Villette

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE FETE.

  As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country. Iwas sorry; I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer than before.But I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robust life; Imight have had companions, and I chose solitude. Each of the teachersin turn made me overtures of special intimacy; I tried them all. One Ifound to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarse feeler, andan egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externally refined--at heart,corrupt--without a creed, without a principle, without an affection:having penetrated the outward crust of decorum in this character, youfound a slough beneath. She had a wonderful passion for presents; and,in this point, the third teacher--a person otherwise characterless andinsignificant--closely resembled her. This last-named had also oneother distinctive property--that of avarice. In her reigned the love ofmoney for its own sake. The sight of a piece of gold would bring intoher eyes a green glisten, singular to witness. She once, as a mark ofhigh favour, took me up-stairs, and, opening a secret door, showed me ahoard--a mass of coarse, large coin--about fifteen guineas, infive-franc pieces. She loved this hoard as a bird loves its eggs. Thesewere her savings. She would come and talk to me about them with aninfatuated and persevering dotage, strange to behold in a person notyet twenty-five.

  The Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal and profligate (indisposition, that is: as to action, I do not know). That latter qualityshowed its snake-head to me but once, peeping out very cautiously. Acurious kind of reptile it seemed, judging from the glimpse I got; itsnovelty whetted my curiosity: if it would have come out boldly, perhapsI might philosophically have stood my ground, and coolly surveyed thelong thing from forked tongue to scaly tail-tip; but it merely rustledin the leaves of a bad novel; and, on encountering a hasty andill-advised demonstration of wrath, recoiled and vanished, hissing. Shehated me from that day.

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

  Madame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She once talkedto me about her, with an odd mixture of discrimination, indifference,and antipathy. I asked why she kept her in the establishment. Sheanswered plainly, "because it suited her interest to do so;" andpointed out a fact I had already noticed, namely, that Mademoiselle St.Pierre possessed, in an almost unique degree, the power of keepingorder amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. A certain petrifyinginfluence accompanied and surrounded her: without passion, noise, orviolence, she held them in check as a breezeless frost-air might stilla brawling stream. She was of little use as far as communication ofknowledge went, but for strict surveillance and maintenance of rulesshe was invaluable. "Je sais bien qu'elle n'a pas de principes, ni,peut-etre, de moeurs," admitted Madame frankly; but added withphilosophy, "son maintien en classe est toujours convenable et remplimeme d'une certaine dignite: c'est tout ce qu'il faut. Ni les eleves niles parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par consequent, moi non plus."

  * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The play was the main point; a month's previous drilling being thererequired. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care;then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue ofcountless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, St. Pierredid not suffice: other management, other accomplishments than hers wererequisite here. They were supplied in the person of a master--M. PaulEmanuel, professor of literature. It was never my lot to be present atthe histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I often saw him as he crossedthe _carre_ (a square hall between the dwelling-house andschool-house). I heard him, too, in the warm evenings, lecturing withopen doors, and his name, with anecdotes of him, resounded in ones earsfrom all sides. Especially our former acquaintance, Miss GinevraFanshawe,--who had been selected to take a prominent part in theplay--used, in bestowing upon me a large portion of her leisure, tolard her discourse with frequent allusions to his sayings and doings.She esteemed him hideously plain, and used to profess herselffrightened almost into hysterics at the sound of his step or voice. Adark little man he certainly was; pungent and austere. Even to me heseemed a harsh apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad,sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wide and quivering nostril, histhorough glance, and hurried bearing. Irritable he was; one heard that,as he apostrophized with vehemence the awkward squad under his orders.Sometimes he would break out on these raw amateur actresses with apassion of impatience at their falseness of conception, their coldnessof emotion, their feebleness of delivery. "Ecoutez!" he would cry; andthen his voice rang through the pre
mises like a trumpet; and when,mimicking it, came the small pipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or aBlanche, one understood why a hollow groan of scorn, or a fierce hissof rage, rewarded the tame echo.

  "Vous n'etes donc que des poupees," I heard him thunder. "Vous n'avezpas de passions--vous autres. Vous ne sentez donc rien? Votre chair estde neige, votre sang de glace! Moi, je veux que tout cela s'allume,qu'il ait une vie, une ame!"

