Villette
you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle have given
their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?”
“Mais pas du tout!” (she always had recourse to French when about to
say something specially heartless and perverse). “Je suis sa reine,
mais il n’est pas mon roi.”
“Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry.
There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the
good nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference.
You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow.”
“No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a
thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to
Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire
him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is….”
And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.
“Yes!” I said, “try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To
me it seems in a great mess—chaotic as a rag-bag.”
“It is something in this fashion,” she cried out ere long: “the man is
too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I
find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all
sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor
intend to have. Now, one can’t help, in his presence, rather trying to
justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to
talk sense,—for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my
ease with you, old lady—you, you dear crosspatch—who take me at my
lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and
fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and
I have agreed to be a part of my character.”
“This is all very well,” I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve
that gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this
whimsical candour, “but it does not alter that wretched business of the
presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and send
them back.”
“Indeed, I won’t,” said she, stoutly.
“Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by
accepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day
receive an equivalent, in your regard…”
“But he won’t,” she interrupted: “he has his equivalent now, in the
pleasure of seeing me wear them—quite enough for him: he is only
bourgeois.”
This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the
temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She
rattled on:
“My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fettering
myself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I saw
Isidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed he would be
content with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and part
and flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I
find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and thoughtful.
Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnés ne sont pas à mon
goût. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beaux
fats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et les plaisirs! A bas les
grandes passions et les sévères vertus!”
She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.
“J’aime mon beau Colonel,” she went on: “je n’aimerai jamais son rival.
Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!”
I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment should
be relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing.
CHAPTER X.
DR JOHN.
Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all the
world, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into no
deviation from the even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitous
about her family, vigilant for their interests and physical well-being;
but she never seemed to know the wish to take her little children upon
her lap, to press their rosy lips with her own, to gather them in a
genial embrace, to shower on them softly the benignant caress, the
loving word.
I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, viewing the little
bees afar off, as they walked in a distant alley with Trinette, their
_bonne_; in her mien spoke care and prudence. I know she often pondered
anxiously what she called “leur avenir;” but if the youngest, a puny
and delicate but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from its
nurse, and toddling down the walk, came all eager and laughing and
panting to clasp her knee, Madame would just calmly put out one hand,
so as to prevent inconvenient concussion from the child’s sudden onset:
“Prends garde, mon enfant!” she would say unmoved, patiently permit it
to stand near her a few moments, and then, without smile or kiss, or
endearing syllable, rise and lead it back to Trinette.
Her demeanour to the eldest girl was equally characteristic in another
way. This was a vicious child. “Quelle peste que cette Désirée! Quel
poison que cet enfant là!” were the expressions dedicated to her, alike
in kitchen and in schoolroom. Amongst her other endowments she boasted
an exquisite skill in the art, of provocation, sometimes driving her
_bonne_ and the servants almost wild. She would steal to their attics,
open their drawers and boxes, wantonly tear their best caps and soil
their best shawls; she would watch her opportunity to get at the buffet
of the salle-à-manger, where she would smash articles of porcelain or
glass—or to the cupboard of the storeroom, where she would plunder the
preserves, drink the sweet wine, break jars and bottles, and so
contrive as to throw the onus of suspicion on the cook and the
kitchen-maid. All this when Madame saw, and of which when she received
report, her sole observation, uttered with matchless serenity, was:
“Désirée a besoin d’une surveillance toute particulière.” Accordingly
she kept this promising olive-branch a good deal at her side. Never
once, I believe, did she tell her faithfully of her faults, explain the
evil of such habits, and show the results which must thence ensue.
Surveillance must work the whole cure. It failed of course. Désirée was
kept in some measure from the servants, but she teased and pillaged her
mamma instead. Whatever belonging to Madame’s work-table or toilet she
could lay her hands on, she stole and hid. Madame saw all this, but she
still pretended not to see: she had not rectitude of soul to confront
the child with her vices. When an article disappeared whose value
rendered restitution necessary, she would profess to think that Désirée
had taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. Désirée was not
to be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehood to the aid of
theft, and would deny having touched the brooch, ring, or scissors.
