Villette
breakfasting at other tables in the room; I should have felt rather
more happy if amongst them all I could have seen any women; however,
there was not one—all present were men. But nobody seemed to think I
was doing anything strange; one or two gentlemen glanced at me
occasionally, but none stared obtrusively: I suppose if there was
anything eccentric in the business, they accounted for it by this word
“Anglaise!”
Breakfast over, I must again move—in what direction? “Go to Villette,”
said an inward voice; prompted doubtless by the recollection of this
slight sentence uttered carelessly and at random by Miss Fanshawe, as
she bid me good-by: “I wish you would come to Madame Beck’s; she has
some marmots whom you might look after; she wants an English
gouvernante, or was wanting one two months ago.”
Who Madame Beck was, where she lived, I knew not; I had asked, but the
question passed unheard: Miss Fanshawe, hurried away by her friends,
left it unanswered. I presumed Villette to be her residence—to Villette
I would go. The distance was forty miles. I knew I was catching at
straws; but in the wide and weltering deep where I found myself, I
would have caught at cobwebs. Having inquired about the means of
travelling to Villette, and secured a seat in the diligence, I departed
on the strength of this outline—this shadow of a project. Before you
pronounce on the rashness of the proceeding, reader, look back to the
point whence I started; consider the desert I had left, note how little
I perilled: mine was the game where the player cannot lose and may win.
Of an artistic temperament, I deny that I am; yet I must possess
something of the artist’s faculty of making the most of present
pleasure: that is to say, when it is of the kind to my taste. I enjoyed
that day, though we travelled slowly, though it was cold, though it
rained. Somewhat bare, flat, and treeless was the route along which our
journey lay; and slimy canals crept, like half-torpid green snakes,
beside the road; and formal pollard willows edged level fields, tilled
like kitchen-garden beds. The sky, too, was monotonously gray; the
atmosphere was stagnant and humid; yet amidst all these deadening
influences, my fancy budded fresh and my heart basked in sunshine.
These feelings, however, were well kept in check by the secret but
ceaseless consciousness of anxiety lying in wait on enjoyment, like a
tiger crouched in a jungle. The breathing of that beast of prey was in
my ear always; his fierce heart panted close against mine; he never
stirred in his lair but I felt him: I knew he waited only for sun-down
to bound ravenous from his ambush.
I had hoped we might reach Villette ere night set in, and that thus I
might escape the deeper embarrassment which obscurity seems to throw
round a first arrival at an unknown bourne; but, what with our slow
progress and long stoppages—what with a thick fog and small, dense
rain—darkness, that might almost be felt, had settled on the city by
the time we gained its suburbs.
I know we passed through a gate where soldiers were stationed—so much I
could see by lamplight; then, having left behind us the miry Chaussée,
we rattled over a pavement of strangely rough and flinty surface. At a
bureau, the diligence stopped, and the passengers alighted. My first
business was to get my trunk; a small matter enough, but important to
me. Understanding that it was best not to be importunate or over-eager
about luggage, but to wait and watch quietly the delivery of other
boxes till I saw my own, and then promptly claim and secure it, I stood
apart; my eye fixed on that part of the vehicle in which I had seen my
little portmanteau safely stowed, and upon which piles of additional
bags and boxes were now heaped. One by one, I saw these removed,
lowered, and seized on.
I was sure mine ought to be by this time visible: it was not. I had
tied on the direction-card with a piece of green ribbon, that I might
know it at a glance: not a fringe or fragment of green was perceptible.
Every package was removed; every tin-case and brown-paper parcel; the
oilcloth cover was lifted; I saw with distinct vision that not an
umbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box remained.
And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocket-book
enclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they?
I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could say
nothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of _speaking_ French: and it
was French, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling around
me. _What_ should I do? Approaching the conductor, I just laid my hand
on his arm, pointed to a trunk, thence to the diligence-roof, and tried
to express a question with my eyes. He misunderstood me, seized the
trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle.
“Let that alone—will you?” said a voice in good English; then, in
correction, “Qu’est-ce que vous faîtes donc? Cette malle est à moi.”
But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I
turned: “Sir,” said I, appealing to the stranger, without, in my
distress, noticing what he was like, “I cannot speak French. May I
entreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?”
Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was to
which my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its
expression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom of
interference.
“_Do_ ask him; I would do as much for you,” said I.
I don’t know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone—that
is to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying,—“What sort of trunk was
yours?”
