Chapter Chapter 38 · Cloud

clear sight, and she only thought Lucy—fitful.

“Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!” she would say, smiling at me. “Graham says

you are the most peculiar, capricious little woman he knows; but yet

you are excellent; we both think so.”

“You both think you know not what,” said I. “Have the goodness to make

me as little the subject of your mutual talk and thoughts as possible.

I have my sort of life apart from yours.”

“But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shall

share it.”

“I shall share no man’s or woman’s life in this world, as you

understand sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am not

sure; and till I _am_ sure, I live solitary.”

“But solitude is sadness.”

“Yes; it is sadness. Life, however; has worse than that. Deeper than

melancholy, lies heart-break.”

“Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you altogether.”

There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have a

witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulina had

forbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved against

correspondence, yet she answered, were it only to chide. She showed me

these letters; with something of the spoiled child’s wilfulness, and of

the heiress’s imperiousness, she _made_ me read them. As I read

Graham’s, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood her pride:

they were fine letters—manly and fond—modest and gallant. Hers must

have appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written to show her

talents; still less, I think, to express her love. On the contrary, it

appeared that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding that

feeling, and bridling her lover’s ardour. But how could such letters

serve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life; he drew her

like a powerful magnet. For her there was influence unspeakable in all

he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessed

confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to

adieu.

“I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!” began now to be her anxious

murmur. “I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back from

telling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have this affair

settled—to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, I am

certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike me

almost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will be a

surprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him.”

The fact was—her father, long calm, was beginning to be a little

stirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning to

trespass on his eye.

To _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhaps

thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.

One evening—Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to

Graham; she had left me in the library, reading—M. de Bassompierre came

in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to

remain—gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He

had taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a

desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book

he studied a certain entry for several minutes.

“Miss Snowe,” said he, laying it down, “do you know my little girl’s

age?”

“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”

“It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of

May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the

just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen—an

indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”

“She is about eighteen,” I repeated. “She is grown up; she will be no

taller.”

“My little jewel!” said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated

like some of his daughter’s accents.

He sat very thoughtful.

“Sir, don’t grieve,” I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken

as they were.

“She is the only pearl I have,” he said; “and now others will find out

that she is pure and of price: they will covet her.”

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had

shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom

embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus

of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which

compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate

the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de

Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the

direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he

was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided

him through a long labyrinth.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She is up-stairs.”

“What is she doing?”

“She is writing.”

“She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?”

“None but such as she can show me. And—sir—she—_they_ have long wanted

to consult you.”

“Pshaw! They don’t think of me—an old father! I am in the way.”

“Ah, M. de Bassompierre—not so—that can’t be! But Paulina must speak

for herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.”

“It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.”

“Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other.”

“Only!” he echoed.

Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was

obliged to go on: “Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point

of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you

mortally.”

“He may well—he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing I have.

Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child for years

yet. So. Are they engaged?”

“They could not become engaged without your permission.”

“It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety

which always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; my

little girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton

might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and

pretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and

conduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?”

“If he had never seen your ‘Polly,’ others might and would have pleased

him—your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.”

“Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!—I

can’t let him have her. No—I can’t. He is not her equal,” he affirmed,

rather gruffly. “In what particular is he her match? They talk of

fortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks

of these things—and Polly will be rich.”

“Yes, that is known,” said I: “all Villette knows her as an heiress.”

“Do they talk of my little girl in that light?”

“They do, sir.”

He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, “Would you, sir, think

any one Paulina’s match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do

you think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in your

feelings towards a future son-in-law?”

“You touch me there,” said he.

“Look at the aristocracy of Villette—you would not like them, sir?”

“I should not—never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot.”

“I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,” I went on,

gaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse.

“Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused.

Wherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independent

of heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those who

see her.”

“Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty.”

“Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful.”

“Nonsense!—begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too

partial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks—but then I

am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing,

fairy-like, interesting to me;—you must be mistaken in supposing her

handsome?”

“She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your

wealth and position.”

“My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought

so——”

“Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. de

Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would—as _you_ would

yourself, under the same circumstances—but they are not his baits. He

loves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they

influence him worthily.”

“What! has my little pet ‘fine qualities?’”

“Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence

and learning dined here?”

“I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day;

its womanliness made me smile.”

“And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the

drawing-room?”

“I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation—as one might amuse

one’s self with a pretty infant.”

“Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French

gentlemen say she was ‘pétrie d’esprit et de graces.’ Dr. Bretton

thought the same.”

“She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I _do_ believe she has

some character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me;

they thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and

tenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam

she was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselessly

and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don’t

want to part with her,” said he, and he groaned.

“You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,” I suggested, “it would

be less like separation to give her to him than to another.”

He reflected rather gloomily.

“True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,” he murmured. “She and I are

indeed old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young.

You talk of beauty, Miss Snowe! _she_ was handsome, if you will—tall,

straight, and blooming—not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me:

at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess. She

is a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have always

thought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by this

robbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly and

truly. It is all over now, doubtless—I am an incumbrance.”

The door opened—his “little treasure” came in. She was dressed, so to

speak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the

close of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson

heightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily

neck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she

had brought in her hand the letter just written—brought it folded but

unsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step

faltered a little, paused a moment—the colour in her cheek flowed rosy

over her whole face.

“Polly,” said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile,

“do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new.”

“I don’t blush—I never _do_ blush,” affirmed she, while another eddy

from the heart sent up its scarlet. “But I thought you were in the

dining-room, and I wanted Lucy.”

“You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just

been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter

for you; it will save Matthieu a ‘course,’ as he calls it.”

“I don’t post letters,” said she, rather pettishly.

“What do you do with them, then?—come here and tell me.”

Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second—to say “Shall I

come?”—but she approached.

“How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems

yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely

with both hands at the pen.”

“Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;

they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person’s hands,

just to satisfy.”

“The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?”

“No, papa—not Lucy.”

“Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?”

“No, papa—not Mrs. Bretton.”

“Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth.”

“Oh, papa!” she cried with earnestness, “I will—I _will_ tell you the

truth—all the truth; I am glad to tell you—glad, though I tremble.”

She _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also

gathering courage, shook her.

“I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you

above everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address.”

She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand

shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.

He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful

amaze.

“Can _she_ write so—the little thing that stood at my knee but

yesterday? Can she feel so?”

“Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?”

“There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains

me.”

“But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give up

everything—almost” (correcting herself); “I would die rather than make

you unhappy; that would be too wicked!”

She shuddered.

“Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It

shall, for your sake, if you order it.”

“I order nothing.”

“Order something, papa; express your wish; only don’t hurt, don’t

grieve Graham. I cannot, _cannot_ bear that. I love you, papa; but I

love Graham too—because—because—it is impossible to help it.”

“This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly—that is my present notion

of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do not love

him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad’s eye I never

quite fathomed—something his mother has not—a depth which warned a man

not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, I find myself

taken over the crown of the head.”

“Papa, you don’t—you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you

can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a

convent, and break Graham’s heart to-morrow, if you choose to be so

cruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?”

“Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don’t like

him, Polly, and I wonder that you should.”

“Papa,” said she, “do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you

look so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is

an expression in your face which does not belong to you.”

“Off with him!” pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed

and annoyed—even a little bitter; “but, I suppose, if he went, Polly

would pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won—won, and

weaned from her old father.”

“Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way.

I am _not_ weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence

_can_ wean me.”

“Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter;

go and be a wife!”

“Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of

prejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your

countrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think,

when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown.”

“Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away.”

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness,

superiority to taunts; knowing her father’s character, guessing his few

foibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring;

it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass with

dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead.

Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:—“I won’t

leave you, papa; I’ll never leave you. I won’t pain you! I’ll never

pain you!” was her cry.

“My lamb! my treasure!” murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said

no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without.

Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to

prevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant: a tall gentleman

was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves

slowly—lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by

sign nor word; yet his eye said:—“Lucy, come here.” And I went.

Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper,

save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation

which now fevered him.

“M. de Bassompierre is there—is he not?” he inquired, pointing to the

library.

“Yes.”

“He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?”

“Yes, Graham.”

“I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is _she_?”

“Mr. Home” (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times)

“is talking to his daughter.”

“Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!”

He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going

to write _mortal_, but such words ill apply to one all living like

him)—a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this

trouble his smile never faded.

