Kabanata Kabanata 41 · Faubourg Clotilde

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Must I, ere I close, render some account of that Freedom and Renovation

which I won on the fête-night? Must I tell how I and the two stalwart

companions I brought home from the illuminated park bore the test of

intimate acquaintance?

I tried them the very next day. They had boasted their strength loudly

when they reclaimed me from love and its bondage, but upon my demanding

deeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, some experience of a

relieved life—Freedom excused himself, as for the present impoverished

and disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke; he had died in the

night suddenly.

I had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that conjecture

might have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain the oppressive

hour by reminders of the distorting and discolouring magic of jealousy.

After a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought back captive to

the old rack of suspense, tied down and strained anew.

Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does he

purpose to come? Will this day—will the next hour bring him? or must I

again assay that corroding pain of long attent—that rude agony of

rupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at once

uprooting hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does the

violence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes her

barrier!

It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boarders

and teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a long

walk into the country to take their goûter, or afternoon meal, at some

farm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained ere

the _Paul et Virginie_ must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance,

as the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.

There was some joiners’ work to do in the first classe, some bench or

desk to repair; holidays were often turned to account for the

performance of these operations, which could not be executed when the

rooms were filled with pupils. As I sat solitary, purposing to adjourn

to the garden and leave the coast clear, but too listless to fulfil my

own intent, I heard the workmen coming.

Foreign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I believe it

would take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive a nail. While tying

on my bonnet, which had hitherto hung by its ribbons from my idle hand,

I vaguely and momentarily wondered to hear the step of but one

“ouvrier.” I noted, too—as captives in dungeons find sometimes dreary

leisure to note the merest trifles—that this man wore shoes, and not

sabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter, coming to

inspect before he sent his journeymen. I threw round me my scarf. He

advanced; he opened the door; my back was towards it; I felt a little

thrill—a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed. I

turned, I stood in the supposed master-artisan’s presence: looking

towards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyes

printed upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.

Hundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven bring to the

suppliant no fulfilment. Once haply in life, one golden gift falls

prone in the lap—one boon full and bright, perfect from Fruition’s

mint.

M. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed to travel—a

surtout, guarded with velvet; I thought him prepared for instant

departure, and yet I had understood that two days were yet to run

before the ship sailed. He looked well and cheerful. He looked kind and

benign: he came in with eagerness; he was close to me in one second; he

was all amity. It might be his bridegroom mood which thus brightened

him. Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sunshine with cloud. If

this were my last moment with him, I would not waste it in forced,

unnatural distance. I loved him well—too well not to smite out of my

path even Jealousy herself, when she would have obstructed a kind

farewell. A cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from his eyes,

would do me good, for all the span of life that remained to me; it

would be comfort in the last strait of loneliness; I would take it—I

would taste the elixir, and pride should not spill the cup.

The interview would be short, of course: he would say to me just what

he had said to each of the assembled pupils; he would take and hold my

hand two minutes; he would touch my cheek with his lips for the first,

last, only time—and then—no more. Then, indeed, the final parting, then

the wide separation, the great gulf I could not pass to go to

him—across which, haply, he would not glance, to remember me.

He took my hand in one of his, with the other he put back my bonnet; he

looked into my face, his luminous smile went out, his lips expressed

something almost like the wordless language of a mother who finds a

child greatly and unexpectedly changed, broken with illness, or worn

out by want. A check supervened.

“Paul, Paul!” said a woman’s hurried voice behind, “Paul, come into the

salon; I have yet a great many things to say to you—conversation for

the whole day—and so has Victor; and Josef is here. Come Paul, come to

your friends.”

Madame Beck, brought to the spot by vigilance or an inscrutable

instinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself between me and M.

Emanuel.

“Come, Paul!” she reiterated, her eye grazing me with its hard ray like

a steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman. I thought he receded; I

thought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now to

feel what defied suppression, I cried—

“My heart will break!”

What I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of another

fountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, the

whisper, “Trust me!” lifted a load, opened an outlet. With many a deep

sob, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yet

with relief—I wept.

“Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and it

will pass,” said the calm Madame Beck.