  Vain resolve! And when he at last found it _was_ vain, he suddenlybroke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teaching them agrand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels, and came next day with acompact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly; hepresently knocked it all into their smooth round pates.

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

  The day preceding Madame's fete was as much a holiday as the feteitself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging anddecorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayestbustle; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person findrest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refugein the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, findingwarmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort of companionshipin my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged but two sentencesthat day with any living being: not that I felt solitary; I was glad tobe quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to pass through the rooms onceor twice, observe what changes were being wrought, how a green-room anda dressing-room were being contrived, a little stage with sceneryerected, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunction with Mademoiselle St.Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager band of pupils, amongstthem Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under his control.

  The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot andunclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windowswere set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom--andfreedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachersand pupils descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:anticipating "avec delices" the toilette of the evening, they seemed totake a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury of slovenliness;like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. About nine o'clockA.M., an important functionary, the "coiffeur," arrived. Sacrilegiousto state, he fixed his head-quarters in the oratory, and there, inpresence of _benitier_, candle, and crucifix, solemnised the mysteriesof his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to pass through his hands;emerging from them with head as smooth as a shell, intersected byfaultless white lines, and wreathed about with Grecian plaits thatshone as if lacquered. I took my turn with the rest, and could hardlybelieve what the glass said when I applied to it for informationafterwards; the lavished garlandry of woven brown hair amazed me--Ifeared it was not all my own, and it required several convincing pullsto give assurance to the contrary. I then acknowledged in the coiffeura first-rate artist--one who certainly made the most of indifferentmaterials.

  The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions,arrayings and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was, and evermust be an enigma, how they contrived to spend so much time in doing solittle. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: the resultsimple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin's colours),a pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves--such was the gala uniform,to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers and pupils devotedthree mortal hours. But though simple, it must be allowed the array wasperfect--perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness; every head being alsodressed with exquisite nicety, and a certain compact taste--suiting thefull, firm comeliness of Labassecourien contours, though too stiff forany more flowing and flexible style of beauty--the general effect was,on the whole, commendable.

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

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

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

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

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

  Now the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, or servants,or _coiffeurs_, or _tailleuses_, went and came on their severalerrands. Moreover, there was good reason to expect it would ring allthe afternoon, since about one hundred externes were yet to arrive incarriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected to rest during theevening, when parents and friends would gather thronging to the play.Under these circumstances, a ring--even a sharp ring--was a matter ofcourse: yet this particular peal had an accent of its own, which chasedmy dream, and startled my book from my knee.

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

  "C'est cela!" said a voice. "Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise. Tant pis.Toute Anglaise, et, par consequent, toute begueule q
u'elle soit--ellefera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi."

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

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

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

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

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

  "In the vaudeville?"

  "In the vaudeville. You have said it."

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

  "Listen!" he said. "The case shall be stated, and you shall then answerme Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever after estimateyou."

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

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

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

  "Vite a l'ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your _role_: read." And Iread. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled and stamped. Hegave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was a disagreeable part--aman's--an empty-headed fop's. One could put into it neither heart norsoul: I hated it. The play--a mere trifle--ran chiefly on the effortsof a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover wascalled the "Ours," a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort ofdiamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and atraitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.

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

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

  The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know howunpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so littleceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter,it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it; olddresses draped its unstained wall--cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Wellwas it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and bycockroaches--nay, rumour affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the gardenhad once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, acrosswhich, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn, by wayof screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendent each from its pin,like a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, andbehind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believe this,nor was I troubled by apprehension thereof; but I saw a very dark andlarge rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from that squalid alcove;and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black-beetle, dotting the floor.These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than it would be wise tosay, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heat of the place. Thelast inconvenience would soon have become intolerable, had I not foundmeans to open and prop up the skylight, thus admitting some freshness.Underneath this aperture I pushed a large empty chest, and havingmounted upon it a smaller box, and wiped from both the dust, I gatheredmy dress (my best, the reader must remember, and therefore a legitimateobject of care) fastidiously around me, ascended this species ofextempore throne, and being seated, commenced the acquisition of mytask; while I learned, not forgetting to keep a sharp look-out on theblack-beetles and cockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than ofthe rats, I sat in mortal dread.

