CHAPTER XXVII.
THE HOTEL CRECY.
The morrow turned out a more lively and busy day than we--or than I, atleast--had anticipated. It seems it was the birthday of one of the youngprinces of Labassecour--the eldest, I think, the Duc de Dindonneau, anda general holiday was given in his honour at the schools, andespecially at the principal "Athenee," or college. The youth of thatinstitution had also concocted, and were to present a loyal address;for which purpose they were to be assembled in the public buildingwhere the yearly examinations were conducted, and the prizesdistributed. After the ceremony of presentation, an oration, or"discours," was to follow from one of the professors.
Several of M. de Bassompierre's friends--the savants-being more or lessconnected with the Athenee, they were expected to attend on thisoccasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. leChevalier Staas, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of theAthenians in general. M. de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends toaccompany them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party,and she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us comeearly that we might join her.
As Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing in the dormitory of the RueFossette, she (Miss F.) suddenly burst into a laugh.
"What now?" I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arrangingher attire, and was gazing at me.
"It seems so odd," she replied, with her usual half-honesthalf-insolent unreserve, "that you and I should now be so much on alevel, visiting in the same sphere; having the same connections."
"Why, yes," said I; "I had not much respect for the connections youchiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs. Cholmondeley and Co. would neverhave suited me at all."
"Who _are_ you, Miss Snowe?" she inquired, in a tone of suchundisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn.
"You used to call yourself a nursery governess; when you first camehere you really had the care of the children in this house: I have seenyou carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne--few governesseswould have condescended so far--and now Madame Beck treats you withmore courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and thatproud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom friend!"
"Wonderful!" I agreed, much amused at her mystification. "Who am Iindeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don't look thecharacter."
"I wonder you are not more flattered by all this," she went on; "youtake it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I oncethought you, you must be a cool hand."
"The nobody you once thought me!" I repeated, and my face grew a littlehot; but I would not be angry: of what importance was a school-girl'scrude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself,therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility; and asked"what she saw in civility to throw the recipient into a fever ofconfusion?"
"One can't help wondering at some things," she persisted.
"Wondering at marvels of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?"
"Yes; let me take your arm."
"I would rather not: we will walk side by side."
When she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight; and,as I was not a gentleman, or her lover, I did not like it.
"There, again!" she cried. "I thought, by offering to take your arm, tointimate approbation of your dress and general appearance: I meant itas a compliment."
"You did? You meant, in short, to express that you are not ashamed tobe seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondeley should befondling her lapdog at some window, or Colonel de Hamal picking histeeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would notquite blush for your companion?"
"Yes," said she, with that directness which was her best point--whichgave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them--whichwas, in short, the salt, the sole preservative ingredient of acharacter otherwise not formed to keep.
I delegated the trouble of commenting on this "yes" to my countenance;or rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue of course,reverence and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look Igave her.
"Scornful, sneering creature!" she went on, as we crossed a greatsquare, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to theRue 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: Iwill let you alone."
"As if one _could_ let you alone, when you are so peculiar and somysterious!"
"The mystery and peculiarity being entirely the conception of your ownbrain--maggots--neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them outof my sight."
"But _are_ you anybody?" persevered she, pushing her hand, in spite ofme, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself with inhospitablecloseness against my side, by way of keeping out the intruder.
"Yes," I said, "I am a rising character: once an old lady's companion,then a nursery-governess, now a school-teacher."
"Do--_do_ tell me who you are? I'll not repeat it," she urged, adheringwith ludicrous tenacity to the wise notion of an incognito she had gothold of; and she squeezed the arm of which she had now obtained fullpossession, and coaxed and conjured till I was obliged to pause in thepark to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changeson this theme; proving, by her obstinate credulity, or incredulity, herincapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered up by birth orwealth, not supported by some consciousness of name or connection,could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity. As for me, it quitesufficed to my mental tranquillity that I was known where it importedthat known I should be; the rest sat on me easily: pedigree, socialposition, and recondite intellectual acquisition, occupied about thesame space and place in my interests and thoughts; they were mythird-class lodgers--to whom could be assigned only the smallsitting-room and the little back bedroom: even if the dining anddrawing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinkingminor accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world, Isoon learned, held a different estimate: and I make no doubt, the worldis very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrongin mine.
There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whom lossof connection costs loss of self-respect: are not these justified inplacing the highest value on that station and association which istheir safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would becomecontemptible in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestrywere simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and notcapitalists, would it be right severely to blame him for keeping thesefatal facts out of sight--for starting, trembling, quailing at thechance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more outexperience widens; the less prone are we to judge our neighbour'sconduct, to question the world's wisdom: wherever an accumulation ofsmall defences is found, whether surrounding the prude's virtue or theman of the world's respectability, there, be sure, it is needed.
