الفصل الفصل 20 · The Concert

THE CONCERT.

One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my room, desired me to

open my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without a word.

“That will do,” said she, when she had turned them over. “You must have

a new one.”

She went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker. She had me

measured. “I mean,” said she, “to follow my own taste, and to have my

own way in this little matter.”

Two days after came home—a pink dress!

“That is not for me,” I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almost as

soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.

“We shall see whether it is for you or not,” rejoined my godmother,

adding with her resistless decision: “Mark my words. You will wear it

this very evening.”

I thought I should not; I thought no human force should avail to put me

into it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had not proved

it.

My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham to

a concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grand

affair to be held in the large salle, or hall, of the principal musical

society. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to

perform: it was to be followed by a lottery “au bénéfice des pauvres;”

and to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecour were to be

present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined attention to costume

as a compliment due to royalty: he also recommended punctual readiness

by seven o’clock.

About six, I was ushered upstairs. Without any force at all, I found

myself led and influenced by another’s will, unconsulted, unpersuaded,

quietly overruled. In short, the pink dress went on, softened by some

drapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande tenue, and

requested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling;

with more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o’clock struck; Dr.

Bretton was come; my godmother and I went down. _She_ was clad in brown

velvet; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those folds of

grave, dark majesty! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.

“I _do_ hope he will not think I have been decking myself out to draw

attention,” was my uneasy aspiration.

“Here, Lucy, are some flowers,” said he, giving me a bouquet. He took

no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and

satisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear of

ridicule. For the rest; the dress was made with extreme simplicity,

guiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric and

bright tint which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing

absurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled.

I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, can

hardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or a

concert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity: I am not sure that

I expected great pleasure from the concert, having but a very vague

notion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snug

comfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure

of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of

the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the

avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued forth to

the open chaussée, the passage through the city gates, the lights there

burning, the guards there posted, the pretence of inspection, to which

we there submitted, and which amused us so much—all these small matters

had for me, in their novelty, a peculiarly exhilarating charm. How much

of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I know

not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood, contending

animatedly with each other the whole way, and as frankly kind to me as

if I had been of their kin.

Our way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streets

brightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant

seemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of life

along the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the Rue

Fossette came across me—of the walled-in garden and school-house, and

of the dark, vast “classes,” where, as at this very hour, it was my

wont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high,

blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in

the refectory, monotonously exercised upon the “lecture pieuse.” Thus

must I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the future

stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present.

By this time we had got into a current of carriages all tending in one

direction, and soon the front of a great illuminated building blazed

before us. Of what I should see within this building, I had, as before

intimated, but an imperfect idea; for no place of public entertainment

had it ever been my lot to enter yet.

We alighted under a portico where there was a great bustle and a great

crowd, but I do not distinctly remember further details, until I found

myself mounting a majestic staircase wide and easy of ascent, deeply

and softly carpeted with crimson, leading up to great doors closed

solemnly, and whose panels were also crimson-clothed.

I hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back—Dr.

John managed these points; roll back they did, however, and within was

disclosed a hall—grand, wide, and high, whose sweeping circular walls,

and domed hollow ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus with nice

art was it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting, and garlandry,

either bright, like gold burnished, or snow-white, like alabaster, or

white and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves and spotless lilies:

wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions

placed, the sole colour employed was deep crimson. Pendent from the

dome, flamed a mass that dazzled me—a mass, I thought, of rock-crystal,

sparkling with facets, streaming with drops, ablaze with stars, and

gorgeously tinged with dews of gems dissolved, or fragments of rainbows

shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for me it seemed the

work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a huge, dark, cloudy

hand—that of the Slave of the Lamp—were not hovering in the lustrous

and perfumed atmosphere of the cupola, guarding its wondrous treasure.

We moved on—I was not at all conscious whither—but at some turn we

suddenly encountered another party approaching from the opposite

direction. I just now see that group, as it flashed—upon me for one

moment. A handsome middle-aged lady in dark velvet; a gentleman who

might be her son—the best face, the finest figure, I thought, I had

ever seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle.

