  come 
in  really  tired ;  and  after  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  teazes  me  about  being 
drowsy  ;  I,  who  never,  by  any  chance,  close  an 
eye  by  daylight).  While  he  slept,  I  thought  he 
looked  very  bonny,  Lucy :  fool  as  I  am  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  I  brought  out  the  sky-blue 
turban,  and  handling  it  and  him  with  gingerly 
precaution,  I  managed  to  invest  his  brows  with 
this  grand  adornment.  I  assure  you  it  did  not  at 
all  misbecome  him  ;  he  looked  quite  Eastern, 
except  that  he  is  so  fair.     Xobody,  however,  can 


220  VILLETTE. 

accuse  him  of  having  red  hair  now — it  is  genuine 
chestnut — a  dark,  glossy  chestnut;  and  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  fireplace  soon  intimated  to  him  his  plight : 
as  you  may  imagine,  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.]  Grood-by,  my  wise,  dear, 
grave  little  god-daughter. — Very  truly,  yours, 

"  Louisa  Bretton." 

Now,  a  letter  like  that  sets  one  to  rights!  I 
might  still  be  sad  after  reading  that  letter,  but  I 
was  more  composed ;  not  exactly  cheered,  perhaps, 
but  relieved.     My  friends,  at  least,  were  well  and 


M.   DE   EASSOMPIEEEE.  221 

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.  Bretton'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  left  him — how  his  nerves,  first  inflamed, 
underwent  nameless  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-place,  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    seized — be    few    in 


222  VILLETTE. 

number,  and  rare  of  rencounter.  Long  may  it  be 
generally  thought  that  physical  privations  alone 
merit  compassion,  and  that  the  rest  is  a  figment. 
When  the  world  was  younger  and  haler  than  now, 
moral  trials  were  a  deeper  mystery  still :  perhaps 
in  all  the  land  of  Israel  there  was  but  one  Saul — 
certainly  but  one  David  to  soothe  or  comprehend 
him. 


The  keen,  still  cold  of  the  morning  was  suc- 
ceeded, later  in  the  day,  by  a  sharp  breathing  from 
Russian  wastes :  the  cold  zone  sighed  over  the 
temperate  zone,  and  froze  it  fast.  A  heavy  firma- 
ment, dull,  and  thick  with  snow,  sailed  up  from 
the  north,  and  settled  over  expectant  Europe. 
Towards  afternoon  began  the  descent.  I  feared  no 
carriage  would  come — the  white  tempest  raged  so 
dense  and  wild.  But  trust  my  godmother!  Once 
having  asked,  she  would  have  her  guest.  About 
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  vestible,  and  up-stairs  to 
the  drawing-room,  there  I  found  Mrs.  Bretton — a 
summer-day  in  her  own  person.     Had  I  been  twice 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIEMIE.  223 

as  cold  as  I  was,  her  kind  kiss  and  cordial  clasp 
would  have  warmed  me.  Inured  now  for  so  Ions;  a 
time  to  rooms  with  bare  boards,  black  benches,  desks, 
and  stoves,  the  blue  saloon  seemed  to  me  gorgeous. 
In  its  Christmas-like  fire  alone  there  was  a  clear  and 
crimson  splendour  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  me  up-stairs  to 
make  it  neat,  and  remove  my  shawl. 

Repairing  to  my  own  little  sea-green  room,  there 
also  I  found  a  bright  fire,  and  candles  too  were 
lit:  a  tall  waxhVht  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  winter 
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 


224  VILLETTE. 

gloss.     Spectral   or   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  know  her. 

u  Miss  de  Bassompierre,"  I  pronounced. 

u  No,"  was  the  reply,  "  not  Miss  de  Bassompierre 
for  your  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  colour  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  dimness  quenched 
her  clear  vision. 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIERRE.  225 

<(  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  then  that  I 
have  sat  on  your  knee,  been  lifted  in  your  arms, 
even  shared  your  pillow?  You  no  longer  remem- 
ber 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  beau- 
tiful— not  with    the   beauty   that   strikes   the    eye 

VOL.    II.  q 


226  VILEETTE. 

like  a  rose — orbed,  ruddy,  and  replete ;  not  with 
the  plump,  and  pink,  and  flaxen  attributes  of  her 
blond  cousin  Ginevra ;  but  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  exaggerate  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  vou  remember  the  old  time  at 
Bretton?" 

((  Better,"  said  she,  "  better,  perhaps,  than  you. 
I  remember  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?" 


M.    DE   BASSOMPIERRE.  227 

"  Very  little,  I  imagine." 

"  You  were  then  a  little  creature  of  quick 
feelings  :  you  must,  long  ere  this,  have  outgrown 
the  impressions  with  which  joy  and  grief,  affection 
and  bereavement,  stamped  your  mind  ten  years 
ago?" 

"You  think  I  have  forgotten  whom  I  liked,  and 
in  what  degree  I  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  a  good  memory  for  those  days." 

She  looked  as  if  she  had.  Her  eyes  were  the 
eyes  of  one  who  can  remember;  one  whose  child- 
hood 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  commence- 
ment, 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. 
Her  fond  attachments,  her  sports  and  contests  with 
a  well-loved  playmate,    the  patient,  true  devotion 


228  VILLETTE. 

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. 

ee  You  used  to  be  excessively  fond  of  Mrs. 
Bretton,"  I  remarked,  intending  to  test  her.  She 
set  me  right  at  once. 

fe  Not  excessively  fond,"  said  she  ;  ei  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  pincusliion  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." 


M.   DE    BASSOMPIEREE.  229 

"  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  ap- 
peared to  you  as  a  stranger." 

"  That  first  night  I  was  puzzled,"  she  answered. 

"  How  did  the  recognition  between  him  and  your 
father  come  about?" 

"  They  exchanged  cards.  The  names  Graham 
Bretton  and  Home  de  Bassompierre  give  rise  to 
questions  and  explanations.  That  was  on  the 
second  day;  but  before  then  I  was  beginning  to 
know  something." 

"  How — know  something  ?  " 

"Why,"  she  said,  "how  strange  it  is  that  most 
people  seem  so  slow  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  associa- 
tion 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 


230  VILLETTE. 

is  Graham,  just  as  /  am  little  Polly,  or  you  are  Lucy 
Snowe." 

I  thought  the  same,  but  I  wondered  to  find  my 
thoughts  hers  :  there  are  certain  things  in  which  we 
so  rarely  meet  with  our  double  that  it  seems  a  miracle 
when  that  chance  befals. 