We reached the Hotel Crecy; Paulina was ready; Mrs. Bretton was withher; and, under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soonconducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at aconvenient distance from the Tribune. The youth of the Athenee weremarshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were inplaces of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied aconspicuous position, and the body of the building was crowded with thearistocracy and first burghers of the town.
Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the "discours" was tobe delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Somevague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver aformal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to theprinces.
The Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after itwas filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grewabove the crimson desk. This head I knew: its colour, shape, port,expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe; the blacknessand closeness of cranium, the amplitude and paleness of brow, thebluen
ess and fire of glance, were details so domesticated in thememory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost bythis their sudden apparition, to tickle fancy to a laugh. Indeed, Iconfess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent myhead, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidantsof my mirth.
I think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rather pleasant thanotherwise, to behold him set up there, fierce and frank, dark andcandid, testy and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class.His presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expectinghim, though I knew he filled the chair of Belles Lettres in thecollege. With _him_ in that Tribune, I felt sure that neither formalismnor flattery would be our doom; but for what was vouchsafed us, forwhat was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously, on our heads--I own Iwas not prepared.
He spoke to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates, and the burghers,with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed, cholericearnestness, with which he was wont to harangue the three divisions ofthe Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, butas future citizens and embryo patriots. The times which have since comeon Europe had not been foretold yet, and M. Emanuel's spirit seemed newto me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Labassecourcould yield political convictions and national feelings, such as werenow strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions I need here giveno special indication; yet it may be permitted me to say that Ibelieved the little man not more earnest than right in what he said:with all his fire he was severe and sensible; he trampled Utopiantheories under his heel; he rejected wild dreams with scorn;--but whenhe looked in the face of tyranny--oh, then there opened a light in hiseye worth seeing; and when he spoke of injustice, his voice gave nouncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band-trumpet, ringing attwilight from the park.
I do not think his audience were generally susceptible of sharing hisflame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire as heeloquently told them what should be their path and endeavour in theircountry's and in Europe's future. They gave him a long, loud, ringingcheer, as he concluded: with all his fierceness, he was their favouriteprofessor.
As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knewme, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and uttered thewords "Qu'en dites vous?"--question eminently characteristic, andreminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitiverestlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control,which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then toask what I thought, or what anybody thought, but he _did_ care, and hewas too natural to conceal, too impulsive to repress his wish. Well! ifI blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his _naivete_. I would havepraised him: I had plenty of praise in my heart; but, alas! no words onmy lips. Who _has_ words at the right moment? I stammered some lameexpressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up withprofuse congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy.
A gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre; and the Count, whohad likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends (forthe most part M. Emanuel's likewise), and to dine with them at theHotel Crecy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shyat meeting the advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdyindependence in the stringing of his sinews--not obtrusive, butpleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of hischaracter; he promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A----,a French Academician, in the course of the evening.
At dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way,very beautiful; the former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in materialcharms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtleand spiritual: for light and eloquence of eye, for grace of mien, forwinning variety of expression. Ginevra's dress of deep crimson relievedwell her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-like bloom.Paulina's attire--in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but intexture clear and white--made the eye grateful for the delicate life ofher complexion, for the soft animation of her countenance, for thetender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous flow ofher hair--darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also hereyebrows, her eyelashes, her full irids, and large mobile pupils.Nature having traced all these details slightly, and with a carelesshand, in Miss Fanshawe's case; and in Miss de Bassompierre's, wroughtthem to a high and delicate finish.
Paulina was awed by the savants, but not quite to mutism: she conversedmodestly, diffidently; not without effort, but with so true asweetness, so fine and penetrating a sense, that her father more thanonce suspended his own discourse to listen, and fixed on her an eye ofproud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, M. Z----, a very learned, butquite a courtly man, who had drawn her into discourse. I was charmedwith her French; it was faultless--the structure correct, the idiomstrue, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her life on theContinent, could do nothing like it not that words ever failed MissFanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed, nor inany number of years would acquire. Here, too, M. de Bassompierre wasgratified; for, on the point of language, he was critical.
Another listener and observer there was; one who, detained by someexigency of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladieswere quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the moment of taking his seatat the table; and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. Hisarrival roused Miss Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless: shenow became smiling and complacent, talked--though what she said wasrarely to the purpose--or rather, was of a purpose somewhatmortifyingly below the standard of the occasion. Her light,disconnected prattle might have gratified Graham once; perhaps itpleased him still: perhaps it was only fancy which suggested thethought that, while his eye was filled and his ear fed, his taste, hiskeen zest, his lively intelligence, were not equally consulted andregaled. It is certain that, restless and exacting as seemed the demandon his attention, he yielded courteously all that was required: hismanner showed neither pique nor coolness: Ginevra was his neighbour,and to her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice.She appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in very goodspirits.
Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she againbecame flat and listless: throwing herself on a couch, she denouncedboth the "discours" and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired ofher cousin how she could hear such a set of prosaic "gros-bonnets" asher father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard tomove, her railings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, anddashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the first, tookup his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain thatpost: there was a position near the hearth to which I expected to seehim attracted: this position he only scanned with his eye; while _he_looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulina charmed thesethoughtful Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy ofher manner, her immature, but real and inbred tact, pleased theirnational taste; they clustered about her, not indeed to talk science;which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subjects inletters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that shehad both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Grahamstood aloof, he listened too: his hearing as well as his vision wasvery fine, quick, discriminating. I knew he gathered the conversation;I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited himexquisitely--pleased him almost to pain.
In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character; thanmost people thought--than Graham himself imagined--than she would evershow to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, thereis no excellent beauty, no accomplished grace, no reliable refinement,without strength as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As wellmight you look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and saplesstree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature.For a little while, the blooming semblance of beauty may flourish roundweakness; but it cannot bear a blast: it soon fades, even in serenestsunshi
ne. Graham would have started had any suggestive spirit whisperedof the sinew and the stamina sustaining that delicate nature; but I whohad known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good and strongroot her graces held to the firm soil of reality.
While Dr. Bretton listened, and waited an opening in the magic circle,his glance restlessly sweeping the room at intervals, lighted by chanceon me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmother and M. deBassompierre, who, as usual, were engaged in what Mr. Home called "atwo-handed crack:" what the Count would have interpreted as atete-a-tete. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me howI was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my ownthought: it was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken tome--a lapse of which he was not even conscious. He sat down, and becamesilent. His wish was rather to look than converse. Ginevra and Paulinawere now opposite to him: he could gaze his fill: he surveyed bothforms--studied both faces.
Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the roomsince dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation; and amongst thegentlemen, I may incidentally observe, I had already noticed byglimpses, a severe, dark, professorial outline, hovering aloof in aninner saloon, seen only in vista. M. Emanuel knew many of the gentlemenpresent, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, exceptingmyself; in looking towards the hearth, he could not but see me, andnaturally made a movement to approach; seeing, however, Dr. Brettonalso, he changed his mind and held back. If that had been all, therewould have been no cause for quarrel; but not satisfied with holdingback, he puckered up his eyebrows, protruded his lip, and looked sougly that I averted my eyes from the displeasing spectacle. M. JosephEmanuel had arrived, as well as his austere brother, and at this verymoment was relieving Ginevra at the piano. What a master-touchsucceeded her school-girl jingle! In what grand, grateful tones theinstrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist!
"Lucy," began Dr. Bretton, breaking silence and smiling, as Ginevraglided before him, casting a glance as she passed by, "Miss Fanshawe iscertainly 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'sgod-son instead of her god-daughter, we should have been good friends:our opinions would have melted into each other."
He had assumed a bantering air: a light, half-caressing, half-ironic,shone aslant in his eye. Ah, Graham! I have given more than onesolitary moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of LucySnowe: was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically the samebut possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station, wouldyour manner to her, your value for her, have been quite what theyactually were? And yet by these questions I would not seriously inferblame. No; you might sadden and trouble me sometimes; but then mine wasa soon-depressed, an easily-deranged temperament--it fell if a cloudcrossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity I should standmore at fault than you.
Trying, then, to keep down the unreasonable pain which thrilled myheart, on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote toothers the most grave and earnest, the manliest interest, he had nomore than light raillery for Lucy, the friend of lang syne, I inquiredcalmly,--"On what points are we so closely in accordance?"
"We each have an observant faculty. You, perhaps, don't give me creditfor the possession; yet I have it."
"But you were speaking of tastes: we may see the same objects, yetestimate them differently?"
"Let us bring it to the test. Of course, you cannot but render homageto the merits of Miss Fanshawe: now, what do you think of others in theroom?--my mother, for instance; or the lions yonder, Messieurs A----and Z----; or, let us say, that pale little lady, Miss de Bassompierre?"
"You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of MessieursA---- and Z----."
"And the other?"
"I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady--pale, certainly, justnow, when she is fatigued with over-excitement."
"You don't remember her as a child?"
"I wonder, sometimes, whether you do."