I noted them all—the third person as well as the other two—and for the

fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receiving an

impartial impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly

felt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I faced a great

mirror, filling a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it: the

party was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only time in

my life, I enjoyed the “giftie” of seeing myself as others see me. No

need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, a pang of

regret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful;

it might have been worse.

At last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view of

that vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it was

filled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that the

women were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; and

foreigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to

possess the art of appearing graceful in public: however blunt and

boisterous those every-day and home movements connected with peignoir

and papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head and

arms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for gala

use—always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on with

the “parure.”

Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar style

of beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set,

sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is

almost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain

still and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch painters

give to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but

round, straight but stolid; and for their depth of expressionless calm,

of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a type.

Women of this order need no ornament, and they seldom wear any; the

smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast to the

smoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; the rounded

arm and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain.

With one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture to be

perfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deep, settled love she

bore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proud

impotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veins

conducted no flow; placid lymph filled and almost obstructed her

arteries.

Such a Juno as I have described sat full in our view—a sort of mark for

all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to the

magnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, and

beauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding, which rose at

her side.

Observing that Dr. John’s attention was much drawn towards her, I

entreated him in a low voice “for the love of heaven to shield well his

heart. You need not fall in love with _that_ lady,” I said, “because, I

tell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and she would not love

you again.”

“Very well,” said he, “and how do you know that the spectacle of her

grand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus to

homage? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant to

my emotions: but” (shrugging his shoulders) “you know nothing about

these things; I’ll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I’m in a

dangerous way.”

“As if that interested me!” said Mrs. Bretton.

“Alas! the cruelty of my lot!” responded her son. “Never man had a more

unsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think that such a

calamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law.”

“If I don’t, it is not for want of having that same calamity held over

my head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. ‘Mamma,

I am going to be married soon!’ was the cry before you were well out of

jackets.”

“But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden,

when you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob or

Esau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of these

which are of the daughters of the land.”

“At your peril, John Graham! that is all.”

“This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealous old

lady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in the pale

blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with ‘reflets satinés’ as

those of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were to bring

that goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton,

junior?”

“You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little château will not

contain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height,

bulk, and circumference of that mighty doll in wood and wax, and kid

and satin.”

“Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!”

“Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful chair should it be

for her: but hush, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use your eyes.”

During the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed full

at the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until the

semicircle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads, sloping

from floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporary

platform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was now

overflowing with life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre,

a white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had

noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while Graham and his

mother were engaged in discussing the belle in blue satin, and had

watched with interest the process of arraying and marshalling them. Two

gentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this

virgin troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long

hair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in

Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck’s pensionnat, to give

lessons to the few pupils whose parents were rich enough to allow their

daughters the privilege of his instructions; his name was M. Josef

Emanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul: which potent personage was

now visible in the person of the second gentleman.

M. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed so

thoroughly in his element—standing conspicuous in presence of a wide

and grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about one

hundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest—so

energetic, so intent, and, above all, so absolute: and yet what

business had he there? What had he to do with music or the

Conservatoire—he who could hardly distinguish one note from another? I

knew that it was his love of display and authority which had brought

him there—a love not offensive, only because so naive. It presently

became obvious that his brother, M. Josef, was as much under his

control as were the girls themselves. Never was such a little hawk of a

man as that M. Paul! Ere long, some noted singers and musicians dawned

upon the platform: as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set.

Insufferable to him were all notorieties and celebrities: where he

could not outshine, he fled.

And now all was prepared: but one compartment of the hall waited to be

filled—a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase and

doors, furnished with stuffed and cushioned benches, ranged on each

side of two regal chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy.

A signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly stood up, the

orchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a choral burst, enter the

King, the Queen, the Court of Labassecour.

Till then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it may

consequently be conjectured how I strained my powers of vision to take

in these specimens of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld

for the first time, there will always be experienced a vague surprise

bordering on disappointment, that the same does not appear seated, en

permanence, on a throne, bonneted with a crown, and furnished, as to

the hand, with a sceptre. Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing

only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half

cheated, half pleased.

Well do I recall that King—a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little

grey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had

never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and

at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his

brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct.

Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of

those characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer—a

nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a

certain ghost—had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest

spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over

against him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that

wont, to rise in the midst of thousands—dark as Doom, pale as Malady,

and well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be

happy one moment—“Not so,” says she; “I come.” And she freezes the

blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.

Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King’s brows which

bent them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the

effects of early bereavement. Something there might be of both these;

but these are embittered by that darkest foe of humanity—constitutional

melancholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it seemed to me, the

reflection of her husband’s grief lay, a subduing shadow, on her own

benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman that princess

seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid charms and

marble feelings described a page or two since. Hers was a somewhat

slender shape; her features, though distinguished enough, were too

suggestive of reigning dynasties and royal lines to give unqualified

pleasure. The expression clothing that profile was agreeable in the

present instance; but you could not avoid connecting it with remembered

effigies, where similar lines appeared, under phase ignoble; feeble, or

sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The Queen’s eye, however,

was her own; and pity, goodness, sweet sympathy, blessed it with

divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a lady—kind, loving,

elegant. Her little son, the Prince of Labassecour, and young Duc de

Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother’s knee; and, ever

and anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her observant of the

monarch at her side, conscious of his beclouded abstraction, and

desirous to rouse him from it by drawing his attention to their son.

She often bent her head to listen to the boy’s remarks, and would then

smilingly repeat them to his sire. The moody King started, listened,

smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good angel ceased

speaking. Full mournful and significant was that spectacle! Not the

less so because, both for the aristocracy and the honest bourgeoisie of

Labassecour, its peculiarity seemed to be wholly invisible: I could not

discover that one soul present was either struck or touched.

With the King and Queen had entered their court, comprising two or

three foreign ambassadors; and with them came the elite of the

foreigners then resident in Villette. These took possession of the

crimson benches; the ladies were seated; most of the men remained

standing: their sable rank, lining the background, looked like a dark

foil to the splendour displayed in front. Nor was this splendour

without varying light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was

filled with matrons in velvets and satins, in plumes and gems; the

benches in the foreground, to the Queen’s right hand, seemed devoted

exclusively to young girls, the flower—perhaps, I should rather say,

the bud—of Villette aristocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses,

no velvet pile or silken sheen: purity, simplicity, and aërial grace

reigned in that virgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms

(I was going to write _sylph_ forms, but that would have been quite

untrue: several of these “jeunes filles,” who had not numbered more

than sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust and solid

as those of a stout Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)—fair forms robed

in white, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven

and angels. I knew a couple, at least, of these “rose et blanche”

specimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck’s late

pupils—Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angélique: pupils who, during their

last year at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whose

brains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they had

been under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them to translate

rationally a page of _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Also during three months

I had one of them for my vis-à-vis at table, and the quantity of

household bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she would habitually consume

at “second déjeuner” was a real world’s wonder—to be exceeded only by

the fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat. Here be

truths—wholesome truths, too.

I knew another of these seraphs—the prettiest, or, at any rate, the

least demure and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated by the

daughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking

girl: both had entered in the suite of the British embassy. She (_i.e._

my acquaintance) had a slight, pliant figure, not at all like the forms

of the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a

shell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked _like_ hair, and waved from

her head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and

seemed full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and her

position. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw

Ginevra Fanshawe: he had become so quiet, he answered so briefly his

mother’s remarks, he so often suppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He

had confessed a taste for the pursuit of love under difficulties; here

was full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him

from a sphere above his own: he could not come near her; he was not

certain that he could win from her a look. I watched to see if she

would so far favour him. Our seat was not far from the crimson benches;

we must inevitably be seen thence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss

Fanshawe’s, and very soon those optics of hers were upon us: at least,

upon Dr. and Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight,

not wishing to be immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily at

Dr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute

or two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon the

performance commencing, her rambling attention was attracted to the

platform.

On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my

impressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while to

record them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. The

young ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made

rather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Josef Emanuel

stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence

of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have

_compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and

self-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric débutantes

between two fires—terror of the audience, and terror of himself—and

would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the

latter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this.

Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky

lady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected me like the

tricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it—how she made her voice

run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch

melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more

deeply.

Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal

in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his

white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry

against a certain “fausse Isabelle.” I thought he seemed especially to

solicit the Queen’s sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken,

her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than

the earnestness of interest. This gentleman’s state of mind was very

harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of

the same.

Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening’s

entertainment. There were present deputies from all the best provincial

choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, native Labassecouriens. These

worthies gave voice without mincing the matter their hearty exertions

had at least this good result—the ear drank thence a satisfying sense

of power.

Through the whole performance—timid instrumental duets, conceited vocal

solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses—my attention gave but one eye

and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently retained in the

service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease to question

how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was amused or the

contrary. At last he spoke.

“And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet,” he said, in his

own cheerful tone.

“I am quiet,” I said, “because I am so very, _very_ much interested:

not merely with the music, but with everything about me.”

He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so much equanimity

and composure that I began to think he had really not seen what I had

seen, and I whispered—“Miss Fanshawe is here: have you noticed her?”

“Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too.”

“Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?”

“Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra was

in _her_ train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ——’s train, who was

in the Queen’s train. If this were not one of the compact little minor

European courts, whose very formalities are little more imposing than

familiarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homeliness in Sunday

array, it would sound all very fine.”

“Ginevra saw you, I think?”

“So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since you

withdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a little

spectacle which you were spared.”

I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which was presently

given.

“Miss Fanshawe,” he said, “has a companion with her—a lady of rank. I

happen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me in

professionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent, and

I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by

making a butt of her neighbours.”

“What neighbours?”

“Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural: nothing,

I suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeois doctor; but my

mother! I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip,

and sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious

sensation?”

“Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra were

in a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night, she would make no

scruple of laughing at that mild, pensive Queen, or that melancholy

King. She is not actuated by malevolence, but sheer, heedless folly. To

a feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred.”

“But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in

the light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not my divinity—the

angel of my career?”

“Hem! There was your mistake.”

“To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or assumed romance,

there actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought her divine.

Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite

open with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with which you

took it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of your lights,

I allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was

that test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her

beauty retained its fascination: three days—three hours ago, I was very

much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphant in beauty, my

emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, I should yet be

the humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed at _me_, and,

while wounding, she would not soon have alienated me: through myself,

she could not in ten years have done what, in a moment, she has done

through my mother.”

He held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and so

little sunshine in Dr. John’s blue eye as just now.

“Lucy,” he recommenced, “look well at my mother, and say, without fear

or favour, in what light she now appears to you.”

“As she always does—an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though

gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally

composed and cheerful.”

“So she seems to me—bless her! The merry may laugh _with_ mamma, but

the weak only will laugh _at_ her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my

consent, at least; nor without my—my scorn—my antipathy—my—”

He stopped: and it was time—for he was getting excited—more it seemed

than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed

double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his

complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain

gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase.

Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene, is not a

pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive thrill which

passed through his strong young frame.

“Do I frighten you, Lucy?” he asked.

“I cannot tell why you are so very angry.”

“For this reason,” he muttered in my ear. “Ginevra is neither a pure

angel, nor a pure-minded woman.”

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

“Too much for me. _I_ can see where _you_ are blind. Now dismiss the

subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she

is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself.”

“John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will

you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?”

They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the

previous dialogue had taken place.

“_You_ hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my studs, which are

genuine, against your paste brooch—”

“My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know that it is a stone of

value.”

“Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated in the

business.”

“I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen to be

acquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observed two of

them pay you no small attention during the last half-hour.”

“I wish you would not observe them.”

“Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me?

She is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive that her titter

will discomfit the old lady?”

“The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than

ten wives yet.”

“Don’t be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have to

carry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverse

your last speech, and exclaim, ‘Mother, ten wives could hardly be worse

to me than you are!’”