“Is he _very_ angry, Lucy?”

“_She_ is very faithful, Graham.”

“What will be done unto me?”

“Graham, your star must be fortunate.”

“Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeed to

quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them,

and I do. My mother is good; _she_ is divine; and _you_ are true as

steel. Are you not?”

“Yes, Graham.”

“Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly little

hand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be

with the right. Lucy, say Amen!”

He turned, and waited till I said “Amen!”—which I did to please him:

the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success;

and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born

vanquished.

“Follow me!” he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home’s presence.

“Sir,” he asked, “what is my sentence?”

The father looked at him: the daughter kept her face hid.

“Well, Bretton,” said Mr. Home, “you have given me the usual reward of

hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always

glad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You

spoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you _robbed_ me, but I am

bereaved, and what I have lost, _you_, it seems, have won.”

“Sir, I cannot repent.”

“Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended

partly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt

in all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm.

The red—(Well then, Polly, the _fair_) hair, the tongue of guile, and

brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance.”

“Sir, I _feel_ honest enough,” said Graham; and a genuine English blush

covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. “And yet,” he

added, “I won’t deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In

your presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I

did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the

world owns for me. I wished for it: I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it

now.”

“John, you ask much.”

“Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; from

your justice, as a reward. I can never earn it.”

“Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!” said Mr. Home. “Look up, Polly!

Answer this ‘braw wooer;’ send him away!”

She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She

gazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.

“Papa, I love you both,” said she; “I can take care of you both. I need

not send Graham away—he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,”

she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont

to make both her father and Graham smile. They smiled now.

“He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,” still persisted Mr.

Home. “I don’t want him, Polly, he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell

him to march.”

“You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at

first—like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would

rather not have him otherwise.”

“I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I

should never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in

that relation. Dismiss this gentleman.”

“But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well.”

“Suits _me_, forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinions and

tastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly,

you and I will bid him good-by.”

“Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa.”

“No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don’t think to coax me

between you.”

“Indeed, indeed, you _are_ friends. Graham, stretch out your right

hand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don’t be stiff;

close your fingers; be pliant—there! But that is not a clasp—it is a

grasp? Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham’s hand to the

bone; you hurt him!”

He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with

brilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham’s flesh and drew

blood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him

smile.

“Come with me into my study,” at last said Mr. Home to the doctor. They

went. Their intercourse was not long, but I suppose it was conclusive.

The suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutiny on many

things. Whether Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look and language

or not, there was a sound foundation below. His answers, I understood

afterwards, evinced both wisdom and integrity. He had managed his

affairs well. He had struggled through entanglements; his fortunes were

in the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a position to marry.

Once more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. de

Bassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.

“Take her,” he said. “Take her, John Bretton: and may God deal with you

as you deal with her!”

Not long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons, Count de

Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on one

seat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of the

palace at Bois l’Etang. They had come thither to enjoy a summer

evening: outside the magnificent gates their carriage waited to take

them home; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and dim;

the palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on Pentelicus; the

evening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs embalmed the

climate of this spot; the hour was still and sweet; the scene, but for

this group, was solitary.

Paulina sat between the two gentlemen: while they conversed, her little

hands were busy at some work; I thought at first she was binding a

nosegay. No; with the tiny pair of scissors, glittering in her lap, she

had severed spoils from each manly head beside her, and was now

occupied in plaiting together the grey lock and the golden wave. The

plait woven—no silk-thread being at hand to bind it—a tress of her own

hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied it like a knot, prisoned

it in a locket, and laid it on her heart.

“Now,” said she, “there is an amulet made, which has virtue to keep you

two always friends. You can never quarrel so long as I wear this.”

An amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which rendered enmity

impossible. She was become a bond to both, an influence over each, a

mutual concord. From them she drew her happiness, and what she

borrowed, she, with interest, gave back.

“Is there, indeed, such happiness on earth?” I asked, as I watched the

father, the daughter, the future husband, now united—all blessed and

blessing.

Yes; it is so. Without any colouring of romance, or any exaggeration of

fancy, it is so. Some real lives do—for some certain days or

years—actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, if

such perfect happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked it

never comes), its sweet effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trials

follow, whatever pains of sickness or shades of death, the glory

precedent still shines through, cheering the keen anguish, and tinging

the deep cloud.