"  You  and  Graham  were  once  playmates." 

"  And  do  you  remember  that  ?"  she  questioned  in 
her  turn. 

"  No  doubt  he  will  remember  it  also,"  said  I. 

"  I  have  not  asked  him :  few  things  would  surprise 
me  so  much  as  to  find  that  he  did.  I  suppose  his 
disposition  is  still  gay  and  careless?" 

"  Was  it  so  formerly  ?  Did  it  so  strike  you  ?  Do 
you  thus  remember  him?" 

"  I  scarcely  remember  him  in  any  other  light. 
Sometimes  he  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  whom  he  read  or 
amused  himself." 

Yet  to  you  he  was  partial." 
Partial  to  me?     Oh,  no!    he  had  other  play- 
mates— his  school -fellows;    I   was   of  little   conse- 
quence to  him,  except  on  Sundays  :  yes,  he  was  kind 


a 


a 


M.    BE   BASSOMPIERRE.  231 

on  Sundays.  I  remember  walking  with  him  band  in 
hand  to  St.  Mary's,  and  bis  finding  the  places  in  my 
prayer-book ;  and  how  good  and  still  he  was  on 
Sunday  evenings  !  So  mild  for  such  a  proud,  lively 
boy ;  so  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  invitation  and  for- 
sake us ;  but  he  never  did,  nor  seemed  ever  to  wish  to 
do  it.  Thus,  of  course,  it  can  be  no  more.  I  sup- 
pose 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  descend :  we  went  down. 


232  TILLETTE. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 


THE   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  see  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 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  233 

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  in- 
stantly 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  Christ- 
mas 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  cry- 
ing,— 

"  Papa,  papa,  you  look  like  an  enormous  Polar 
bear." 

The  bear  shook  himself,  and  the  little  sprite  fled  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  dread- 
nought, threatened  to  overwhelm  her  with  it  as  with 
an  avalanche. 

"  Come,  then,"  said  she,  bending  to  invite  the  fall, 


234  VILLETTE. 

and  when  it  was  playfully  advanced  above  her  head, 
bounding  out  of  reach  like  some  little  chamois. 

Her  movements  had  the  supple  softness,  the  velvet 
grace  of  a  kitten;  her  laugh  was  clearer  than  the 
ring  of  silver  and  crystal :  as  she  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  con- 
flict 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,  mama/'  said  he,  "  by  way  of  compromise, 
and  to  secure  for  us  inward  as  well  as  outward 
warmth,  let  us  have  a  Christmas  wassail-cup,  and 
toast  Old  England  here,  on  the  hearth." 


THE    LITTLE   COUNTESS.  235 

So,  while  the  Count  stood  by  the  fire,  and  Paulina 
Mary  still  danced  to  and  fro — happy  in  the  liberty 
of  the  wide  hall-like  kitchen — Mrs.  Bretton  herself 
instructed  Martha  to  spice  and  heat  the  wassail- 
bowl,  and,  pouring  the  draught  into  a  Bretton 
flagon,  it  was  served  round,  reaming  hot,  by  means 
of  a  small  silver  vessel,  which  I  recognised  as  Gra- 
ham'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. 

"  And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stoup, 
As  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ; 
And  we  '11  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, 


236  VILLETTE. 

you  Highland  fairy?"  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.  Home  (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  fee,  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   unob- 


THE    LITTLE    COUNTESS.  237 

servant  of  the  fairy's  dance;  lie  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  mothers' 
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's  child-like  light-heartedness. 

"  Your  ladyship  wishes  for  the  tankard  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  said  so.  I  think  I  intimated  as 
much." 

"  Couldn't  consent  to  a  step  of  the  kind  on  any 
account.     Sorry  for  it,  but  couldn't  do  it." 

"  Why  ?  I  am  quite  well  now :  it  can't  break 
my  collar-bone  again,  or  dislocate  my  shoulder.  Is 
it  wine  ?  " 

"  No ;  nor  dew." 

"  I  don't  want  dew;  I  don't  like  dew:  but  what 
is  it?" 

"Ale  —  strong  ale — old  October;  brewed,  per- 
haps, when  I  was  born." 

(i  It  must  be  curious :  is  it  good?" 


238  TILLETTE. 

"  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  I  never  had  any  e  old  October :'  is  it  sweet  ?" 

"  Perilouslv  sweet,"  said  Graham. 

She  continued  to  look  up  exactly  with  the  coun- 
tenance of  a  child  that  longs  for  some  prohibited 
dainty.  At  last  the  Doctor  relented,  took  it  down, 
and  indulged  himself  in  the  gratification  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,  petu- 
lantly 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  stiff,  and  you  are  so 
stingy." 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  239 

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  her  dance — she  glided  from  him  and  rejoined 
her  father. 

I  think  she  had  spoken  truth :  the  child  of  seven 
was  in  the  girl  of  seventeen. 

Graham  looked  after  her  a  little  baffled,  a  little 
puzzled ;  his  eye  was  on  her  a  good  deal  during 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  but  she  did  not  seem  to 
notice  him. 

As  we  ascended  to  the  drawing-room  for  tea, 
she  took  her  father's  arm  :  her  natural  place  seemed 
to  be  at  his  side ;  her  eyes  and  her  ears  were 
dedicated  to  him.  He  and  Mrs.  Bretton  were 
the  chief  talkers  of  our  little  party,  and  Paulina 


240  VILLETTE. 

was  their  best  listener,  attending  closely  to  all 
that  was  said,  prompting  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  good-night;  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  respon- 
sive. 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  table,  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  con- 


THE    LITTLE   COUNTESS.  241 

flict.  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,  <e  placing  a 
seat  for  herself  beside  her  father's  arm-chair.  "  I 
will  look  after  him.  You  won't  go  into  town,  will 
you,  papa?" 

Ci  Aye,  and  No,"  was  the  answer.  "  If  you  and 
Mrs.  Bretton  are  very  good  to  me,  Polly — kind, 
you  know,  and  attentive ;  if  you  pet  me  in  a  very 
nice  manner,  and  make  much  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  breakfast ;  you  offer  me 
nothing:  you  let  me  starve." 