The concert over, the Lottery “au bénéfice des pauvres” came next: the

interval between was one of general relaxation, and the pleasantest

imaginable stir and commotion. The white flock was cleared from the

platform; a busy throng of gentlemen crowded it instead, making

arrangements for the drawing; and amongst these—the busiest of

all—re-appeared that certain well-known form, not tall but active,

alive with the energy and movement of three tall men. How M. Paul did

work! How he issued directions, and, at the same time, set his own

shoulder to the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants were at his beck to

remove the pianos, &c.; no matter, he must add to their strength his

own. The redundancy of his alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous:

in my mind I both disapproved and derided most of this fuss. Yet, in

the midst of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching,

avoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naïveté in all he did and

said; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of his

physiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng of

tamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of his

forehead, pale, broad, and full—the mobility of his most flexible

mouth. He lacked the calm of force, but its movement and its fire he

signally possessed.

Meantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose and remained

standing, for a change; some walked about, all talked and laughed. The

crimson compartment presented a peculiarly animated scene. The long

cloud of gentlemen, breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbow

line of ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King and

conversed with him. The Queen, leaving her chair, glided along the rank

of young ladies, who all stood up as she passed; and to each in turn I

saw her vouchsafe some token of kindness—a gracious word, look or

smile. To the two pretty English girls, Lady Sara and Ginevra Fanshawe,

she addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, and especially

the latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification. They were

afterwards accosted by several ladies, and a little circle of gentlemen

gathered round them; amongst these—the nearest to Ginevra—stood the

Count de Hamal.

“This room is stiflingly hot,” said Dr. Bretton, rising with sudden

impatience. “Lucy—mother—will you come a moment to the fresh air?”

“Go with him, Lucy,” said Mrs. Bretton. “I would rather keep my seat.”

Willingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham’s desire must take

precedence of my own; I accompanied him.

We found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem to feel

it; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spread cloudless. I

was wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on the pavement; in

passing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye.

“You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?”

“I was only fearing that you were grieved.”

“Not at all: so be of good cheer—as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, my

persuasion is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I

may seem to droop for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment has

yet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at

home?”

“Generally.”

“I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady for

a dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thank

you, Miss Fanshawe!” And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, and

made a mock reverence.

“Yes,” he said, “I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts in

ten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bled

from a mere puncture: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice.”

“You are angry just now, heated and indignant; you will think and feel

differently to-morrow.”

“_I_ heated and indignant! You don’t know me. On the contrary, the heat

is gone: I am as cool as the night—which, by the way, may be too cool

for you. We will go back.”

“Dr. John, this is a sudden change.”

“Not it: or if it be, there are good reasons for it—two good reasons: I

have told you one. But now let us re-enter.”

We did not easily regain our seats; the lottery was begun, and all was

excited confusion; crowds blocked the sort of corridor along which we

had to pass: it was necessary to pause for a time. Happening to glance

round—indeed I half fancied I heard my name pronounced—I saw quite

near, the ubiquitous, the inevitable M. Paul. He was looking at me

gravely and intently: at me, or rather at my pink dress—sardonic

comment on which gleamed in his eye. Now it was his habit to indulge in

strictures on the dress, both of the teachers and pupils, at Madame

Beck’s—a habit which the former, at least, held to be an offensive

impertinence: as yet I had not suffered from it—my sombre daily attire

not being calculated to attract notice. I was in no mood to permit any

new encroachment to-night: rather than accept his banter, I would

ignore his presence, and accordingly steadily turned my face to the

sleeve of Dr. John’s coat; finding in that same black sleeve a prospect

more redolent of pleasure and comfort, more genial, more friendly, I

thought, than was offered by the dark little Professor’s unlovely

visage. Dr. John seemed unconsciously to sanction the preference by

looking down and saying in his kind voice, “Ay, keep close to my side,

Lucy: these crowding burghers are no respecters of persons.”

I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence,

mesmeric or otherwise—an influence unwelcome, displeasing, but

effective—I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone. No, there

he stood on the same spot, looking still, but with a changed eye; he

had penetrated my thought, and read my wish to shun him. The mocking

but not ill-humoured gaze was turned to a swarthy frown, and when I

bowed, with a view to conciliation, I got only the stiffest and

sternest of nods in return.

“Whom have you made angry, Lucy?” whispered Dr. Bretton, smiling. “Who

is that savage-looking friend of yours?”

“One of the professors at Madame Beck’s: a very cross little man.”