To be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like being

left to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply,

harshly, and briefly—

“Laissez-moi!” in the grim sound I felt a music strange, strong, but

life-giving.

“Laissez-moi!” he repeated, his nostrils opening, and his facial

muscles all quivering as he spoke.

“But this will never do,” said Madame, with sternness. More sternly

rejoined her kinsman—

“Sortez d’ici!”

“I will send for Père Silas: on the spot I will send for him,” she

threatened pertinaciously.

“Femme!” cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in his

highest and most excited key, “Femme! sortez à l’instant!”

He was roused, and I loved him in his wrath with a passion beyond what

I had yet felt.

“What you do is wrong,” pursued Madame; “it is an act characteristic of

men of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive,

injudicious, inconsistent—a proceeding vexatious, and not estimable in

the view of persons of steadier and more resolute character.”

“You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me,” said he, “but

you shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste,” he continued less

fiercely, “be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face,

and relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends;

in spite of your taunts, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Of

sacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by what

I see; it _must_ have and give solace. _Leave me!_”

This time, in the “_leave me_” there was an intonation so bitter and so

imperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could for one

moment delay obedience; but she stood firm; she gazed upon him

dauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed as stone. She was

opening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul’s face a quick

rising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement;

it did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave his

hand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from the

room; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second.

The flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told me to

wipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from time to

time a stilling, solacing word. Ere long I sat beside him once more

myself—re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate; not friendless, not

hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death.

“It made you very sad then to lose your friend?” said he.

“It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur,” I said. “All these weary days

I have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with the

possibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart without saying

farewell!”

“Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck—that you do not know me? Must

I show and teach you my character? You _will_ have proof that I can be

a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will not lie still in

mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proof is

ready. I come to justify myself.”

“Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listen

now.”

“Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distance into

the town. I came on purpose to fetch you.”

Without questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or offering the

semblance of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet: I was ready.

The route he took was by the boulevards: he several times made me sit

down on the seats stationed under the lime-trees; he did not ask if I

was tired, but looked, and drew his own conclusions.

“All these weary days,” said he, repeating my words, with a gentle,

kindly mimicry of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips,

and of which the playful banter never wounded, not even when coupled,

as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might _write_ his

language, I _spoke_ and always should speak it imperfectly and

hesitatingly. “‘All these weary days’ I have not for one hour forgotten

you. Faithful women err in this, that they think themselves the sole

faithful of God’s creatures. On a very fervent and living truth to

myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter;

but——look at me.”

I lifted my happy eyes: they _were_ happy now, or they would have been

no interpreters of my heart.

“Well,” said he, after some seconds’ scrutiny, “there is no denying

that signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the record

painful?”

“Severely painful,” I said, with truth. “Withdraw her hand, Monsieur; I

can bear its inscribing force no more.”

“Elle est toute pâle,” said he, speaking to himself; “cette figure-là

me fait mal.”

“Ah! I am not pleasant to look at——?”

I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I never remember

the time when I had not a haunting dread of what might be the degree of

my outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the moment with special

force.

A great softness passed upon his countenance; his violet eyes grew

suffused and glistening under their deep Spanish lashes: he started up;

“Let us walk on.”

“Do I displease your eyes _much_?” I took courage to urge: the point

had its vital import for me.

He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer which

silenced, subdued, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knew

what I was for _him_; and what I might be for the rest of the world, I

ceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on an

opinion about appearance? I fear it might be; I fear it was; but in

that case I must avow no light share of weakness. I must own great fear

of displeasing—a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.

Whither we rambled, I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemed short;

the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of his

voyage—he thought of staying away three years. On his return from

Guadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clear

course; and what did I purpose doing in the interval of his absence? he

asked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent

and keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped the idea?

“Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable me to

put it in practice.”

“He did not like leaving me in the Rue Fossette; he feared I should

miss him there too much—I should feel desolate—I should grow sad—?”

This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.

“Still,” said he, speaking low, “there is another objection to your

present residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it would

not be well to have any uncertainty about the safe transmission of

letters; and in the Rue Fossette—in short, our Catholic discipline in

certain matters—though justifiable and expedient—might possibly, under

peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication—perhaps abuse.”