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

  In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide into evening;and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grew excessively hungry.Now I thought of the collation, which doubtless they were just thendevouring in the garden far below. (I had seen in the vestibule abasketful of small _pates a la creme_, than which nothing in the wholerange of cookery seemed to me better). A _pate_, or a square of cake,it seemed to me would come very _apropos;_ and as my relish for thosedainties increased, it began to appear somewhat hard that I should passmy holiday, fasting and in prison. Remote as was the attic from thestreet-door and vestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintlyaudible here; and also the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormentedpavement. I knew that the house and garden were thronged, and that allwas gay and glad below; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles werefading from my sight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march,mount my throne unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatientand apprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to killtime. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key inthe lock came to my ear--no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just seethrough the dusk that it _was_ M. Paul, for light enough still lingeredto show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and the sallowivory of his brow) looked in.

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

  A moment I hesitated.

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

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

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

  "Monsieur," I called out, taking courage.

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

  "J'ai bien faim."

  "Co
mment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?"

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

  "Ah! C'est vrai," cried he.

  In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverserepetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic,instantly took me down--down--down to the very kitchen. I thought Ishould have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered toproduce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To my greatjoy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wine andsweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a_petit pate a la creme_ I cannot tell; but he went out and procured meone from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ate and drank,keeping the _petit pate_ till the last, as a _bonne bouche_. M. Paulsuperintended my repast, and almost forced upon me more than I couldswallow.

  "A la bonne heure," he cried, when I signified that I really could takeno more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared the additionalroll on which he had just spread butter. "You will set me down as aspecies of tyrant and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret; whereas,after all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feel courageand strength to appear?"

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

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

  I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me torun at his side in order to keep pace. In the carre he stopped amoment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classes wereopen, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees in tubs,and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side; groupsof ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walked amongst theflowers. Within, the long vista of the school-rooms presented athronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streaming multitude, allrose, and blue, and half translucent white. There were lustres burningoverhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn green curtain, a row offootlights.

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

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

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

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

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

  Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of the firstclasse. It stood open, like all other doors that night; we passed, andthen I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing the first classe fromthe grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was so full of light: itdeafened me, it was clamorous with voices: it stifled me, it was sohot, choking, thronged.

  "De l'ordre! Du silence!" cried M. Paul. "Is this chaos?", he demanded;and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as many gestures, heturned out half the persons present, and obliged the remnant to fallinto rank. Those left were all in costume: they were the performers,and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and sometittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwomanwould play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed forher part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyesas round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear orbashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off beforehundreds--my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in themidst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her andall the rest in check.

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

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

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

  To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I hadconsented to take a man's name and part; as to his dress--_halte la!_No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul might storm,might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice asresolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady in utterance.

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

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

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

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

  She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one,and then he gave me one. "Stop!" he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre,who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited thedecision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that, and tookheart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M. Paul,setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a general addressingsoldiers about to charge. I don't know what he said, except that herecommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of her personalinsignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluous for some ofus. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to the stage. Thebell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.

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

  He vanished. The curtain drew up--shrivelled to the ceiling: the brightlights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thought of theblack-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said my saybadly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; it re
vealedto me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so much as my ownvoice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing to me. Nor didI think of them. When my tongue once got free, and my voice took itstrue pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought of nothing but thepersonage I represented--and of M. Paul, who was listening, watching,prompting in the side-scenes.

  By-and-by, feeling the right power come--the spring demanded gush andrise inwardly--I became sufficiently composed to notice myfellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially GinevraFanshawe, who had to coquette between two suitors, and managedadmirably: in fact she was in her element. I observed that she once ortwice threw a certain marked fondness and pointed partiality into hermanner towards me--the fop. With such emphasis and animation did shefavour me, such glances did she dart out into the listening andapplauding crowd, that to me--who knew her--it presently became evidentshe was acting _at_ some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, hergesture, and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out ahandsome and distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path ofthose arrows--taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure toreceive them--stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-knownform--that of Dr. John.

  The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr.John's look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drewout of it a history; I put my idea into the part I performed; I threwit into my wooing of Ginevra. In the "Ours," or sincere lover, I sawDr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalledand out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where _he_ wasoutcast _I_ could please. Now I know acted as if wishful and resoluteto win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed thenature of the _role_, gilding it from top to toe. Between the acts M.Paul, told us he knew not what possessed us, and half expostulated."C'est peut-etre plus beau que votre modele," said he, "mais ce n'estpas juste." I know not what possessed me either; but somehow, mylonging was to eclipse the "Ours," _i.e._, Dr. John. Ginevra wastender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric? Retaining the letter,I recklessly altered the spirit of the _role_. Without heart, withoutinterest, I could not play it at all. It must be played--in went theyearned-for seasoning--thus favoured, I played it with relish.

