Villette
“Monsieur, what if it comes and goes here still?”
“Something comes and goes here: there is a shape frequenting this house
by night, different to any forms that show themselves by day. I have
indisputably seen a something, more than once; and to me its conventual
weeds were a strange sight, saying more than they can do to any other
living being. A nun!”
“Monsieur, I, too, have seen it.”
“I anticipated that. Whether this nun be flesh and blood, or something
that remains when blood is dried, and flesh is wasted, her business is
as much with you as with me, probably. Well, I mean to make it out; it
has baffled me so far, but I mean to follow up the mystery. I mean—”
Instead of telling what he meant, he raised his head suddenly; I made
the same movement in the same instant; we both looked to one point—the
high tree shadowing the great berceau, and resting some of its boughs
on the roof of the first classe. There had been a strange and
inexplicable sound from that quarter, as if the arms of that tree had
swayed of their own motion, and its weight of foliage had rushed and
crushed against the massive trunk. Yes; there scarce stirred a breeze,
and that heavy tree was convulsed, whilst the feathery shrubs stood
still. For some minutes amongst the wood and leafage a rending and
heaving went on. Dark as it was, it seemed to me that something more
solid than either night-shadow, or branch-shadow, blackened out of the
boles. At last the struggle ceased. What birth succeeded this travail?
What Dryad was born of these throes? We watched fixedly. A sudden bell
rang in the house—the prayer-bell. Instantly into our alley there came,
out of the berceau, an apparition, all black and white. With a sort of
angry rush-close, close past our faces—swept swiftly the very NUN
herself! Never had I seen her so clearly. She looked tall of stature,
and fierce of gesture. As she went, the wind rose sobbing; the rain
poured wild and cold; the whole night seemed to feel her.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FIRST LETTER.
Where, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary? How fared my
intercourse with the sumptuous Hôtel Crécy? That intercourse had, for
an interval, been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre had
been travelling, dividing some weeks between the provinces and capital
of France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortly after it
took place.
I was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard, wandering slowly
on, enjoying the benign April sun, and some thoughts not unpleasing,
when I saw before me a group of riders, stopping as if they had just
encountered, and exchanging greetings in the midst of the broad,
smooth, linden-bordered path; on one side a middle-aged gentleman and
young lady, on the other—a young and handsome man. Very graceful was
the lady’s mien, choice her appointments, delicate and stately her
whole aspect. Still, as I looked, I felt they were known to me, and,
drawing a little nearer, I fully recognised them all: the Count Home de
Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton.
How animated was Graham’s face! How true, how warm, yet how retiring
the joy it expressed! This was the state of things, this the
combination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, to subdue
and excite Dr. John. The pearl he admired was in itself of great price
and truest purity, but he was not the man who, in appreciating the gem,
could forget its setting. Had he seen Paulina with the same youth,
beauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple attire,
a dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he would have thought her a pretty
little creature, and would have loved with his eye her movements and
her mien, but it required other than this to conquer him as he was now
vanquished, to bring him safe under dominion as now, without loss, and
even with gain to his manly honour, one saw that he was reduced; there
was about Dr. John all the man of the world; to satisfy himself did not
suffice; society must approve—the world must admire what he did, or he
counted his measures false and futile. In his victrix he required all
that was here visible—the imprint of high cultivation, the consecration
of a careful and authoritative protection, the adjuncts that Fashion
decrees, Wealth purchases, and Taste adjusts; for these conditions his
spirit stipulated ere it surrendered: they were here to the utmost
fulfilled; and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he did homage to
Paulina as his sovereign. As for her, the smile of feeling, rather than
of conscious power, slept soft in her eyes.
They parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth he
skimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked very handsome;
mettle and purpose were roused in him fully.
“Papa, there is Lucy!” cried a musical, friendly voice. “Lucy, dear
Lucy—_do_ come here!”
I hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from her saddle
to kiss me.
“I was coming to see you to-morrow,” said she; “but now to-morrow you
will come and see me.”
She named the hour, and I promised compliance.
The morrow’s evening found me with her—she and I shut into her own
room. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims were
brought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had so
signally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in the
interval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tête-à-tête,
a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear soft
voice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My own
attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, she
herself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind up
her narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise an
abridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed—a restless
silence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in a
diffident, half-appealing voice—“Lucy—”
“Well, I am at your side.”
“Is my cousin Ginevra still at Madame Beck’s?”
“Your cousin is still there; you must be longing to see her.”
“No—not much.”
“You want to invite her to spend another evening?”
“No… I suppose she still talks about being married?”
“Not to any one you care for.”
“But of course she still thinks of Dr. Bretton? She cannot have changed
her mind on that point, because it was so fixed two months ago.”
“Why, you know, it does not matter. You saw the terms on which they
stood.”
“There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does she
seem unhappy?”
“Not she. To change the subject. Have you heard or seen nothing of, or
from, Graham during your absence?”
“Papa had letters from him once or twice about business, I think. He
undertook the management of some affair which required attention while
we were away. Dr. Bretton seems to respect papa, and to have pleasure
in obliging him.”
“Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would be able to
judge from his aspect that his friends need not be painfully anxious
about his health?”
“Papa seems to have thought with you. I could not help smiling. He is
not particularly observant, you know, because he is often thinking of
other things than what pass before his eyes; but he said, as Dr.
Bretton rode away, ‘Really it does a man good to see the spirit and
energy of that boy.’ He called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almost
thinks him so, just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speaking
to me, but dropped that remark to himself. Lucy….”
Again fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant she left her
chair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet.
I liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made concerning my
acquaintance, in the course of this book: the reader will bear with it
for once. Intimate intercourse, close inspection, disclosed in Paulina
only what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regard
for her lay deep. An admiration more superficial might have been more
demonstrative; mine, however, was quiet.
“What have you to ask of Lucy?” said I; “be brave, and speak out.”
But there was no courage in her eye; as it met mine, it fell; and there
was no coolness on her cheek—not a transient surface-blush, but a
gathering inward excitement raised its tint and its temperature.
“Lucy, I _do_ wish to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, _do_ give
me your real opinion of his character, his disposition.”
“His character stands high, and deservedly high.”
“And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition,” she urged; “you
know him well.”
“I know him pretty well.”
“You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak of
him as a son.”
“He is a fine-hearted son; his mother’s comfort and hope, her pride and
pleasure.”
She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a
little caressing stroke.
“In what other way is he good, Lucy?”
“Dr. Bretton is benevolent—humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr.
Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worst
criminal.”
“I heard some gentlemen, some of papa’s friends, who were talking about
him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals,
who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him.”
“They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a
hospital; I saw how he was received: your father’s friends are right.”
The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She
had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk
was beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight
ruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.
“How quiet and secluded we feel here!” I remarked, to reassure her.
“Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down to
tea; papa is dining out.”
Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously,
dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twine
of her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, and
at last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark’s,
she said:—
“You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr.
Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but—”.
“Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him.”
“And if I did,” said she, with slight quickness, “is that a reason why
I should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?”
“If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit here
waiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about
the room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on.”
“I mean to go on,” retorted she; “what else do you suppose I mean to
do?”
And she looked and spoke—the little Polly of Bretton—petulant,
sensitive.
“If,” said she, emphatically, “if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to
die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise
than dumb—dumb as the grave—dumb as you, Lucy Snowe—you know it—and you
know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined about
some rickety liking that was all on my side.”
“It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either
in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings.
But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell
me all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell: I ask no more.”
“Do you care for me, Lucy?”
“Yes, I do, Paulina.”
“And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when I was
a little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to me then to
lavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptable to me,
and I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy.”