"  Quick !  please,  Mrs.  Bretton,  and  pour  out  the 
coffee,"  entreated  Paulina,  "  whilst  I  take  care  of 
the  Count  de  Bassompierre  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  i  pistolets'  charged?"  said 
she.     "  And  there  is  some  marmalade,  just  the  same 

VOL.   II.  R 


242  VILLETTE. 

sort  of  marmalade  we  used  to  have  at  Bretton,  and 
which  you  said  was  as  good  as  if  it  had  been  con- 
served in  Scotland " 

"  And  which  your  little  ladyship  used  to  beg 
for  my  boy — do  you  remember  that?"  interposed 
Mrs.  Bretton.  "  Have  you  forgotten  how  you 
would  come  to  my  elbow  and  touch  my  sleeve  with 
the  whisper,  e  please  ma'am,  something  good  for 
Graham — a  little  marmalade,  or  honey,  or  jam  ? ' 

"  No,  mama,"  broke  in  Dr.  John,  laughing,  yet 
reddening ;  "  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  cater- 
ing 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  being  per- 
suadable, and  reconciling  yourself  to  La  Terrasse 
for  the  day." 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  243 

"  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  my  circum- 
stances ;  but  the  Count  and  his  daughter  did  not. 
They  might  choose  to  vary  by  some  shades  their 
hitherto  cordial  manner  towards  me,  when  aware 
of  my  grade  in  society.  I  spoke  then  readily :  but 
a  swarm  of  thoughts,  I  had  not  anticipated  nor 
invoked,  rose  dim  at  the  words,  making  me  sigh 
involuntarily.  Mr.  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  confession  of  that 
nature,  politeness  would  interdict  comment :  the 
Scotch  are  proverbially  proud ;  and  homely  as  was 
Mr.  Home  in  look,  simple  in  habits  and  tastes,  I 
have  all  along  intimated  that  he  was  not  without 
his  share  of  the  national  quality.  Was  his  a  p?eudo 
pride  ?   was  it  real  dignity  ?     I  leave  the  question 


244  VILLETTE. 

undecided  in  its  wide  sense.  Where  it  concerned 
me  individually  I  can  only  answer :  then,  and 
always,  he  showed  himself  a  true-hearted  gentle- 
man. 

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  endeavour  to  keep  the  course  honestly 
straight ;  he  would  have  helped  me  if  he  could : 
having  no  opportunity  of  helping,  he  still  wished 
me  well.  When  he  did  look  at  me,  his  eye  was 
kind ;  when  he  did  speak,  his  voice  was  benevolent. 

"  Yours,"  said  he,  "  is  an  arduous  calling.  I 
wish  you  health  and  strength  to  win  in  it — success. 

His  fair  little  daughter  did  not  take,  the  in- 
formation quite  so  composedly:  she  fixed  on  me  a 
pair  of  eyes  wide  with  wonder — almost  with  dis- 
may. 

Are  you  a  teacher?"  cried  she.     Then,  having 


a 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  245 

paused  on  the  unpalatable  idea,  "Well,  I  never 
knew  what  you  were,  nor  ever  thought  of  asking: 
for  me,  you  were  always  Lucy  Snowe." 

"And  what  am  I  now?"  I  could  not  forbear 
inquiring. 

"  Yourself,  of  course.  But  do  you  really  teach 
here,  in  YiUette?" 

"  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,  'f  Proceed,  Polly, 
proceed  with  that  catechism — prove  yourself  the 
little  wiseacre  you  are.  If  Miss  Snowe  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-ques- 
tions. 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 


it 

a 


246  VILLETTE. 

the  most  lenient  way  of  accounting  for  your  eccen- 
tricity." 

"  No — no,  sir.  Rather  for  the  roof  of  shelter  1 
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  pit}r,  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 
at  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. 
ci  But  poor  Lucy  !  I  thought  she  was  a  rich  lady, 
and  had  rich  friends." 

,e  You  thought  like  a  little  simpleton :  /  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, 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  247 

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,  i(  will  but  take  Miss  de  Bassom- 
pierre  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  to  come  into  the  salon  to  receive  you." 

"  In  that  case,"  responded  Mr.  Home,  "  I  see 
no  sort  of  necessity  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 " 


248  YILLETTE. 


44  That  only  proves  how  much  we  may  be  mis- 
taken 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 


a 


(( 


THE   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  249 

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  ?  In  the  most  admira- 
ble manner,  papa  came  to  school  likewise :  every 
other  day  he  called  to  see  me.  Madame  Aigredoux 
grumbled,  but  it  was  of  no  use ;  and  so,  at  last, 
papa  and  I  were  both,  in  a  manner,  expelled.  Lucy 
can  just  tell  Madame  Beck  this  little  trait:  it  is 
only  fair  to  let  her  know  what  she  has  to  expect." 

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.  After  breakfast,  when  the  two  elders  with- 
drew— I  suppose  to  talk  over  certain  of  Mrs.  Bret- 
ton's  business  matters — and  the  Countess,  Dr. 
Bretton,  and  I  were,  for  a  short  time,  alone  to- 
gether— all  the  child  left  her ;  with  us,  more  nearly 
her  companions  in  age,  she  rose  at  once  to  the 
little  lady :  her  very  face  seemed  to  alter ;  that  play 
of  feature,  and  candour  of  look,  which,  when  she 


250  VILLETTE. 

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,  hesi- 
tatingly, and  consequently  infelicitously :  he  spoke 
vaguely  of  Yillette — its  inhabitants,  its  notable 
sights  and  buildings.  He  was  answered  by  Miss 
de  Bassompierre  in  quite  womanly  sort;  with  in- 
telligence, with  a  manner  not  indeed  wholly  dis- 
individualized  :  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.  Not  one 
of  those  pretty  impulses  and  natural  breaks  escaped 


THE    LITTLE    COUNTESS.  251 

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 
coloured  whenever  such  lapse  occurred,  and  in  a 
painstaking,  conscientious  manner,  quite  as  amusing 
as  the  slight  error,  repeated  the  word  more  ^dis- 
tinctly. 

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  soon  have  become 
genial :  already  to  Paulina's  lip  and  cheek  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  aug- 
mented comfort  in  readier  language,  in  tones  more 
suave.  Ten  years  ago,  this  pair  had  always  found 
abundance  to  say  to  each  other;  the  intervening 
decade  had  not  narrowed  the  experience  or  im- 
poverished 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 


252  VILLETTE. 

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  diligent  task.  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 


THE    LITTLE    COUNTESS.  253 

swift  and  skilful:  but  there  was  the  same  busy- 
knitting  of  the  brow,  the  same  little  dainty  manner- 
isms, 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 
storm  had  raved  itself  hoarse,  but  seemed  no  nearer 
exhaustion.  Had  Ginevra  Fanshawe  been  my  com- 
panion in  that  morning-room,  she  would  not  have 
suffered  me  to  muse  and  listened  undisturbed.  The 
presence  just  gone  from  us  would  have  been  her 
theme ;  and  how  she  would  have  runaj  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. 


