Villette
He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. “Where did you pick
up all that? Who told you?” he asked.
“Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?”
“Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman’s waking thoughts,
much less her sleeping fantasies?”
“If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. I
saw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic—old, too, and
picturesque; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarce
reach to my elbow—her magnificence might ransom a duke. She wore a gown
bright as lapis-lazuli—a shawl worth a thousand francs: she was decked
with ornaments so brilliant, I never saw any with such a beautiful
sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken in two and bent
double; she seemed also to have outlived the common years of humanity,
and to have attained those which are only labour and sorrow. She was
become morose—almost malevolent; yet _somebody_, it appears, cared for
her in her infirmities—somebody forgave her trespasses, hoping to have
his trespasses forgiven. They lived together, these three people—the
mistress, the chaplain, the servant—all old, all feeble, all sheltered
under one kind wing.”
He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did not
conceal his mouth, where I saw hovering an expression I liked.
“I see you have entered into my secrets,” said he, “but how was it
done?”
So I told him how—the commission on which I had been sent, the storm
which had detained me, the abruptness of the lady, the kindness of the
priest.
“As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Père Silas whiled away the
time with a story,” I said.
“A story! What story? Père Silas is no romancist.”
“Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?”
“Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy’s
French—her best or her worst—I don’t much care which: let us have a
good poignée of barbarisms, and a bounteous dose of the insular
accent.”
“Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious
proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the
midst. But I will tell him the title—the ‘Priest’s Pupil.’”
“Bah!” said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. “The
good old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weak
point. But what of the ‘Priest’s Pupil?’”
“Oh! many things.”
“You may as well define _what_ things. I mean to know.”
“There was the pupil’s youth, the pupil’s manhood;—his avarice, his
ingratitude, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil,
Monsieur!—so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!”
“Et puis?” said he, taking a cigar.
“Et puis,” I pursued, “he underwent calamities which one did not
pity—bore them in a spirit one did not admire—endured wrongs for which
one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of heaping
coals of fire on his adversary’s head.”
“You have not told me all,” said he.
“Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas’s
chapters.”
“You have forgotten one—that which touched on the pupil’s lack of
affection—on his hard, cold, monkish heart.”
“True; I remember now. Père Silas _did_ say that his vocation was
almost that of a priest—that his life was considered consecrated.”
“By what bonds or duties?”
“By the ties of the past and the charities of the present.”
“You have, then, the whole situation?”
“I have now told Monsieur all that was told me.”
Some meditative minutes passed.
“Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I
believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your
eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me—I am
a man to be trusted.”
I raised my eyes.
“Knowing me thoroughly now—all my antecedents, all my
responsibilities—having long known my faults, can you and I still be
friends?”
“If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in
him.”
“But a close friend I mean—intimate and real—kindred in all but blood.
Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened,
encumbered man?”
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I _did_ answer him; he
took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. _His_
friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit—a cold, distant hope—a
sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once
felt (or _thought_ I felt) its support like that of some rock.
“When I talk of friendship, I mean _true_ friendship,” he repeated
emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had
blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious
look he gave. If he _really_ wished for my confidence and regard, and
_really_ would give me his—why, it seemed to me that life could offer
nothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in
a moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fix
and seal it, I asked—
“Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and can
take an interest in me as a sister?”
“Surely, surely,” said he; “a lonely man like me, who has no sister,
must be but too glad to find in some woman’s heart a sister’s pure
affection.”
“And dare I rely on Monsieur’s regard? Dare I speak to him when I am so
inclined?”
“My little sister must make her own experiments,” said he; “I will give
no promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she has
drilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductile
material in some hands.”
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now
affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had never
felt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her
husband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If
he would but prove reliable, and he _looked_ reliable, what, beyond his
friendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a dream, as
once before had happened—?
“Qu’est-ce donc? What is it?” said he, as this thought threw its weight
on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a
moment’s pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal
fear—lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and
fitful—had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of
re-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was
courted. I grew quite happy—strangely happy—in making him secure,
content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth
held, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing.
Countless times it had been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close
darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and
grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
“Lucy,” said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, “did you
see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?”
“I did; a picture painted on a panel.”
“The portrait of a nun?”
“Yes.”
“You heard her history?”
“Yes.”
“You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?”
“I shall never forget it.”
“You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?”
“I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait,” said I; which
was true enough.
“You did not, nor will you fancy,” pursued he, “that a saint in heaven
perturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely
superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset _you?_”
“I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly
natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.”
“Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman—much less a pure,
happy spirit—would trouble amity like ours—n’est-il pas vrai?”
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling out
that I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on some
English family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services were
needed as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable:
sufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its good
sufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the “morbid
fancies,” against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE APPLE OF DISCORD.
Besides Fifine Beck’s mother, another power had a word to say to M.
Paul and me, before that covenant of friendship could be ratified. We
were under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jealously
her son through that mystic lattice at which I had knelt once, and to
which M. Emanuel drew nigh month by month—the sliding panel of the
confessional.
“Why were you so glad to be friends with M. Paul?” asks the reader.
“Had he not long been a friend to you? Had he not given proof on proof
of a certain partiality in his feelings?”
Yes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly—that he was
my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tender
deference—that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful when taught
how. He had called me “sister.” It was well. Yes; he might call me what
he pleased, so long as he confided in me. I was willing to be his
sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill that relation to
some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was to celibacy, of
this dilemma there seemed little danger.
Through most of the succeeding night I pondered that evening’s
interview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened for
the bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers and
breakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at last
which brought me the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a more
thorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how
much of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; to prove
how much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discover whether I
could summon a sister’s courage, and he a brother’s frankness.
He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will
not, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted me. His
lesson was given rather more quietly than usual, more mildly, and also
more gravely. He was fatherly to his pupils, but he was not brotherly
to me. Ere he left the classe, I expected a smile, if not a word; I got
neither: to my portion fell one nod—hurried, shy.
This distance, I argued, is accidental—it is involuntary; patience, and
it will vanish. It vanished not; it continued for days; it increased. I
suppressed my surprise, and swallowed whatever other feelings began to
surge.
Well might I ask when he offered fraternity—“Dare I rely on you?” Well
might he, doubtless knowing himself, withhold all pledge. True, he had
bid me make my own experiments—tease and try him. Vain injunction!
Privilege nominal and unavailable! Some women might use it! Nothing in
my powers or instinct placed me amongst this brave band. Left alone, I
was passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten—my lips would not utter,
nor my eyes dart a reminder. It seemed there had been an error
somewhere in my calculations, and I wanted for time to disclose it.
But the day came when, as usual, he was to give me a lesson. One
evening in seven he had long generously bestowed on me, devoting it to
the examination of what had been done in various studies during the
past week, and to the preparation of work for the week in prospect. On
these occasions my schoolroom was anywhere, wherever the pupils and the
other teachers happened to be, or in their close vicinage, very often
in the large second division, where it was easy to choose a quiet nook
when the crowding day pupils were absent, and the few boarders gathered
in a knot about the surveillante’s estrade.