"I had forgotten her; but it is noticeable, that circumstances,persons, even words and looks, that had slipped your memory, may, undercertain 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 ofa fancy, that the testimony of a witness becomes necessary forcorroboration. Were you not a guest at Bretton ten years ago, when Mr.Home brought his little girl, whom we then called 'little Polly,' tostay with mamma?"
"I was there the night she came, and also the morning she went away."
"Rather a peculiar child, was she not? I wonder how I treated her. WasI fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindlyabout me--great, reckless, schoolboy as I was? But you don't recollectme, of course?"
"You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like youpersonally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day."
"But, Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle really whets my curiosity. Whatam I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?"
"Gracious to whatever pleased you--unkindly or cruel to nothing."
"There you are wrong; I think I was almost a brute to _you_, forinstance."
"A brute! No, Graham: I should never have patiently endured brutality."
"_This_, however, I _do_ remember: quiet Lucy Snowe tasted nothing ofmy grace."
"As little of your cruelty."
"Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented a beinginoffensive as a shadow."
I smiled; but I also hushed a groan. Oh!--I just wished he would let mealone--cease allusion to me. These epithets--these attributes I putfrom me. His "quiet Lucy Snowe," his "inoffensive shadow," I gave himback; not with scorn, but with extreme weariness: theirs was thecoldness and the pressure of lead; let him whelm me with no suchweight. Happily, he was soon on another theme.
"On what terms were 'little Polly' and I? Unless my recollectionsdeceive me, we were not foes--"
"You speak very vaguely. Do you think little Polly's memory, not moredefinite?"
"Oh! we don't talk of 'little Polly' _now_. Pray say, Miss deBassompierre; and, of course, such a stately personage remembersnothing of Bretton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy; can they read a wordin the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to ahorn-book? She does not know that I partly taught her to read."
"In the Bible on Sunday nights?"
"She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now: once what a littlerestless, anxious countenance was hers! What a thing is a child'spreference--what a bubble! Would you believe it? that lady was fond ofme!"
"I think she was in some measure fond of you," said I, moderately.
"You don't remember then? _I_ had forgotten; but I remember _now_. Sheliked me the best of whatever there was at Bretton."
"You thought so."
"I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall; orrather, I wish some one, you for instance, would go behind and whisperit all in her ear, and I could have the delight--here, as I sit--ofwatching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, thinkyou, Lucy, and make me ever grateful?"
"Could I manage to make you ever grateful?" said I. "No, _I couldnot_." And I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock: I felt, too,an inward courage, warm and resistant. In this matter I was notdisposed to gratify Dr. John: not at all. With now welcome force, Irealized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. Hewanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him. Hedid not at all guess what I felt: he did
not read my eyes, or face, orgestures; though, I doubt not, all spoke. Leaning towards me coaxingly,he said, softly, "_Do_ content me, Lucy."
And I would have contented, or, at least, I would clearly haveenlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me thepart of officious soubrette in a love drama; when, following his, soft,eager, murmur, meeting almost his pleading, mellow--"_Do_ content me,Lucy!" a sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side.
"Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!" sibillated the suddenboa-constrictor; "vous avez l'air bien triste, soumis, reveur, maisvous ne l'etes pas: c'est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme al'ame, l'eclair aux yeux!"
"Oui; j'ai la flamme a l'ame, et je dois l'avoir!" retorted I, turningin just wrath: but Professor Emanuel had hissed his insult and was gone.
The worst of the matter was, that Dr. Bretton, whose ears, as I havesaid, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe; he puthis 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 itis: you redden to the colour of Miss Fanshawe's gown. And really, by myword, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was so savagewith you at the concert: the very same, and in his soul he is franticat this moment because he sees me laughing. Oh! I must tease him."
And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief, laughed, jested, andwhispered on till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled.
Suddenly he was sobered: a vacant space appeared near Miss deBassompierre; the circle surrounding her seemed about to dissolve. Thismovement was instantly caught by Graham's eye--ever-vigilant, evenwhile laughing; he rose, took his courage in both hands, crossed theroom, and made the advantage his own. Dr. John, throughout his wholelife, was a man of luck--a man of success. And why? Because he had theeye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timed action,the nerve to consummate a perfect work. And no tyrant-passion draggedhim back; no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered his way. How well helooked at this very moment! When Paulina looked up as he reached herside, her glance mingled at once with an encountering glance, animated,yet modest; his colour, as he spoke to her, became half a blush, half aglow. He stood in her presence brave and bashful: subdued andunobtrusive, yet decided in his purpose and devoted in his ardour. Igathered all this by one view. I did not prolong my observation--timefailed me, had inclination served: the night wore late; Ginevra and Iought already to have been in the Rue Fossette. I rose, and badegood-night to my godmother and M. de Bassompierre.