254  VILLETTE. 

"  This  will  not  hold  long,"  I  thought  to  myself 
for  I  was  not  accustomed  to  find  in  women  or  p'irls 
any  power  of  self-control,  or  strength  of  self-denial. 
As  far  as  I  knew  them,  the  chance  of  a  gossip  about 
their  usually  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's  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 :  would  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  fall  greeting  to  the  Past.     And  then 


THE    LITTLE    COUNTESS.  255 

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  look- 
ing :  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 :  she  could  feel,  without  pouring  out  her 
feelings  in  a  flux  of  words. 

She  now  occupied  herself  at  the  bookcase  for 
nearly  an  hour ;  taking  down  volume  after  volume, 
and  renewing  her  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  cold  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, 

(S  Papa  !  papa !  you  are  not  going  out  ?" 

"  My  pet ;  I  must  go  into  town." 

"  But  it  is  too — too  cold,  papa." 

And  then  I  heard  M.  de  Bassompierre  showing 
to    her    how   he   was    well    provided    against    the 


256  VILLETTE. 

weather ;  and  how  he  was  going  to  have  the  car- 
riage, and  to  be  quite  snugly  sheltered;  and,  in 
short,  proving  that  she  need  not  fear  for  hiscomfort. 

"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  T  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   LITTLE   COUNTESS.  257 

the  avenue  we  could  see  it  well,  and  note  also  the 
polar  splendour  of  the  new-year  moon  —  an  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  eveniug. 
It  was  with  a  sort  of  gravity  that  she  took  immediate 
possession  of  her  father,  as  he  entered  the  room; 
but  she  at  once  made  him  her  entire  property,  led 
him  to  the  seat  of  her  choice,  and,  while  softly 
showering  round  him  honeyed  words  of  commenda- 
tion 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;  Gra- 
ham 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  inex- 

VOL.    II.  S 


258  VILLETTE. 

haustible  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  reluc- 
tant 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  wing,  or 
the  golden  head  of  some  darting  little  yellow 
serpent. 


A   BURIAL.  259 


CHAPTEE   XXVII. 


A   BURIAL. 


From  this  date  my  life  did  not  want  variety;  1 
went  out  a  good  deal,  with  the  entire  consent  of 
Madame  Beck,  who  perfectly  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. 

Not  that  she  was  fulsome  about  it:  madame,  in 
all  things  worldly,  was  in  nothing  weak ;  there  was 
measure  and  sense  in  her  hottest  pursuit  of  self-in- 
terest, 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  frequent  such  associates  as 


260  VILLETTE. 

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  per- 
mission de  coeur  et  de  gre.  Votre  travail  dans  ma 
maison  a  toujours  ete  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'en  suis  contente ;  e'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 
buck  again." 


A   BURIAL.  261 

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  some- 
times 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  sparely,  as  those  gems  lie  in  unfabled 
beds  ?  Oh,  Madame  Beck !  how  seemed  these  things 
to  you  ? 

I  think  in  Madame  Beck's  eyes  the  five  letters 
found  a  certain  favour.  One  day  after  she  had 
borrowed  them  of  me  (in  speaking  of  so  suave  a  little 
woman,  one  ought  to  use  suave  terms),  I  caught  her 
examining  me  with  a  steady  contemplative  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  an 


262  VILLETTE. 

hour's  recreation;  she  and  I  remained  in  the  first 
class  alone  :  when  I  met  her  eye,  her  thoughts  forced 
themselves  partially  through  her  lips. 

"  II  y  a,"  said  she,  u  quelquechose  de  bien  remar- 
quable  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  ont  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  garden,  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- 


A   BURIAL.  263 

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  wor- 
shipped 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  desk :  I 
wept  one  sultry  shower,  heavy  and  brief. 

But  soon  I  said  to  myself,  "  the  Hope  I  am  be- 
moaning 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." 

Welcome  I  endeavoured  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  calm. 

f-  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  of  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 


264  YILLETTE. 

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  her- 
self was  the  soul  of  discretion,  besides  having  as 
strong  a  brain  and  sound  a  judgment  as  ever  fur- 
nished 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  documents,  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  favoured  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 


A    BURIAL.  265 

angry  eye,  but  I  read  its  meaning  now.  He,  I  be- 
lieved, was  not  apt  to  regard  what  concerned  me 
from  a  fair  point  of  view,  nor  to  judge  me  with 
tolerance  and  candour:  I  had  always  found  him 
severe  and  suspicious:  the  thought  that  these 
letters,  mere  friendly  letters  as  they  were,  had  fallen 
once,  and  might  fall  again,  into  his  hands,  jarred  my 
very  soul. 

What  should  I  do  to  prevent  this  ?  In  what 
corner  of  this  strange  house  was  it  possible  to  find 
security  or  secresy  ?  Where  could  a  key  be  a  safe- 
guard, 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  amongst  the  litter  of  their  contents :  my 
dear  letters  (most  dear  still,  though  Ichabod  was 
written  on  their  covers)  might  be  consumed  by  ver- 
min ;  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  dor- 
mitory window-seat.  It  was  a  fine  frosty  afternoon ; 
the  winter  sun,  already  setting,  gleamed  pale  on  the 


266  VILLETTE. 

tops  of  the  garden-shrubs  in  the  "  allee  defendue." 
One  great  old  pear-tree — the  nun's  pear-tree — stood 
up  a  tall  dryad  skeleton,  gray,  gaunt,  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  (S  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  and  sealed  hermetically.  Amongst  mis- 
cellaneous 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  eye- 


A  BURIAL.  267 

lashes.  I  believe  he  thought  there  was  some  evil 
deed  on  hand.  In  all  this  I  had  a  dreary  something 
— not  pleasure — but  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,  and 
in  time  for  dinner. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  moon  rose.  At  half-past 
seven,  when  the  pupils  and  teachers  were  at  study, 
and  Madame  Beck  was  with  her  mother  and  chil- 
dren in  the  salle  a  manger,  when  the  half-boarders 
were  all  gone  home,  and  Rosine  had  left  the  vesti- 
bule, and  all  was  still  —  I  shawled  myself,  and, 
taking  the  sealed  jar,  stole  out  through  the  first- 
classe  door,  into  the  berceau  and  thence  into  the 
"  allee  defendue." 