Carrying on the hollow system, the mother would calmly assume an air of
belief, and afterwards ceaselessly watch and dog the child till she
tracked her: to her hiding-places—some hole in the garden-wall—some
chink or cranny in garret or out-house. This done, Madame would send
Désirée out for a walk with her _bonne_, and profit by her absence to
rob the robber. Désirée proved herself the true daughter of her astute
parent, by never suffering either her countenance or manner to betray
the least sign of mortification on discovering the loss.
The second child, Fifine, was said to be like its dead father.
Certainly, though the mother had given it her healthy frame, her blue
eye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived its moral being. It was
an honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate, warm-tempered, bustling
creature it was too, and of the sort likely to blunder often into
perils and difficulties. One day it bethought itself to fall from top
to bottom of a steep flight of stone steps; and when Madame, hearing
the noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the
salle-à-manger and picked it up, she said quietly,—“Cet enfant a un os
de cassé.”
At first we hoped this was not the case. It was, however, but too true:
one little plump arm hung powerless.
“Let Meess” (meaning me) “take her,” said Madame; “et qu’on aille tout
de suite chercher un fiacre.”
In a _fiacre_ she promptly, but with admirable coolness and
self-possession, departed to fetch a surgeon.
It appeared she did not find the family-surgeon at home; but that
mattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute to her
mind, and brought him back with her. Meantime I had cut the child’s
sleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed.
We none of us, I suppose (by _we_ I mean the bonne, the cook, the
portress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in the
small and heated chamber), looked very scrutinizingly at the new doctor
when he came into the room. I, at least, was taken up with endeavouring
to soothe Fifine; whose cries (for she had good lungs) were appalling
to hear. These cries redoubled in intensity as the stranger approached
her bed; when he took her up, “Let alone!” she cried passionately, in
her broken English (for she spoke English as did the other children).
“I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!”
“And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend,” was the answer, in perfect
English; “but he is busy at a place three leagues off, and I am come in
his stead. So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commence
business; and we will soon have that unlucky little arm bandaged and in
right order.”
Hereupon he called for a glass of _eau sucrée_, fed her with some
teaspoonfuls of the sweet liquid (Fifine was a frank gourmande; anybody
could win her heart through her palate), promised her more when the
operation should be over, and promptly went to work. Some assistance
being needed, he demanded it of the cook, a robust, strong-armed woman;
but she, the portress, and the nurse instantly fled. I did not like to
touch that small, tortured limb, but thinking there was no alternative,
my hand was already extended to do what was requisite. I was
anticipated; Madame Beck had put out her own hand: hers was steady
while mine trembled.
“Ca vaudra mieux,” said the doctor, turning from me to her.
He showed wisdom in his choice. Mine would have been feigned stoicism,
forced fortitude. Hers was neither forced nor feigned.
“Merci, Madame; très bien, fort bien!” said the operator when he had
finished. “Voilà un sang-froid bien opportun, et qui vaut mille élans
de sensibilité déplacée.”
He was pleased with her firmness, she with his compliment. It was
likely, too, that his whole general appearance, his voice, mien, and
manner, wrought impressions in his favour. Indeed, when you looked well
at him, and when a lamp was brought in—for it was evening and now
waxing dusk—you saw that, unless Madame Beck had been less than woman,
it could not well be otherwise. This young doctor (he _was_ young) had
no common aspect. His stature looked imposingly tall in that little
chamber, and amidst that group of Dutch-made women; his profile was
clear, fine and expressive: perhaps his eye glanced from face to face
rather too vividly, too quickly, and too often; but it had a most
pleasant character, and so had his mouth; his chin was full, cleft,
Grecian, and perfect. As to his smile, one could not in a hurry make up
one’s mind as to the descriptive epithet it merited; there was
something in it that pleased, but something too that brought surging up
into the mind all one’s foibles and weak points: all that could lay one
open to a laugh. Yet Fifine liked this doubtful smile, and thought the
owner genial: much as he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him
a friendly good-night. He patted the little hand kindly, and then he
and Madame went down-stairs together; she talking in her highest tide