I will go farther. I _do_ believe there are some human beings so born,

so reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and late grave, that

no excessive suffering penetrates their lot, and no tempestuous

blackness overcasts their journey. And often, these are not pampered,

selfish beings, but Nature’s elect, harmonious and benign; men and

women mild with charity, kind agents of God’s kind attributes.

Let me not delay the happy truth. Graham Bretton and Paulina de

Bassompierre were married, and such an agent did Dr. Bretton prove. He

did not with time degenerate; his faults decayed, his virtues ripened;

he rose in intellectual refinement, he won in moral profit: all dregs

filtered away, the clear wine settled bright and tranquil. Bright, too,

was the destiny of his sweet wife. She kept her husband’s love, she

aided in his progress—of his happiness she was the corner stone.

This pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with great

prosperity, great goodness: they imparted with open hand, yet wisely.

Doubtless they knew crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but these

were well borne. More than once, too, they had to look on Him whose

face flesh scarce can see and live: they had to pay their tribute to

the King of Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. de Bassompierre was

taken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose a

cry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but others

sprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton saw

himself live again in a son who inherited his looks and his

disposition; he had stately daughters, too, like himself: these

children he reared with a suave, yet a firm hand; they grew up

according to inheritance and nurture.

In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives of

Graham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob’s favoured son,

with “blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies

under.” It was so, for God saw that it was good.

CHAPTER 38. Cloud

CLOUD.

But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done it

surely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. The

impulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen and

unseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must be

given. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In

fire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and

in blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through

terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins;

look upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in

friendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretches

the way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our

banner. For staff we have His promise, whose “word is tried, whose way

perfect:” for present hope His providence, “who gives the shield of

salvation, whose gentleness makes great;” for final home His bosom, who

“dwells in the height of Heaven;” for crowning prize a glory, exceeding

and eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardness

as good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant

in the issue to come off more than conquerors: “Art thou not from

everlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!”

On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the

lesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.

The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written

compositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them,

neatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the

Professor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July,

the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh

breeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in,

seeming to whisper tidings.

M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his

being a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and,

instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon

us the cautious Madame Beck.

She approached M. Paul’s desk; she stood before it; she drew round her

the light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet

firm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, “This morning there will

be no lesson of literature.”

The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes’

pause.

“It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall

require at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for

M. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks

usefully.

“Your Professor, ladies,” she went on, “intends, if possible, duly to

take leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that

ceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent

summons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leave

Europe for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself.

Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this

morning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.”

She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and

passed from the classe.

A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believe some

pupils wept.

Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing

increased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort of

growing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, and

that surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of

duty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in

my usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. I made the

English reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I

remember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils who

sobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an

hysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them.

I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that

gasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited

pupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless necessity obliged

and assisted me so to accost her, that she dared not carry on the

demonstration, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.

That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school

was over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when

they were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them

before—pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse

yielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that

poignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.

I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have

liked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the

night, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me

ill for the next day’s ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course this

news fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied

the first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every

tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of

“Emanuel.” He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with

its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.

They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude

of their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About the

third day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then—that he

was bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck’s face, and into

her eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused her

all over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what

was unperturbed and commonplace.

“This secession was an immense loss to her,” she alleged. “She did not

know how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to her

kinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him?

She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his

duty.”

She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking

audibly to Zélie St. Pierre.

“Why was it his duty?” I could have asked her that. I had impulses to

take hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to

stretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, “Stop. Let us hear the

conclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to go into

banishment?” But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never

looked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the

question.

The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid

us good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned

whether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he should

depart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in all

their talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course

could see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should _she_

care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?

The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that

his destination was “Basseterre in Guadaloupe:” the business which

called him abroad related to a friend’s interests, not his own: I

thought as much.

“Basseterre in Guadaloupe.” I had little sleep about this time, but

whenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I was quickly

roused with a start, while the words “Basseterre,” “Guadaloupe,” seemed

pronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before

me, in zigzag characters of red or violet light.

For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M.

Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing

hourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the

theological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel.

Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived

aloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he

had spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, with

manner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown

between us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had

communicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it

more than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was

over; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of

union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection

and deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.

What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on my

“intellect,” no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for

the jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, were

substituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender

forbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he

would sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty

brought separation, he would leave with words like these, “Il est doux,

le repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!”

One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in

my alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant

to arrest my attention.

“Bonne petite amie!” said he, softly; “douce consolatrice!” But through

his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought

found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or

brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity?

His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his

interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley

broke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful

forms—a woman’s and a priest’s—Madame Beck and Père Silas.

The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it

expressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection

just surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of

ecclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ with unction. He looked on

his pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw

nothing—nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand

of the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping it

close and fast.

Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had

struck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent

repetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me,

which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense,

with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of

explanation—I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.

The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak

his farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.

This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living

creature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as

usual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their late

Professor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary

duties.

So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, so

inexpectant its aspect—I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere

thus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no one lend me a voice? Had no

one a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say—Amen?

I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle—a treat, a

holiday, a lesson’s remission; they could not, they _would_ not now

band to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a

Master who had certainly been loved, at least by some—loved as _they_

could love—but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude?

I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or

communicated with; the distance was scarce a stone’s-throw: had it been

in the next room—unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To

follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall—for these things I had no

faculty.

M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed

silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him

to go by.

Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart

trembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was

quite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post—or do my work. Yet

the little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund,

free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days

since, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared

quite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.

A little before five o’clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent

for me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English letter

she had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to

this work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her

chamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hot

day, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as

indispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce

distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what

sound?

I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening

and winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far off

the traveller’s tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the

middle of the letter I heard—what checked my pen—a tread in the

vestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine—acting doubtless by orders—had

anticipated such réveillée. Madame saw me halt. She coughed, made a

bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the classes.

“Proceed,” said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, my

thoughts were carried off captive.

The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from the

dwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stir

of numbers, a whole division rising at once.

“They are putting away work,” said Madame.

It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush—that

instant quell of the tumult?

“Wait, Madame—I will see what it is.”

And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not be

left: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my

shadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.

“Are you coming, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect—a look,

clouded, yet resolute.

We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.

He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once more

appeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him

away, but he was come.

The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving his

farewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. This

last ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting—so solemn, to

last so long.

I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following and

watching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under her

breath; I became terribly goaded.

He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came

to the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped

out suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify her

drapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and

deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis—the total

default of self-assertion—with which, in a crisis, I could be struck.

She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she mastered

his attention, she hurried him to the door—the glass-door opening on

the garden. I think he looked round; could I but have caught his eye,

courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would

have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the room was

all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure was lost

among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will; yes, she got him

away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five o’clock

struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, the room

emptied.

There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in some

certain minutes I then passed alone—a grief inexpressible over a loss

unendurable. _What_ should I do; oh! _what_ should I do; when all my

life’s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?

What I _should_ have done, I know not, when a little child—the least

child in the school—broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness

into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.

“Mademoiselle,” lisped the treble voice, “I am to give you that. M.

Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to the

cellar, and when I found you, to give you that.”

And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its

olive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these

words:—

“It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by to

the rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. The

interview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at

leisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments are

numbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a private

business on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate—even

to you.—PAUL.”

“Be ready?” Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on the

morrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of his

vessel’s departure advertised. Oh! _I_ would be ready, but could that

longed-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the

schemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of access

appeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm—Apollyon straddled across

it, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide

reach me?

Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it

seemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the

whole throb of mine.

I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. I

think if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, nor

its nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days

which never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades—stood,

shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled a

doubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked

for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height and compass of

his promise: spoke thus—then towering, became a star, and vanished into

his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense—a worse boon than despair.

All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet in

the midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold

and peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-belied

presentiment. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clung

to the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud—like the

wrack scudding before a storm.

They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log;

the crimson of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blue

shades, over the pale and ashen gleams of its night.

Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired. I

still remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at least

disregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before.

How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot many

hours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had made

for myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when

certain that the whole household were abed, and quite out of

hearing—there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding in Solitude,

I kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; they heaved my

heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief could be sacred?