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  Methu- 
saleh, 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 


268  VILLETTE. 

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. 

"Well,  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  the  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  peculiar  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  of  an  army 
with  banners  —  that   quivering  of  serried  lances — 


A   BURIAL.  269 

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- quarters — to  leave  an  encampment 
w^here  food  and  forage  failed.  Perhaps,  to  effect 
this  change,  another  pitched  battle  must  be  fought 
with  fortune  ;  if  so,  I  had  a  mind  to  the  encounter : 
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  some- 
what 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  trans- 
formation. 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?" 


270  VILLETTE. 

She  stood  mute.  She  had  no  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, 
full-leaved  evergreens  laurel  and  dense  yew,  in- 
tervened 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  professed  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 


A   BURIAL.  271 

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  your- 
self?    You  must  come  into  the  parlour." 

In  the  same  spirit  she  urged  me  now — 

"  Leave  the  Rue  Fossette,"  she  said,  "  and  come 
and  live  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  com- 
panion was  unnatural  to  me.  Rather  than  fill  the 
former  post  in  any  great  house,  I  would  delibe- 
rately have  taken  a  housemaid's  place,  bought  a 
strong  pair  of  gloves,  swept  bedrooms  and  stair- 
cases, 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    ladvs  shadow  —  not  Miss  de 


272  VILLETTE. 

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  Chris- 
tendom. Madame  Beck  and  I,  without  assimilating, 
understood  each  other  well.  I  was  not  her  com- 
panion, 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  acknowledgement 
of  steadiness.  To  my  bedside  she  came  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  and  told  me  she  had  no  present 


A    BURIAL.  273 

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  misunder- 
standing between  us  —  perhaps  separation.  One 
thing,  however,  I  can  do  to  please  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  me  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  speculate.  Difficult  to  say.  He  was  much 
taken  up  with  scientific  interests ;  keen,  intent,  and 
somewhat    oppugnant   in    what   concerned    his   fa- 

YOL.    II.  T 


274  VILLETTE. 

vourite  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  honoured  head  be- 
tween 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  am  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  en- 
deavoured 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  demeanour  in  her. 


A   BURIAL.  275 

"  My  little  Polly,"  lie  said  once,  "  you  live  too 
retired  a  life;  if  you  grow  to  be  a  woman  with 
these  shy  manners,  you  will  hardly  be  fitted  for 
society.  You  really  make  quite  a  stranger  of  Dr. 
Eretton:  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  gentle  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  strange  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  ! " 

"  He  does  not  talk  much.  Is  he  afraid  of  me,  do 
you  think,  papa?" 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure !  AVhat  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  intention." 

"  Your  way,  you  little  chatter-box?  So  far 
from  being  your  way,  it  is  only  your  whim ! " 


276  VILLETTE. 

"  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  jnto  her 
guest's  face  a  pleasurable  glow;  he  met  her  with 
caution,  and  replied  to  her  in  his  softest  tones,  as 
if  there  was  a  kind  of  gossamer  happiness  hanging 
in  the  air  which  he  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  was  a  most  exquisite  and  fairy 
charm. 

When  the  Doctor  was  gone,  she  approached  her 
father's  chair. 

"  Did  I  keep  my  word,  papa  ?  Did  I  behave 
better?" 

"  My  Polly  behaved  like  a  queen.  I  shall  be- 
come quite  proud  of  her  if  this  improvement  con- 
tinues. 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  sl:ade.  Still,  Polly,  there  is  a 
little   flutter,   a  little   tendency  to    stammer    now 


A   BURIAL.  277 

and  then,  and  even  to  lisp  as  you  lisped  when  you 
were  six  years  old." 

"  No,  papa,"  interrupted  she,  indignantly,  "  that 
can't  be  true." 

"  I  appeal  to  Miss  Lucy.  Did  she  not,  in  answer- 
ing 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  mechant !  I 
can  pronounce  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 ;  be- 
sides beino;  a  kind-hearted  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  1 " 

"  Both,  my  pet,  both ;  and  doubtless  the  Glaswe- 
gian 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." 


278  VILLETTE. 

"  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,  Pro- 
fessor Paul  Emanuel,  to  wit,  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  intimating  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  persuaded  me  to  join  her  in 
some  study,  as  a  regular  and  settled  means  of  sus- 
taining communication :  she  proposed  the  German 
language,  which,  like  myself,  she   found  difficult  of 


A    BURIAL.  279 

mastery.  We  agreed  to  take  our  lessons  in  the  Hue 
Crecy  of  the  same  mistress ;  this  arrangement  threw 
us  together  for  some  hours  of  every  week.  M.  de 
Bassompierre  seemed  quite  pleased :  it  perfectly  met 
his  approbation  that  Madame  Minerva  Gravity 
should  associate  a  portion  of  her  leisure  with  that 
of  his  fair  and  dear  child. 

That  other  self-elected  judge  of  mine,  the  pro- 
fessor 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  himself 
to  place  me  under  surveillance.  People  said  M. 
Emanuel  had  been  brought  up  amongst  Jesuits.  I 
should  more  readily  have  accredited  this  report  had 
his  manoeuvres  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  pro- 


280  VILLETTE. 

ceedings  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  i  en  l'air.*  On  his  faith,  he  be- 
lieved 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  ( reli- 
gieuses,'  and  study  their  lives.    They  asked  no  change." 

I  am  no  judge  of  what  expression  crossed  my  face 
when  he  thus  spoke,  but  it  was  one  which  provoked 
him  :  he  accused  me  of  being  reckless,  worldly,  and 
epicurean;  ambitious  of  greatness  and  feverishly 
athirst  for  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  life.  It  seems  I 
had  no  "  devouement,"  no  "  recueillement"  in  my 
character ;  no  spirit  of  grace,  faith,  sacrifice,  or  self- 
abasement.     Feeling  the  inutility  of  answering  these 


A   BURIAL.  281 

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  mille  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  M.  Paul :  never, 
in  others,  a  more  waspish  little  despot. 


Our  German  mistress,  Fraulein  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 


282  VILLETTE. 

suffer  a  sensation  of  cruel  restraint  from  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,  with  her  native  delicacy  and 
beauty,  she  had  a  right  to  these  feelings ;  but  I  think 
it  was  a  total  mistake  to  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 
armoury  of  defence ;  whereas,  Paulina  always  kept 
it  clear,  fine  and  bright,  and  any  rough  German 
sally  called  forth  at  once  its  steely  glisten. 