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

  No sooner was the play over, and _well_ over, than the choleric andarbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour of managerialresponsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterial austerity;in a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, and social, shookhands with us all round, thanked us separately, and announced hisdetermination that each of us should in turn be his partner in thecoming ball. On his claiming my promise, I told him I did not dance."For once I must," was the answer; and if I had not slipped aside andkept out of his way, he would have compelled me to this secondperformance. But I had acted enough for one evening; it was time Iretired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun-coloured dress didwell enough under a paletot on the stage, but would not suit a waltz ora quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobserved I couldobserve--the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passed before meas a spectacle.

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

  Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the mere sakeof M. Paul, her partner, or that she lavished her best graces thatnight for the edification of her companions only, or for that of theparents and grand-parents, who filled the carre, and lined theball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives sochilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk onequadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animationand good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy festalmass which lighted the whole; she tasted a condiment which gave itzest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicestattractions.

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

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

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

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

  In the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, forit was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly: theadmission of these rattlesnakes, so fascinating and so dangerous,served to draw out Madame precisely in her strongest character--that ofa first-rate _surveillante_. Thirdly: their presence furnished a mostpiquant ingredient to t
he entertainment: the pupils knew it, and sawit, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off, animated themwith a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children'spleasure spread to the parents; life and mirth circulated quickly roundthe ball-room; the "jeunes gens" themselves, though restrained, wereamused: for Madame never permitted them to feel dull--and thus MadameBeck's fete annually ensured a success unknown to the fete of any otherdirectress in the land.

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

  "Come, Wolf; come," said she, laughing: "you wear sheep's clothing, butyou must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a fine menagerieof twenty here in the carre: let me place you amongst my collection."

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

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

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

  Ginevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in myretreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (a demonstrationI could very well have dispensed with) cast her arms round my neck.

  "Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!" she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, halfhysterical.

  "What in the world is the matter?" I drily said.

  "How do I look--how do I look to-night?" she demanded.

  "As usual," said I; "preposterously vain."

  "Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite ofyou, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful; I feelit, I see it--for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room,where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now,and let us two stand before it?"

  "I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of yourbent."

  The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her armthrough mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistanceremonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feastand triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow--whether it waspossible it could feed to satiety--whether any whisper of considerationfor others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vaingloriousexultation.

  Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on allsides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, shespread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying withmock respect, she said: "I would not be you for a kingdom."

  The remark was too _naive_ to rouse anger; I merely said: "Very good."

  "And what would _you_ give to be ME?" she inquired.

  "Not a bad sixpence--strange as it may sound," I replied. "You are buta poor creature."

  "You don't think so in your heart."

  "No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I onlyoccasionally turn you over in my brain."

  "Well, but," said she, in an expostulatory tone, "just listen to thedifference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and howmiserable are you."

  "Go on; I listen."

  "In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, andthough my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then,I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had a continentaleducation, and though I can't spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I_am_ pretty; _you_ can't deny that; I may have as many admirers as Ichoose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of twogentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of them just now,which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red andpale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, and languishingones at me. There is _me_--happy ME; now for _you_, poor soul!

  "I suppose you are nobody's daughter, since you took care of littlechildren when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; youcan't call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractiveaccomplishments--no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what theyare; you can't even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the otherteachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, andnever will be: you don't know the feeling, and so much the better, forthough you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will youever break. Isn't it all true?"

  "A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There must begood in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zelie St.Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe,hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not giveto purchase you, body and soul."

  "Just because I am not clever, and that is all _you_ think of. Nobodyin the world but you cares for cleverness."

  "On the contrary, I consider you _are_ clever, in your way--very smartindeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts--that edifyingamusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter; pray on whomdoes your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?"

  She approached her lips to my ear--"Isidore and Alfred de Hamal areboth here?" she whispered.

  "Oh! they are? I should like to see them."

  "There's a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me,I will point them out."