I know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my reluctantacceptance of Dr. Bretton's badinage, or whether he perceived that Iwas pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flowof exultant enjoyment for the volatile, pleasure-loving MademoiselleLucie; but, as I was leaving the room, he stepped up and inquiredwhether I had any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette. The professor_now_ spoke politely, and even deferentially, and he looked apologeticand repentant; but I could not recognise his civility at a word, normeet his contrition with crude, premature oblivion. Never hitherto hadI felt seriously disposed to resent his brusqueries, or freeze beforehis fierceness; what he had said to-night, however, I consideredunwarranted: my extreme disapprobation of the proceeding must bemarked, however slightly. I merely said:--"I am provided withattendance."
Which was true, as Ginevra and I were to be sent home in the carriage;and I passed him with the sliding obeisance with which he was wont tobe saluted in classe by pupils crossing his estrade.
Having sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emanuel stoodthere as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine.
"Is it?" I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness andfrostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properlyact out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had beengrieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successfuleffort. That "Is it?" sounded just like the manner of other people. Ihad heard hundreds of such little minced, docked, dry phrases, from thepursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficingmisses and mesdemoiselles. That M. Paul would not stand any prolongedexperience of this sort of dialogue I knew; but he certainly merited asample of the curt and arid. I believe he thought so himself, for hetook the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl and objected to itslightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Recedingaloof, and standing apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs,folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary religiouspainting darkening the wall.
Ginevra was long in coming: tedious seemed her loitering. M. Paul wasstill there; my ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He camenearer. "Now for another hiss!" thought I: had not the action been toouncivil I could have, stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of thethrill. Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur; itis then you will hear a cry of prey or pain. Await a piercing shriek,an angry threat, and welcome an amicable greeting, a low kind whisper.M. Paul spoke gently:--"Friends," said he, "do not quarrel for a word.Tell me, was it I or ce grand fat d'Anglais" (so he profanelydenominated Dr. Bretton), "who made your eyes so humid, and your cheeksso hot as they are even now?"
"I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excitedsuch emotion as you indicate," was my answer; and in giving it, I againsurpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood.
"But what did I say?" he pursued; "tell me: I was angry: I haveforgotten my words; what were they?"
"Such as it is best to forget!" said I, still quite calm and chill.
"Then it was _my_ words which wounded you? Consider them unsaid: permitmy retractation; accord my pardon."
"I am not angry, Monsieur."
"Then you are worse than angry--grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy."
"M. Emanuel, I _do_ forgive you."
"Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in thatalien tone, 'Mon ami, je vous pardonne.'"
He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, hissimplicity, his earnestness?
"Bon!" he cried. "Voila que le jour va poindre! Dites donc, mon ami."
"Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne."
"I will have no monsieur: speak the other word, or I shall not believeyou sincere: another effort--_mon ami_, or else in English,--my friend!"
Now, "my friend" had rather another sound and significancy than "_monami_;" it did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimateaffection; "_mon ami_" I could _not_ say to M. Paul; "my friend," Icould, and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not forhim, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. Hesmiled. You should have seen him smile, reader; and you should havemarked the difference between his countenance now, and that he worehalf an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smileof pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul's lips, or in hiseyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic, the disdainful, thepassionately exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by whathe called a smile, but any illuminated sign of milder or warmerfeelings struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from amask to a face: the deep lines left his features; the very complexionseemed clearer and fresher; that swart, sallow, southern darkness whichspoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter hue. I know notthat I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosisfrom a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage: at the samemoment M. de Bassompierre came out with his niece.
In a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshawe; she had found the evening agrand failure: completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the mostuncontrolled moroseness as soon as we were seated, and thecarriage-door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Bretton had somethingvenomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm orsting him, hatred was her only resource; and this hatred she expressedin terms so unmeasured and proportion so monstrous, that, afterlistening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged
sense ofjustice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued: for Icould be passionate, too; especially with my present fair but faultyassociate, who never failed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was wellthat the carriage-wheels made a tremendous rattle over the flintyChoseville pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither deadsilence nor calm discussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, halfin seeming, I made it my business to storm down Ginevra. She had setout rampant from the Rue Crecy; it was necessary to tame her before wereached the Rue Fossette: to this end it was indispensable to show upher sterling value and high deserts; and this must be done in languageof which the fidelity and homeliness might challenge comparison withthe compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the rightdiscipline for Ginevra; it suited her. I am quite sure she went to bedthat night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and sleptall the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing.
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