“But if you write,” said I, “I _must_ have your letters; and I _will_

have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from

me. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline:

Monsieur, I _will not_.”

“Doucement—doucement,” rejoined he; “we will contrive a plan; we have

our resources: soyez tranquille.”

So speaking, he paused.

We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of

a clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It

was before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had

halted.

“I call here,” said he.

He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and

entered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant

appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and

tastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vines

trained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass.

Silence reigned in this dwelling.

Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon—very tiny,

but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like a

blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its

centre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth;

there was a little couch, a little chiffonnière, the half-open,

crimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain on the shelves; there was

a French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; the

recess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand,

bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowing

in bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, and upon

it a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice of

this room was open; the outer air breathing through, gave freshness,

the sweet violets lent fragrance.

“Pretty, pretty place!” said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.

“Must we sit down here and wait?” I asked in a whisper, half awed by

the deep pervading hush.

“We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell,” he

replied.

“Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?” I inquired.

“Yes, I dare,” said he, quietly.

He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and

oven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A small

cupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.

“There is a coffee service of china in the salon,” said M. Paul, as I

looked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, the

cups and jugs to match.

Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse

of two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more led

below, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than

had yet been opened.

Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this

door. He opened, put me in before him.

“Voici!” he cried.

I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, though

bare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards

were carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with

an alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher’s chair

and table; behind them a tableau. On the walls hung two maps; in the

windows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was a miniature

classe—complete, neat, pleasant.

“It is a school then?” said I. “Who keeps it? I never heard of an

establishment in this faubourg.”

“Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for

distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?” asked he, taking from his

surtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my

hand. I looked, I read—printed in fair characters:—

“Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice,

Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.”

And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?

Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall to

memory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and

amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and

whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.

I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes

succeeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the experience of my

earliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is the

consciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and over

again:—

“Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did

you get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is

there another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something.”

But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look,

his attitude, are visible to me now.

“How is it? I must know all—_all_,” I cried.

The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I

had fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.

“Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days,” said he. “Poor

old Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging about three

mortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker to

charwoman. Lucy and Lucy’s cot, the sole thoughts in his head!”

I hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on his cuff,

and then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was his foresight, his

goodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, that overpowered me

by their proved reality. It was the assurance of his sleepless interest

which broke on me like a light from heaven; it was his—I will dare to

say it—his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In the

midst of all I forced myself to look at the practical.

“The trouble!” I cried, “and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?”

“Plenty of money!” said he heartily. “The disposal of my large teaching

connection put me in possession of a handsome sum with part of it I

determined to give myself the richest treat that I _have_ known or

_shall_ know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hour day and night

lately. I would not come near you, because I would not forestall it.

Reserve is neither my virtue nor my vice. If I had put myself into your

power, and you had begun with your questions of look and lip—Where have

you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? What is your mystery?—my

solitary first and last secret would presently have unravelled itself

in your lap. Now,” he pursued, “you shall live here and have a school;

you shall employ yourself while I am away; you shall think of me

sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for my sake, and

when I come back—”

There he left a blank.

I promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard and willingly.

“I will be your faithful steward,” I said; “I trust at your coming the

account will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are _too_ good!”

In such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: they

could not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice,

dissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gently

raised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; I

pressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me had

been that hand’s bounty; to offer homage was both a joy and a duty.

The afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shaded

the quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afoot

since morning, he needed refreshment; he said I should offer him

chocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out and

ordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the small

guéridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window under

the screening vines. With what shy joy I accepted my part as hostess,

arranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest.

This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourg

were round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, and

fresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses,

looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under her

smile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of pure

love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale

statue leaned over the play of waters.

M. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated that it mixed

harmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the musical sigh, in

which light breeze, fountain and foliage intoned their lulling vesper:

Happy hour—stay one moment! droop those plumes, rest those wings;

incline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy light linger;

leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to that

time which needs a ray in retrospect!

Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of fresh

summer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formed

the whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and I

took a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whether

his friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done—whether

they had seen my house?