A   BURIAL.  283 

Honest  Anna  Braun,  in  some  measure,  felt  this 
difference;  and  while  she  half- feared,  half- wor- 
shipped Paulina,  as  a  sort  of  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  Fraiilein  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  fervour :  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  zuruck, 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gluck, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet ! " 

"  Lived   and   loved ! "    said    she,    i{  is   that    the 


284  VILLETTE. 

summit  of  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  consider  the  sub- 
ject ?  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  you  know  and  shall  learn  to  acknowledge  that 
I  am  verging  on  my  nineteenth  year." 

"  No  matter  if  it  were  your  twenty-ninth  ;  we 
will  anticipate  no  feelings  by  discussion  and  con- 
versation :  we  will  not  talk  about  love." 

"  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 


A   BURIAL.  285 

being  laughed.  I  could  not  discern  what  she  meant, 
and  I  would  not  ask  her  :  I  was  nonplussed.  See- 
ing, however,  the  utmost  innocence  in  her  coun- 
tenance— combined  with  some  transient  perverse- 
ness  and  petulance — I  said  at  last, — 

ee  Who  talks  to  you  disagreeably  and  detri- 
mentally 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  away — I  don't  want  her." 

"  But  who,  Paulina,  can  it  be  ?  You  puzzle  me 
much." 

"  It  is — it  is  my  cousin  Ginevra.  Every  time 
she  has  leave  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  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 


286  VILLETTE. 

opinions.     She  hurts  me  through  the  feelings  and 
people  dearest  to  me." 

"  What  does  she  say,  Paulina  ?  Give  me  some 
idea.  There  may  be  counteraction  of  the  damage 
done." 

"  The  people  I  have  longest  and  most  esteemed 
are  degraded  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  her  sentiment  and  her  ....  love  ?  She  does 
mix  them,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Lucy,  she  is  insolent ;  and  I  believe,  false.  You 
know  Dr.  Bretton.  We  both  know  him.  He 
may  be  careless  and  proud ;  but  when  was  he  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  hand- 
some: does  she  give  him  out  as  still  her  suitor?" 

"  She  says  she  might  marry  him  any  day:  he 
only  waits  her  consent." 

"  It  is  these  tales  which  have  caused  that  reserve 
in  your  maimer  towards  Graham  which  your  father 
noticed." 


A   BURIAL.  287 

"  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." 

<e  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  message  of  invitation, 
and  she  shall  have  the  chance  of  justifying  her  cha- 
racter for  veracity." 


288  VILLETTE. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


THE   HOTEL   CRECY. 


The  morrow  turned  out  a  more  lively  and  busy- 
day  than  we — or  than  I,  at  least — had  anticipated. 
It  seems  it  was  the  birthday  of  one  of  the  young 
princes  of  Labassecour — the  eldest,  I  think,  the 
Due  de  Dindonneaux — and  a  general  holiday  was 
given  in  his  honour  at  the  schools,  and  especially 
at  the  principal  "  Athene  e,"  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  pre- 
sentation, an  oration,  or  "  discours"  was  to  follow 
from  one  of  the  professors. 

Several  of    M.    de   Bassompierre's   friends  —  the 
savants  —  bein^   more  or   less  connected  with  the 


THE   HOTEL   CKECY.  289 

Athenee,  they  were  expected  to  attend  on  this  oc- 
casion; 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  my- 
self, 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.)  sud- 
denly burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  What  now  ? "  I  asked ;  for  she  had  suspended 
the  operation  of  arranging  her  attire,  and  was  gazing 
at  me. 

"  It  seems  so  odd,"  she  replied,  with  her  usual 
half-honest,  half-insolent  unreserve,  "  that  you  and 
I  should  now  be  so  much  on  a  level,  visiting  in 
the  same  sphere ;  having  the  same  connections." 

"  Why  yes,"  said  I ;  "  I  had  not  much  respect 
for  the  connections  you  chiefly  frequented  awhile 
ago :  Mrs.  Cholmondeley  and  Co.  would  never  have 
suited  me  at  all." 

"Who  are  you,  Miss  Snowe?"  she  inquired,  in 

VOL.    II.  u 


290  VILLETTE. 

a  tone  of  such  undisguised  and  unsophisticated  cu- 
riosity, as  made  me  laugh  in  my  turn. 

(i  You  used  to  call  yourself  a  nursery-governess ; 
when  you  first  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 
mystification.  "  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  con- 
fined myself,  therefore,  to  the  remark  that  I  had 
merely  met  with  civility ;  and  asked  "  what  she  saw 


THE   HOTEL   CEECY.  291 

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  gentle- 
man, or  her  lover,  I  did  not  like  it. 

"  There,  again  !"  she  cried.  "  I  thought,  by  offer- 
ing 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  which  was 
her  best  point — which  gave  an  honest  plainness  to 


292  VILLETTE. 

her  very  fibs  when  she  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 
S(  yes"  to  my  countenance  ;  or  rather,  my  under- lip 
voluntarily  anticipated  my  tongue :  of  course,  reve- 
rence and  solemnity  were  not  the  feelings  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  are  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  keeping  out  the  intruder. 


THE    HOTEL   CRECY.  293 


"  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  ?  1 11  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  con- 
jured 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  ob- 
stinate 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  whom  could  be  as- 
signed only  the  small  sitting-room  and  the  little  back 
bed-room :  even  if  the  dining  and  drawing-rooms 
6tood  empty,  I  never  confessed  it  to  them,  as  think- 


294  VILLETTE. 

ing  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  de- 
grades 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  wThich  threatens  exposure  ?  The  longer  we 
live,  the  more  our  experience  widens ;  the  less  prone 
are  we  to  judge  our  neighbour'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  respec- 
tability, there,  be  sure,  it  is  needed. 

We  reached  the  Hotel  Crecy ;  Paulina  was  ready; 
Mrs.  Bretton  was  with  her;  and,  under  her  escort 


THE    HOTEL    CRECY.  295 

and  that  of  M.  de  Bassompierre,  we  were  soon  con- 
ducted 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  honour,  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  colour, 
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  domesti- 
cated in  the  memory,  and  so  knit  with  many  a 
whimsical  association,  as  almost  by  this  their  sud- 


266  VILLETTE. 

den  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  handker- 
chief and  a  lowered  veil  the  sole  confidants  of  my 
mirth. 