  She proudly led the way--"But you cannot see them well from theclasses," said she, turning, "Madame keeps them too far off. Let uscross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind:we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind."

  For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went--penetrated intothe corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the _carre_,yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of"jeunes gens."

  I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal evenundirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured littledandy. I say _little_ dandy, though he was not beneath the middlestandard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were hishands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: sonicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated--hewas charming indeed. I said so. "What, a dear personage!" cried I, andcommended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked her what she thought deHamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she hadbroken--whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them inotto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture of approbation, thatthe colonel's hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe's own, andsuggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wearher gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doated: and asto his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic headpiece, I confessedI had no language to do such perfections justice.

  "And if he were your lover?" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.

  "Oh! heavens, what bliss!" said I; "but do not be inhuman, MissFanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing pooroutcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise."

  "You like him, then?"

  "As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers."

  Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; shecould then readily credit that they were mine too.

  "Now for Isidore," I went on. I own I felt still more curious to seehim than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.

  "Alfred was admitted here to-night," said she, "through the influenceof his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him,can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening,and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I am now happy asa queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him andthen at the other, and madden them both."

  "But that other--where is he? Show me Isidore."

  "I don't like."

  "Why not?"

  "I am ashamed of him."

  "For what reason?"

  "Because--because" (in a whisper) "he has such--such whiskers,orange--red--there now!"

  "The murder is out," I subjoine
d. "Never mind, show him all the same; Iengage not to faint."

  She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.

  "You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor."

  "There is no draught, Dr. John," said I, turning.

  "She takes cold so easily," he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extremekindness. "She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl."

  "Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. "Iwant no shawl."

  "Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated."

  "Always preaching," retorted she; "always coddling and admonishing."

  The answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart washurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, heturned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plentyof shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.

  "She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her," said I, foldingit well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and herarms. "Is that Isidore?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.

  She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.

  "Is _that_ Isidore?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have givenher a dozen.

  "C'est lui-meme," said she. "How coarse he is, compared with theColonel-Count! And then--oh ciel!--the whiskers!"

  Dr. John now passed on.

  "The Colonel-Count!" I echoed. "The doll--the puppet--the manikin--thepoor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John his valet, hisfoot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman--handsome as avision--offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promisesto protect your flimsy person and feckless mind through the storms andstruggles of life--and you hang back--you scorn, you sting, you torturehim! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Where is it?Does it lie all in your beauty--your pink and white complexion, andyour yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet, and bend hisneck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection, histenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble, cordiallove--and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are onlydissembling: you are not in earnest: you love him; you long for him;but you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours?"

  "Bah! How you run on! I don't understand half you have said."

  I had got her out into the garden ere this. I now set her down on aseat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which shemeant in the end to accept--the man or the monkey.

  "Him you call the man," said she, "is bourgeois, sandy-haired, andanswers to the name of John!--cela suffit: je n'en veux pas. Colonel deHamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners, sweetappearance, with pale interesting face, and hair and eyes like anItalian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible--a manquite in my way; not sensible and serious like the other; but one withwhom I can talk on equal terms--who does not plague and bore, andharass me with depths, and heights, and passions, and talents for whichI have no taste. There now. Don't hold me so fast."

  I slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care to pursue her.

  Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of thecorridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on thegarden-steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. Hiswell-proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whetherthere was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat inhis hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsomeand manly. _His_ features were not delicate, not slight like those of awoman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble; though well cut, theywere not so chiselled, so frittered away, as to lose in expression orsignificance what they gained in unmeaning symmetry. Much feeling spokein them at times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such at least were mythoughts of him: to me he seemed all this. An inexpressible sense ofwonder occupied me, as I looked at this man, and reflected that _he_could not be slighted.

  It was, not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, ourterms of acquaintance not warranting such a step; I had only meant toview him in the crowd--myself unseen: coming upon him thus alone, Iwithdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who had beenwith me: therefore he descended the steps, and followed me down thealley.

  "You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knewher," said he.

  "Yes: I know her."

  "Intimately?"

  "Quite as intimately as I wish."

  "What have you done with her now?"

  "Am I her keeper?" I felt inclined to ask; but I simply answered, "Ihave shaken her well, and would have shaken her better, but she escapedout of my hands and ran away."