“Mon amie,” said he, “none knows what I have done save you and myself:

the pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. To

speak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement of

enjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides” (smiling)

“I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I _could_ keep a secret. How often

has she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve and needful caution!

How many times has she saucily insinuated that all my affairs are the

secret of Polichinelle!”

This was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhaps

on any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted,

dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always had

it.

Continuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was my

landlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particulars

in writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.

The house was not M. Paul’s—that I guessed: he was hardly the man to

become a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absence

of the saving faculty; he could get, but not keep; he needed a

treasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the

Basse-Ville—a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding:

“a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most respectful

regard for you.” And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was

none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kind-hearted

bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in

the park. It seems M. Miret was, in his station, rich, as well as much

respected, and possessed several houses in this faubourg; the rent was

moderate, scarce half of what it would have been for a house of equal

size nearer the centre of Villette.

“And then,” observed M. Paul, “should fortune not favour you, though I

think she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands;

M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year’s rent you have

already in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and

herself. But now, what will you do for pupils?”

“I must distribute my prospectuses.”

“Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday.

Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, the

Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service.”

“Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would

become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to

number aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they never

come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret’s daughters.”

“Besides these,” pursued he, “another pupil offers, who will come daily

to take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will pay

handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur.”

What is in a name?—what in three words? Till this moment I had listened

with living joy—I had answered with gleeful quickness; a name froze me;

three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden, and indeed

I scarce tried to hide it.

“What now?” said M. Paul.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyes

fade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what.”

I had nothing to tell.

He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continued

silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance,

he waited with patience.

“Justine Marie is a good girl,” said he, “docile and amiable; not

quick—but you will like her.”

“I think not. I think she must not come here.”

Such was my speech.

“Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there _is_

something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos; tell

him the grief.”

His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards

him.

“Do you know Marie Justine?” said he again.

The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did

not prostrate—no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through

my veins—recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights of

heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had

long twined his life in mine—far as had progressed, and near as was

achieved our minds’ and affections’ assimilation—the very suggestion of

interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only with a

fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve, an

ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the flame,

nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.

“I want to tell you something,” I said: “I want to tell you all.”

“Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who is

your friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!”

I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I

narrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back

to the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught—why it was

given—its goading effect—how it had torn rest from under my head,

shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a vivid yet

solemn fancy—a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near a deep,

cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, the masques, the

music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells

sounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed, all I had

recognised, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself: how

I listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, in

brief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither, truthful, literal,

ardent, bitter.

Still as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited me to proceed, he

spurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had half

done, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercing

glance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calm

nor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine, he forsook his own

system of repression when I most challenged its exercise. I think I

deserved strong reproof; but when have we our deserts? I merited

severity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious and

unreasonable, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled,

betraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty, I knew not till now that

my nature had such a mood: he gathered me near his heart. I was full of

faults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny,

he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear:—

“Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on

earth.”

We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight—such moonlight as fell

on Eden—shining through the shades of the Great Garden, and haply

gilding a path glorious for a step divine—a Presence nameless. Once in

their lives some men and women go back to these first fresh days of our

great Sire and Mother—taste that grand morning’s dew—bathe in its

sunrise.

In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur had

always been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter—how, with

M. Paul’s consent, she had been affianced for months to one Heinrich

Mühler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to be married in the

course of a year. Some of M. Emanuel’s relations and connections would,

indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a view to securing

her fortune in the family; but to himself the scheme was repugnant, and

the idea totally inadmissible.

We reached Madame Beck’s door. Jean Baptiste’s clock tolled nine. At

this hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at my

side bent before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered my

destiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed.

How different the look—how far otherwise the fate!

He deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have spread over me its

beam like a banner. Once—unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh and

strange; the low stature, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, the

manner, displeased me. Now, penetrated with his influence, and living

by his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness by

heart—I preferred him before all humanity.

We parted: he gave me his pledge, and then his farewell. We parted: the

next day—he sailed.

CHAPTER 42. Finis

FINIS.

Man