I  think  I  was  glad  to  see  M.  Paul ;  I  think  it  was 
rather  pleasant  than  otherwise,  to  behold  him  set  up 
there,  fierce  and  frank,  dark  and  candid,  testy  and 
fearless,  as  when  regnant  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  for- 
malism nor  flattery  would  be  our  doom ;  but  for  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  magis- 
trates and  the  burghers,  with  just  the  same  ease, 
with  almost  the  same  pointed,  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. 


THE   HOTEL   CEECY,  297 

Emanuel's  spirit  seemed  new  to  me.  Who  would 
have  thought  the  flat  and  fat  soil  of  Labassecour 
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  iwht 
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  uncer- 
tain sound,  but  reminded  me  rather  of  the  band- 
trumpet,  ringing  at  twilight  from  the  park. 

I  do  not  think  his  audience  were  generally  suscep- 
tible of  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  endeavour  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  favourite  pro- 
fessor. 

As   our    party   left   the    Hall,   he   stood   at   the 
entrance ;  he  saw  and  knew  me,  and  lifted  his  hat ; 


298  VILLETTE. 

• 

he  offered  his  hand  in  passing,  and  uttered  the 
words  "  Que  'en  dites  vous  ?  " — question  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.  Well !  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  Bassom- 
pierre;  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 — 


THE   HOTEL    CRECY.  299 

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  pre-eminent  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  her  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  her  countenance,  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  eyebrows,  her 
eye-lashes,  her  full  irids,  and  large  mobile  pupils. 
Nature  having  traced  all  these  details  slightly,  and 
with  a  careless  hand,  in  Miss  Fanshawe's  case; 
and  in  Miss  de  Bassompierre's,  wrought  them  to 
a  high  and  delicate  finish. 


300  VILLETTE. 

Paulina  was  awed  by  the  savants,  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  man,  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  Bassom- 
pierre  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 — 


THE   HOTEL   CRECY.  301 

though  what  she  said  was  rarely  to  the  purpose — 
or  rather,  was  of  a  purpose  somewhat  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  neighbour,  and  to  her,  during  dinner,  he 
almost  exclusively  confined  his  notice.  She  ap- 
peared satisfied,   and  passed  to    the    drawing-room 

in  very  good  spirits. 

Yet,  no  sooner  had  we  reached  that  place  of 
refuge,  than  she  again  became  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  her  father  gathered 
about  him.  The  moment  the  gentlemen  were  heard 
to  move,  her  railings  ceased  :  she  started  up,  flew  to 
the  piano,  and  dashed  at  it  with  spirit.     Dr.  Bretton 


302  VILLETTE. 

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 :  this  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  imma- 
ture, 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  con- 
versation ;  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  feeliner 
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 


THE    HOTEL    CRECY.  303 

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  whis- 
pered 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  open- 
ing in  the  magic  circle,  his  glance,  restlessly 
sweeping  the  room  at  intervals,  lighted  by  chance 
on  me ;  where  I  sat  in  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  recog- 
nition, crossed  the  room,  asked  me  how  I  was,  told 
me  I  looked  pale.  I  also  had  my  own  smile  at  my 
own  thought  :  it  was  now  about  three  months  since 
Dr.  John  had  spoken  to  me — a  lapse  of  which  he 


304  VILLETTE. 

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  entered  the  room  since  dinner,  dropping  in  for 
the  evening  conversation ;  and  amongst  the  gentle- 
men,   I   may   incidentally    observe,    I   had   already 
noticed  by  glimpses,  a  severe,  dark  professoral  out- 
line, 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  dis- 
pleasing 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-girl  jingle  !     In 


THE   HOTEL   CRECY.  306 

what  grand,  grateful  tones  the  instrument  acknow- 
ledged 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  girl — my  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-ironic,  shone  aslant  in  his  eye.  Ah, 
Graham !  I  have  given  more  than  one  solitary 
moment  to  thoughts  and  calculations  of  your  estimate 
of  Lucy  Snowe  :  was  it  always  kind  or  just?  Had 
Lucy  been  intrinsically  the  same,  but  possessing  the 
additional  advantages  of  wealth  and  station,  would 

VOL.    II.  X 


306  VILLETTE. 

your  manner  to  her,  your  value  for  her  have  been 
quite  what  they  actually  were  ?  And  yet  by 
these  questions  I  would  not  seriously  infer  blame. 
No ;  you  might  sadden  and  trouble  me  sometimes ; 
but  then  mine  was  a  soon  -  depressed,  an  easily- 
deranged  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, — 

ce  On  what  points  are  we  so  closely  in  accord- 
ance ?  " 

"  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  ?  " 

Ci  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, 


THE   HOTEL   CRECY.  307 

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?" 


a 


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  cir- 
cumstances, persons,  even  words  and  looks,  that  had 
slipped  your  memory,  may,  under  certain  conditions, 
certain  aspects  of  your  own  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  at  Bretton 
ten  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Home  brought  his  little 
girl,  whom  we  then  called  ( little  Polly,'  to  stay  with 
mama?" 

"  I  was  there  the  night  she  came,  and  also  the 
morning  she  went  away." 


308  VILLETTE. 

"  Rather  a  peculiar  child ;  was  she  not  ?  I 
wonder  how  I  treated  her.  Was  I  fond  of  children 
in  those  days  ?  Was  there  anything  gracious  or 
kindly  about  me — great,  reckless,  school-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  yesterday  as  to~day." 

"  But,  Lucy,  how  is  that?  Such  an  oracle  really 
whets  my  curiosity.  What  am  I  to-day  ?  What  was 
I  the  yesterday  of  ten  years  back  ?" 

"  Gracious  to  whatever  pleased  you — unkindly  or 
cruel  to  nothing." 

"  There  you  are  wrong ;  I  think  I  was  almost  a 
brute  to  you,  for  instance." 

"  A  brute !  No,  Graham :  I  should  never  have 
patiently  endured  brutality." 

(e  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 


THE   HOTEL    CRECY.  309 

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  whelm  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.     Do  you  think  little 
Polly's  memory  not  more  definite  ?  " 

"  Oh!  we  don't  talk  of  '  little  Polly'  note.     Pray 
say,   Miss  de  Bassompierre ;  and,  of  course,  such  a 
stately   personage   remembers   nothing    of  Bretton. 
Look  at  her  large  eyes,  Lucy ;  can  they  read  a  word 
in  the  page  of  memory  ?     Are  they  the  same  which 
I  used  to  direct  to  a  horn-book?       She  does  not 
know  that  I  partly  taught  her  to  read." 
**  In  the  Bible  on  Sunday  nights  ?" 
"  She   has   a   calm,    delicate,   rather   fine   profile 
now:    once   what   a   little   restless,    anxious    coun- 
tenance was  hers !     What  a  thing  is  a  child's  pre- 
ference— what  a  bubble!      Would  you  believe  it? 
that  lady  was  fond  of  me  ! " 

"  I  think  she  was  in  some  measure  fond  of  you," 
said  I,  moderately. 