  "Would you favour me," he asked, "by watching over her this oneevening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent--does not, forinstance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?"

  "I may, perhaps, look after her a little; since you wish it; but shelikes her own way too well to submit readily to control."

  "She is so young, so thoroughly artless," said he.

  "To me she is an enigma," I responded.

  "Is she?" he asked--much interested. "How?"

  "It would be difficult to say how--difficult, at least, to tell _you_how."

  "And why me?"

  "I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend."

  "But she has not the slightest idea how much I _am_ her friend. That isprecisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire did she everspeak of me to you?"

  "Under the name of 'Isidore' she has talked about you often; but I mustadd that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discovered thatyou and 'Isidore' are identical. It is only, Dr. John, within thatbrief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is the person,under this roof, in whom you have long been interested--that she is themagnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for her sake youventure into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped by rivals."

  "You know all?"

  "I know so much."

  "For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society.Mrs. Cholmondeley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine; thus I seeher every Sunday. But you observed that under the name of 'Isidore' sheoften spoke of me: may I--without inviting you to a breach ofconfidence--inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of her remarks?I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormented withuncertainty as to how I stand with her."

  "Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind."

  "Still, you can gather some general idea--?"

  "I can," thought I, "but it would not do to communicate that generalidea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you wouldnot believe me."

  "You are silent," he pursued. "I suppose you have no good news toimpart. No matter. If she feels for me positive coldness and aversion,it is a sign I do not deserve her."

  "Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior ofColonel de Hamal?"

  "I love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any human being, andwould care for and guard her better than he. Respecting de Hamal, Ifear she is under an illusion; the man's character is known to me, allhis antecedents, all his scrapes. He is not worthy of your beautifulyoung friend."

  "My 'beautiful young friend' ought to know that, and to know or feelwho is worthy of her," said I. "If her beauty or her brains will notserve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience."

  "Are you not a little severe?"

  "I am excessively severe--more severe than I choose to show you. Youshould hear the strictures with which I favour my 'beautiful youngfriend,' only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want oftender considerateness for her delicate nature."

  "She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her. You--everywoman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent,girlish fairy a sort of motherly or elder-sisterly fondness. Gracefulangel! Does not your heart yearn towards
her when she pours into yourear her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged!" And hesighed.

  "I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and then," said I."But excuse me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant? Whata god-like person is that de Hamal! What a nose on his face--perfect!Model one in putty or clay, you could not make a better or straighter,or neater; and then, such classic lips and chin--and hisbearing--sublime."

  "De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very white-liveredhero."

  "You, Dr. John, and every man of a less-refined mould than he, mustfeel for him a sort of admiring affection, such as Mars and the coarserdeities may be supposed to have borne the young, graceful Apollo."

  "An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes!" said Dr. John curtly,"whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the waistband any day, and laylow in the kennel if I liked."

  "The sweet seraph!" said I. "What a cruel idea! Are you not a littlesevere, Dr. John?"

  And now I paused. For the second time that night I was going beyondmyself--venturing out of what I looked on as my naturalhabits--speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which startledme strangely when I halted to reflect. On rising that morning, had Ianticipated that before night I should have acted the part of a gaylover in a vaudeville; and an hour after, frankly discussed with Dr.John the question of his hapless suit, and rallied him on hisillusions? I had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forwardto an ascent in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn.

  The Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were now returning; thereflex from the window again lit his face: he smiled, but his eye wasmelancholy. How I wished that he could feel heart's-ease! How I grievedthat he brooded over pain, and pain from such a cause! He, with hisgreat advantages, _he_ to love in vain! I did not then know that thepensiveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds; nor did Ireflect that some herbs, "though scentless when entire, yield fragrancewhen they're bruised."

  "Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve," I broke out. "If there is inGinevra one spark of worthiness of your affection, she will--she _must_feel devotion in return. Be cheerful, be hopeful, Dr. John. Who shouldhope, if not you?"

  In return for this speech I got--what, it must be supposed, Ideserved--a look of surprise: I thought also of some disapprobation. Weparted, and I went into the house very chill. The clocks struck and thebells tolled midnight; people were leaving fast: the fete was over; thelamps were fading. In another hour all the dwelling-house, and all thepensionnat, were dark and hushed. I too was in bed, but not asleep. Tome it was not easy to sleep after a day of such excitement.