Soon after eleven o’clock—a very late hour in the Rue Fossette—the door

unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp’s flame invaded the

moonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as if

coming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of at

once addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to

seek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long.

She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; driven

beyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted

respects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual

circumstances, no yoke could now be borne—no curb obeyed.

“It is more than time for retirement,” said Madame; “the rule of the

house has already been transgressed too long.”

Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way,

I put her out of it.

“Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,”

said she, trying to speak softly.

“No!” I said; “neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.”

“Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall make

you comfortable: she shall give you a sedative.”

“Madame,” I broke out, “you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity,

your peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make your

own bed warm and soft; take sedatives and meats, and drinks spiced and

sweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow or

disappointment—and, perhaps, you have—nay, I _know_ you have—seek your

own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however.

_Leave me_, I say!”

“I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.”

“I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and my

troubles. Oh, Madame! in _your_ hand there is both chill and poison.

You envenom and you paralyze.”

“What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.”

“Dog in the manger!” I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, and

had always wanted him. She called him “insupportable:” she railed at

him for a “dévot:” she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that she

might bind him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame’s secrets I

had entered—I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration which

came to me—I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, I

had slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a

rival. She was _my_ rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the

smoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself.

Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my

power, because in some moods, such as the present—in some stimulated

states of perception, like that of this instant—her habitual disguise,

her mask and her domino, were to me a mere network reticulated with

holes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, self-indulgent, and

ignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, though

very uneasy, she said, “If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she

must reluctantly leave me.” Which she did incontinent, perhaps even

more glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish.

This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre which

ever occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene was

never repeated. It did not one whit change her manner to me. I do not

know that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worse

for my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secret

philosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked her

to remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurred

no repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage.

That night passed: all nights—even the starless night before

dissolution—must wear away. About six o’clock, the hour which called up

the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its cold,

fresh well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass, set

in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: my

cheeks and lips were sodden white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids

swollen and purple.

On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me—my heart

seemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously

certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why

and for whom I despaired.

“Isabelle,” the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached

me. Would she, too, mock me!

“Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!” said

she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful

stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the

keenest intelligence.

Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance:

before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the

whole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to

read hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own

counsel—be his own secret’s sovereign. In the course of that day, proof

met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was

unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was

still mine only. It was not known—it had not been noted—that I held in

peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by;

curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering always

round, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live

in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and

gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had

called me, and I had obeyed him: “M. Paul wants Miss Lucy”—“Miss Lucy

is with M. Paul”—such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody

commented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame

Beck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was

called illness—a headache: I accepted the baptism.

But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he

was gone without a farewell—this cruel conviction that fate and

pursuing furies—a woman’s envy and a priest’s bigotry—would suffer me

to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like

the first—untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an

unalterable passion of silent desolation?

Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night—she did not

come near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe—a more efficient agent for the

purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra’s first words—“Is your

headache very bad to-night?” (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had

a headache—an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in

the face, and insanely restless in the foot)—her first words, I say,

inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of

reach. And soon, what followed—plaints about her own

headaches—completed the business.

I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed—my miserable bed—haunted

with quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, when

another emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I

was consumed with thirst—I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, but I

tasted a drug.

“Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,” said Goton, as she

received back the emptied cup.

Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a

strong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.

The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory

hushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easy

supremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did not

ache—he passed by the unquiet.

The drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or

under-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead

of stupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought—to reverie

peculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, their

bugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination was

roused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. With

scorn she looked on Matter, her mate—“Rise!” she said. “Sluggard! this

night I will have _my_ will; nor shalt thou prevail.”

“Look forth and view the night!” was her cry; and when I lifted the

heavy blind from the casement close at hand—with her own royal gesture,

she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep and splendid.

To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits,

the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me to

leave this den and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.

She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight.

Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleys

all silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin—that

basin I knew, and beside which I had often stood—deep-set in the

tree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy,

rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked,

sentinelled: the place could not be entered.

Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, I

mechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lying

still—excited from head to foot—what could I do better than dress?

The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no

admission to the park?

The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to

the circumstance, a gap in the paling—one stake broken down: I now saw

this gap again in recollection—saw it very plainly—the narrow,

irregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, planted

orderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through that

aperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I

thought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at

this hour the whole park would be mine—the moonlight, midnight park!