“He looks mighty cross just now: what have you done to him? What is it

all about? Ah, Lucy, Lucy! tell me the meaning of this.”

“No mystery, I assure you. M. Emanuel is very exigeant, and because I

looked at your coat-sleeve, instead of curtseying and dipping to him,

he thinks I have failed in respect.”

“The little—” began Dr. John: I know not what more he would have added,

for at that moment I was nearly thrown down amongst the feet of the

crowd. M. Paul had rudely pushed past, and was elbowing his way with

such utter disregard to the convenience and security of all around,

that a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence.

“I think he is what he himself would call ‘méchant,’” said Dr. Bretton.

I thought so, too.

Slowly and with difficulty we made our way along the passage, and at

last regained our seats. The drawing of the lottery lasted nearly an

hour; it was an animating and amusing scene; and as we each held

tickets, we shared in the alternations of hope and fear raised by each

turn of the wheel. Two little girls, of five and six years old, drew

the numbers: and the prizes were duly proclaimed from the platform.

These prizes were numerous, though of small value. It so fell out that

Dr. John and I each gained one: mine was a cigar-case, his a lady’s

head-dress—a most airy sort of blue and silver turban, with a streamer

of plumage on one side, like a snowy cloud. He was excessively anxious

to make an exchange; but I could not be brought to hear reason, and to

this day I keep my cigar-case: it serves, when I look at it, to remind

me of old times, and one happy evening.

Dr. John, for his part, held his turban at arm’s length between his

finger and thumb, and looked at it with a mixture of reverence and

embarrassment highly provocative of laughter. The contemplation over,

he was about coolly to deposit the delicate fabric on the ground

between his feet; he seemed to have no shadow of an idea of the

treatment or stowage it ought to receive: if his mother had not come to

the rescue, I think he would finally have crushed it under his arm like

an opera-hat; she restored it to the band-box whence it had issued.

Graham was quite cheerful all the evening, and his cheerfulness seemed

natural and unforced. His demeanour, his look, is not easily described;

there was something in it peculiar, and, in its way, original. I read

in it no common mastery of the passions, and a fund of deep and healthy

strength which, without any exhausting effort, bore down Disappointment

and extracted her fang. His manner, now, reminded me of qualities I had

noticed in him when professionally engaged amongst the poor, the

guilty, and the suffering, in the Basse-Ville: he looked at once

determined, enduring, and sweet-tempered. Who could help liking him?

_He_ betrayed no weakness which harassed all your feelings with

considerations as to how its faltering must be propped; from _him_

broke no irritability which startled calm and quenched mirth; _his_

lips let fall no caustic that burned to the bone; _his_ eye shot no

morose shafts that went cold, and rusty, and venomed through your

heart: beside him was rest and refuge—around him, fostering sunshine.

And yet he had neither forgiven nor forgotten Miss Fanshawe. Once

angered, I doubt if Dr. Bretton were to be soon propitiated—once

alienated, whether he were ever to be reclaimed. He looked at her more

than once; not stealthily or humbly, but with a movement of hardy, open

observation. De Hamal was now a fixture beside her; Mrs. Cholmondeley

sat near, and they and she were wholly absorbed in the discourse,

mirth, and excitement, with which the crimson seats were as much astir

as any plebeian part of the hall. In the course of some apparently

animated discussion, Ginevra once or twice lifted her hand and arm; a

handsome bracelet gleamed upon the latter. I saw that its gleam

flickered in Dr. John’s eye—quickening therein a derisive, ireful

sparkle; he laughed:——

“I think,” he said, “I will lay my turban on my wonted altar of

offerings; there, at any rate, it would be certain to find favour: no

grisette has a more facile faculty of acceptance. Strange! for after

all, I know she is a girl of family.”

“But you don’t know her education, Dr. John,” said I. “Tossed about all

her life from one foreign school to another, she may justly proffer the

plea of ignorance in extenuation of most of her faults. And then, from

what she says, I believe her father and mother were brought up much as

she has been brought up.”

“I always understood she had no fortune; and once I had pleasure in the

thought,” said he.