I described it, including in my description the green ribbon. And
forthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt, through all the
storm of French which followed, that he raked him fore and aft.
Presently he returned to me.
“The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he removed your
trunk after you saw it put on, and has left it behind at Boue-Marine
with other parcels; he has promised, however, to forward it to-morrow;
the day after, therefore, you will find it safe at this bureau.”
“Thank you,” said I: but my heart sank.
Meantime what should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw the
failure of courage in my face; he inquired kindly, “Have you any
friends in this city?”
“No, and I don’t know where to go.”
There was a little pause, in the course of which, as he turned more
fully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw that he was a young,
distinguished, and handsome man; he might be a lord, for anything I
knew: nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. His face
was very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but not
overbearing. I was turning away, in the deep consciousness of all
absence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he.
“Was all your money in your trunk?” he asked, stopping me.
How thankful was I to be able to answer with truth—“No. I have enough
in my purse” (for I had near twenty francs) “to keep me at a quiet inn
till the day after to-morrow; but I am quite a stranger in Villette,
and don’t know the streets and the inns.”
“I can give you the address of such an inn as you want,” said he; “and
it is not far off: with my direction you will easily find it.”
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words and gave it to
me. I _did_ think him kind; and as to distrusting him, or his advice,
or his address, I should almost as soon have thought of distrusting the
Bible. There was goodness in his countenance, and honour in his bright
eyes.
“Your shortest way will be to follow the Boulevard and cross the park,”
he continued; “but it is too late and too dark for a woman to go
through the park alone; I will step with you thus far.”
He moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the small
soaking rain. The Boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the water
dripping from its trees; the park was black as midnight. In the double
gloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only follow
his tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed
that frank tread, through continual night, to the world’s end.
“Now,” said he, when the park was traversed, “you will go along this
broad street till you come to steps; two lamps will show you where they
are: these steps you will descend: a narrower street lies below;
following that, at the bottom you will find your inn. They speak
English there, so your difficulties are now pretty well over.
Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” said I: “accept my sincerest thanks.” And we parted.
The remembrance of his countenance, which I am sure wore a light not
unbenignant to the friendless—the sound in my ear of his voice, which
spoke a nature chivalric to the needy and feeble, as well as the
youthful and fair—were a sort of cordial to me long after. He was a
true young English gentleman.
On I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square, with
the grandest houses round, and amidst them the huge outline of more
than one overbearing pile; which might be palace or church—I could not
tell. Just as I passed a portico, two mustachioed men came suddenly
from behind the pillars; they were smoking cigars: their dress implied
pretensions to the rank of gentlemen, but, poor things! they were very
plebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, and, fast as I walked,
they kept pace with me a long way. At last I met a sort of patrol, and
my dreaded hunters were turned from the pursuit; but they had driven me
beyond my reckoning: when I could collect my faculties, I no longer
knew where I was; the staircase I must long since have passed. Puzzled,
out of breath, all my pulses throbbing in inevitable agitation, I knew
not where to turn. It was terrible to think of again encountering those
bearded, sneering simpletons; yet the ground must be retraced, and the
steps sought out.
I came at last to an old and worn flight, and, taking it for granted
that this must be the one indicated, I descended them. The street into
which they led was indeed narrow, but it contained no inn. On I
wandered. In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-paved
street, I saw a light burning over the door of a rather large house,
loftier by a story than those round it. _This_ might be the inn at
last. I hastened on: my knees now trembled under me: I was getting
quite exhausted.
No inn was this. A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochère:
“Pensionnat de Demoiselles” was the inscription; and beneath, a name,
“Madame Beck.”
I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a
moment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time.
Providence said, “Stop here; this is _your_ inn.” Fate took me in her
strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rang the
door-bell.
While I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the
street-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted
their shapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again.
They opened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me.
“May I see Madame Beck?” I inquired.
I believe if I had spoken French she would not have admitted me; but,
as I spoke English, she concluded I was a foreign teacher come on
business connected with the pensionnat, and, even at that late hour,
she let me in, without a word of reluctance, or a moment of hesitation.
The next moment I sat in a cold, glittering salon, with porcelain
stove, unlit, and gilded ornaments, and polished floor. A pendule on
the mantel-piece struck nine o’clock.
A quarter of an hour passed. How fast beat every pulse in my frame! How
I turned cold and hot by turns! I sat with my eyes fixed on the door—a