How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quiet

breathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I

felt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what

hindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its

large white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct.

As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking

hinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air could

not be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the

dormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a

board is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat as

I descend, but not much:—I am in the carré.

The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the other

hand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to my

thought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, and

for me, filled with spectral and intolerable Memories, laid miserable

amongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerful

vista, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the

street.

Hush!—the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of this

convent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum of

the last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a sound

like bells or like a band—a sound where sweetness, where victory, where

mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen to it

alone by the rushy basin! Let me go—oh, let me go! What hinders, what

does not aid freedom?

There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, my

shawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochère; there is no

key to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be opened

from the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn.

Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious facility.

I wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose—I wonder

as I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at the

strange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if I

had been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gone

before me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort.

Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summer

night of which I mused; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in the

air. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so close

under the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is

not what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that sky

bears the aspect of a world’s death. The park also will be calm—I know,

a mortal serenity prevails everywhere—yet let me seek the park.

I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial and royal

Haute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it was

hushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bell

music came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong

tide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement

gathered, chimes pealed—to what was I coming? Entering on the level of

a Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plunged

amidst a gay, living, joyous crowd.

Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems

abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her own

flambeaux, beholds her own splendour—gay dresses, grand equipages, fine

horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see even scores

of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where is the

park?—I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the park must

be shadowy and calm—_there_, at least, are neither torches, lamps, nor

crowd?

I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled with

known faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; the

spirited horses fretted in their curbed ardour. I saw the occupants of

that carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know,

folded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that

motley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count de

Bassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely and

cheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo of

her beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenance

of joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note the

gala elegance of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floating

about her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I

saw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught

its lustre—the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamed first out of his.

It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I

_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight

(carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours.

Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by a

flaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously

beneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?

In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled

with coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and

golden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but

of strangest architectural wealth—of altar and of temple, of pyramid,

obelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of

Egypt teemed throughout the park of Villette.

No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine—the key of the

mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled—no matter that I quickly

recognised the material of these solemn fragments—the timber, the

paint, and the pasteboard—these inevitable discoveries failed to quite

destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter

that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête—a fête of

which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened

at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.

In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate

of Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights and

liberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if

not wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets—a bustle—a

running to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,

some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a

little of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old

Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,

holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a

certain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the

said patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory—the morning

being given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening

devoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I

now saw.

While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column—while

fathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of

which was couched a sphinx—I lost sight of the party which, from the

middle of the great square, I had followed—or, rather, they vanished

like a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed a

dream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement

floating, every voice echo-like—half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina

and her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had really

seen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far less

regret them as protectors amidst the night.

That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the

peasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the

decent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My

straw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long

calico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the

precaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary

ribbon—and then I felt safe as if masked.

Safe I passed down the avenues—safe I mixed with the crowd where it was

deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I

took a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air—the swell of

sound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or

Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now—I scorned Despair.

My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its clear

depth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, with

the passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, and

hurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed to

come on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassing

therein her pearly front.

I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing it

direct: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me down

this alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees which

framed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a glade

to the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heaven

were to open—such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above the plain of

Bethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.

The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on

fast-strengthening pinions—there swept through these shades so full a

storm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I

think I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me,

unnumbered; instruments varied and countless—bugle, horn, and trumpet I

knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves.

The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followed

its retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building—a sort of kiosk

near the park’s centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gathered

to a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, a

wild Jäger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood,

had but enhanced the sounds and their impression.

Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: some

of their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, the

flowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about their

decorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering

sound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied the

little light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian

gentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens,

plebeians and police.

In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself the

silent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the short

petticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe,

the velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy,

too, it suited me to be alone—quite alone. Having neither wish nor

power to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on

the farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see

little.

“Mademoiselle is not well placed,” said a voice at my elbow. Who dared

accost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather to

repel than to reply. I saw a man—a burgher—an entire stranger, as I

deemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certain

tradesman—a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with its

books and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the

excessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of his

manner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitary

self, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil,

sometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome little

exchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was an

intelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; the

thought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature bore

affinity to a part of M. Emanuel’s (whom he knew well, and whom I had

often seen sitting on Miret’s counter, turning over the current month’s

publications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation of

that conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively regarded him.

Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-folded

shawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a way

for me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carried

his disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured me

a chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are

by no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, the

least polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find

nothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending to

me, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Having

secured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question,

without obtruding a remark, without adding a superfluous word. No

wonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge,

and to read his feuilleton in M. Miret’s shop—the two must have suited.

I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance and

my worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of a

familiar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and de

Bassompierres. Within reach of my hand—had I chosen to extend it—sat a

figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves seemed

to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, being forest-green.

My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leaned forward, my breath

might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. They were too near; having

been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I felt uneasy at this

close vicinage of intimate acquaintance.

It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, and

speaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,—“I wonder what my

steady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish we

had brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.”

“So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is a

pity but we had asked her,” rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, “I

like to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.”

Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their

remembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which had

driven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless and

reckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mind

to bend over the elders’ shoulders, and answer their goodness with the

thanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know _me_, but I

knew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plain

sincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I

might have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one of

his stately firm movements, so different from those, of a

sharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, a

hundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide its

scrutiny—why then did he concentrate all on me—oppressing me with the

whole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he _would_ look,

did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest his

elbow on its back, and study me leisurely? He could not see my face, I

held it down; surely, he _could_ not recognise me: I stooped, I turned,

I _would_ not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived to

approach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity would

have been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful

hands. There was but one way to evade or to check him. I implied, by a

sort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone;

after that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle

of Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and

Lucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, or

absolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He

shook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did

he again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one single

instant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole my

way—speaking what somehow stilled my heart like “the south-wind

quieting the earth.” Graham’s thoughts of me were not entirely those of

a frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, his

heart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy might

have entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the

chambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall

where he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he

treasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where

his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and

equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over

the door of which was written “Lucy’s Room.” I kept a place for him,

too—a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or

compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I

carried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold

and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might

have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.

Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity; this

dangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity,

rose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucy

was contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he never

could be certain, for he did not see my face.

Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I not

had enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish for

safety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the school

dormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever could

distract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night’s drama was but

begun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and

turfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidents

unlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told me

as much.

Straying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was

brought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering

singly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it a

more scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and

somewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to

soothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here

had chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late

as was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it

had not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.

Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem,

lifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a

seat—a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to

one, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this

site standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a

lady, holding by the hand a little girl.

When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round

on her heel, swinging from her conductress’s hand, flinging herself

from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse

movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character

fearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the

child’s equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the

white bonnet—the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb of

a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Désirée Beck—and Désirée

Beck it was—she, or an imp in her likeness.

I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole

would have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one

degree, ere it reached its climax.

On whose hand could the amiable Désirée swing thus selfishly, whose

glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with

impunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample

insolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother?

And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet—there,

fresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant—there stood Madame Beck.

Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in her

crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the

just, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue

Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture “Meess Lucie”

otherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our “ébats” in the

fête-blazing park at midnight!

The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable

wont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers—though

without at the time particularly noticing the gossip—that often, when

we thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed,

to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort

of taste for a monastic life, and took care—largely, though

discreetly—to season her existence with a relish of the world.

Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I

was not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M.

Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair—a

calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I

could not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of

character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled

a face—mobile, fervent, feeling—a face changeable, now clouded, and now

alight—a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my

best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow; that

face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of genius—that

why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the thing, the

spirit, and the secret itself—I could never tell. Yes—this Josef

Emanuel—this man of peace—reminded me of his ardent brother.

Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This

third person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was

stooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most

conspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was Père

Silas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the

priest’s presence at this fête. This was not considered a show of

Vanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church

patronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in

the park that night.

Père Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic

bench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was—bearing no

shape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, and

features, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you

could almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung at

random on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced on

clear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,

nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyes

of the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more

witch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was

indeed no corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon

some aggravation in the clamorous petition of Désirée Beck to her

mother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly

fetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane.

There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Père Silas—the whole

conjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did me

good. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, or

dismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;

but, as yet, I was not dead.

CHAPTER 39. Old And New Acquaintance