“She tells me,” I answered, “that they are poor at home; she always

speaks quite candidly on such points: you never find her lying, as

these foreigners will often lie. Her parents have a large family: they

occupy such a station and possess such connections as, in their

opinion, demand display; stringent necessity of circumstances and

inherent thoughtlessness of disposition combined, have engendered

reckless unscrupulousness as to how they obtain the means of sustaining

a good appearance. This is the state of things, and the only state of

things, she has seen from childhood upwards.”

“I believe it—and I thought to mould her to something better: but,

Lucy, to speak the plain truth, I have felt a new thing to-night, in

looking at her and de Hamal. I felt it before noticing the impertinence

directed at my mother. I saw a look interchanged between them

immediately after their entrance, which threw a most unwelcome light on

my mind.”

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

up?”

“Ay, flirtation! That might be an innocent girlish wile to lure on the

true lover; but what I refer to was not flirtation: it was a look

marking mutual and secret understanding—it was neither girlish nor

innocent. No woman, were she as beautiful as Aphrodite, who could give

or receive such a glance, shall ever be sought in marriage by me: I

would rather wed a paysanne in a short petticoat and high cap—and be

sure that she was honest.”

I could not help smiling. I felt sure he now exaggerated the case:

Ginevra, I was certain, was honest enough, with all her giddiness. I

told him so. He shook his head, and said he would not be the man to

trust her with his honour.

“The only thing,” said I, “with which you may safely trust her. She

would unscrupulously damage a husband’s purse and property, recklessly

try his patience and temper: I don’t think she would breathe, or let

another breathe, on his honour.”

“You are becoming her advocate,” said he. “Do you wish me to resume my

old chains?”

“No: I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will long

remain. Yet be, at the same time, just.”

“I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy. When once I am thoroughly

estranged, I cannot help being severe. But look! the King and Queen are

rising. I like that Queen: she has a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is

excessively tired; we shall never get the old lady home if we stay

longer.”

“I tired, John?” cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated and

as wide-awake as her son. “I would undertake to sit you out yet: leave

us both here till morning, and we should see which would look the most

jaded by sunrise.”

“I should not like to try the experiment; for, in truth, mamma, you are

the most unfading of evergreens and the freshest of matrons. It must

then be on the plea of your son’s delicate nerves and fragile

constitution that I found a petition for our speedy adjournment.”

“Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no doubt; and I suppose

you must be humoured. There is Lucy, too, looking quite done up. For

shame, Lucy! At your age, a week of evenings-out would not have made me

a shade paler. Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the old

lady as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge of

the bandbox and turban.”

Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was shaken off

with kindly contempt: my godmother opined that I had enough to do to

take care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now, in the midst of the

gay “confusion worse confounded” succeeding to the King and Queen’s

departure, Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane

through the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing his mother as the

most flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to see

charged with carriage of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark her

affection for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction that

she intended one day to wear it.

The night was now very cold and very dark, but with little delay we

found the carriage. Soon we were packed in it, as warm and as snug as

at a fire-side; and the drive home was, I think, still pleasanter than

the drive to the concert. Pleasant it was, even though the

coachman—having spent in the shop of a “marchand de vin” a portion of

the time we passed at the concert—drove us along the dark and solitary

chaussée far past the turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who were

occupied in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberration till, at

last, Mrs. Bretton intimated that, though she had always thought the

château a retired spot, she did not know it was situated at the world’s

end, as she declared seemed now to be the case, for she believed we had

been an hour and a half en route, and had not yet taken the turn down

the avenue.

Then Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread fields, with

unfamiliar rows of pollards and limes ranged along their else invisible

sunk-fences, began to conjecture how matters were, and calling a halt

and descending, he mounted the box and took the reins himself. Thanks

to him, we arrived safe at home about an hour and a half beyond our

time.

Martha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning, and a neat

supper spread in the dining-room: we were glad of both. The winter dawn

was actually breaking before we gained our chambers. I took off my pink

dress and lace mantle with happier feelings than I had experienced in

putting them on. Not all, perhaps, who had shone brightly arrayed at

that concert could say the same; for not all had been satisfied with

friendship—with its calm comfort and modest hope.

CHAPTER 21.