310  YILLETTE. 

"  You  don't  remember  then  ?  /  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  for 
instance,  would  go  behind  and  whisper  it  all  in  her 
ear,  and  I  could  have  the  delight — here,  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  L  u  No,  /  could  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  misappre- 
hension 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 


THE   HOTEL   CEECY.  311 

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,  reveuse,  mais  vous  ne  l'etes  pas ;  c'est 
moi  qui  vous  le  dis :  Sauvage !  la  flamme  a  Tame, 
l'eclair  aux  yeux ! " 

(e  Oui;  j'ai  la  flamme  a  Tame,  et  je  dois  l'avoir!" 
retorted  I,  turning  in  just  wrath ;  but  Professor 
Emanuel  had  hissed  his  insult  and  was  gone. 

CD 

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  believe  it  is  :  you 
redden  to  the  colour  of  Miss  Fanshawe's  gown. 
And  really,  by  my  word,  now  I  examine  him,  that 
is  the  same  little  man  who  was  so  savage  with  you 
at  the  concert:  the  very  same,  and  in  his  soul  he 


312  VILLETTE. 

is  frantic  at  this  moment  because  he  sees  me  laugh- 
ing.    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  ap- 
peared near  Miss  de  Bassompierre ;  the  circle  sur- 
rounding her  seemed  about  to  dissolve.  This  move- 
ment 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  perfect  work. 
And  no  tyrant-passion  dragged  him  back;  no  en- 
thusiasms, 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  colour,  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  ardour. 


THE   HOTEL    CRECY.  313 

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, 
aod  bade  good- night  to  my  godmother  and  M.  de 
Bassompierre. 

I  know  not  whether  Professor  Emanuel  had  no- 
ticed my  reluctant  acceptance  of  Dr.  Bretton's 
badinage,  or  whether  he  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  spoke  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  brusqueries,  or  freeze 
before  his  fierceness;  what  he  had  said  to-night, 
however,  I  considered  unwarranted :  my  extreme 
disapprobation  of  the  proceeding  must  be  marked, 
however  slightly.     I  merely  said: — 

"  I  am  provided  with  attendance." 


314  VILLETTE. 

Which  was  true,  as  Ginevra  and  I  were  to  be 
sent  home  in  the  carriage ;  and  I  passed  him  with 
the  sliding  obeisance  with  which  he  was  wont  to  be 
saluted  in  classe  by  pupils  crossing  his  estrade. 

Having  sought  my  shawl  I  returned  to  the  vesti- 
bule. 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  frostiness  I  could 
not  but  applaud.  It  was  so  seldom  I  could  pro- 
perly 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  K  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-sufficing 
misses  and  mesdemoiselles.  That  M.  Paul  would 
Bot  stand  any  prolonged  experience  of  this  sort  of 
dialogue  I  knew  ;  but  he  certainly  merited  a  sam- 
ple of  the  curt  and  arid.  I  believe  he  thought  so 
himself,  for  he  took  the  dose  quietly.  He  looked 
at  my  shawl  and  objected  to  its  lightness.  I 
decidedly  told  him  it  was  as  heavy  as  I  wished. 
Keceding  aloof,  and  standing  apart,    I  leaned  on 


THE   HOTEL   CKECY.  315 

the  banister  of  the  stairs,  folded  my  shawl  about 
me,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  a  dreary  religious  paint- 
ing  darkening  the  wall. 

Ginevra  was  long  in  coming :  tedious  seemed  her 
loitering.  M.  Paul  was  still  there,  my  ear  expected 
from  his  lips  an  angry  tone.  He  came  nearer. 
"  Now  for  another  hiss ! "  thought  I :  had  not  the 
action  been  too  uncivil  I  could  have  stopped  my 
ears  with  my  fingers  in  terror  of  the  thrill.  Nothing 
happens  as  we  expect :  listen  for  a  coo  or  a  mur- 
mur ;  it  is  then  you  will  hear  a  cry  of  prey  or  pain. 
Await  a  piercing  shriek,  an  angry  threat,  and  wel- 
come 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  false- 
hood. 

"  But  what  did  I  say  ? "  he  pursued,  "  tell  me : 


316  VILLETTE. 

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.  For- 
give me,  Miss  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  wistfulness,  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 — 
mon  ami,  or  else  in  English, — my  friend  !" 

Now,  "  my  friend  "  had  rather  another  sound  and 
significancy  than  "  mon  ami ,"  it  did  not  breathe  the 
same    sense    of  domestic   and   intimate    affection : 


THE    HOTEL    CRECY.  317 

"  mon  ami"  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  he  wore  half  an  hour 
ago,  I  cannot  affirm  that  I  had  ever  witnessed  the 
smile  of  pleasure,  or  content,  or  kindness  round 
M.  Paul's  lips,  or  in  his  eyes  before.  The  ironic, 
the  sarcastic,  the  disdainful,  the  passionately  exul- 
tant, 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  Basso mpierre  came  out  with  his  niece. 

In  a  pretty  humour  was  Mistress  Fanshawe  ;  she 
had  found  the  evening  a  grand  failure :  completely 


318  VILLETTE. 

upset  as  to  temper,  she  gave  way  to  the  most  un- 
controlled moroseness  as  soon  as  we  were  seated, 
and  the  carriage-door  closed.   Her  invectives  against 
Dr.   Bretton    had    something   venomous   in   them. 
Having  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  that  the  carriage-wheels  made  a  tremendous 
rattle  over  the  flinty  Choseville  pavement,  for  I  can 
assure  the  reader  there  was  neither  dead  silence  nor 
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  indis- 
pensable to  show  up  her  sterling  value  and  high 
deserts ;    and   this  must   be  done  in   language   of 
which  the  fidelity  and  homeliness  might  challenge 
comparison  with  the  compliments  of  a  John  Knox 


THE   HOTEL   CRECY.  319 

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. 


END   OF   VOL.    II. 


London : 

Printed  by  Stewart  and  Mueray, 

Old  Bailey. 


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