Villette
quieting the earth.” Graham’s thoughts of me were not entirely those of
a frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, his
heart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy might
have entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the
chambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall
where he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he
treasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where
his marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and
equal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over
the door of which was written “Lucy’s Room.” I kept a place for him,
too—a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or
compass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I
carried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold
and constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might
have magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.
Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity; this
dangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity,
rose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucy
was contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he never
could be certain, for he did not see my face.
Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I not
had enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish for
safety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the school
dormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever could
distract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night’s drama was but
begun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and
turfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidents
unlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told me
as much.
Straying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was
brought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering
singly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it a
more scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and
somewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to
soothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here
had chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late
as was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it
had not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.
Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem,
lifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a
seat—a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to
one, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this
site standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a
lady, holding by the hand a little girl.
When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round
on her heel, swinging from her conductress’s hand, flinging herself
from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse
movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character
fearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the
child’s equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the
white bonnet—the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb of
a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Désirée Beck—and Désirée
Beck it was—she, or an imp in her likeness.
I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole
would have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one
degree, ere it reached its climax.
On whose hand could the amiable Désirée swing thus selfishly, whose
glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with
impunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample
insolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother?
And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet—there,
fresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant—there stood Madame Beck.
Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in her
crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the
just, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue
Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture “Meess Lucie”
otherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our “ébats” in the
fête-blazing park at midnight!
The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable
wont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers—though
without at the time particularly noticing the gossip—that often, when
we thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed,
to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort
of taste for a monastic life, and took care—largely, though
discreetly—to season her existence with a relish of the world.
Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I
was not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M.
Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair—a
calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I
could not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of
character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled
a face—mobile, fervent, feeling—a face changeable, now clouded, and now
alight—a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my
best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow; that
face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of genius—that
why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the thing, the
spirit, and the secret itself—I could never tell. Yes—this Josef
Emanuel—this man of peace—reminded me of his ardent brother.
Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This
third person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was
stooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most
conspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was Père
Silas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the
priest’s presence at this fête. This was not considered a show of
Vanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church
patronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in
the park that night.
Père Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic
bench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was—bearing no
shape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, and
features, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you
could almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung at
random on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced on
clear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,
nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyes
of the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more
witch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was
indeed no corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon
some aggravation in the clamorous petition of Désirée Beck to her
mother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly
fetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane.
There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Père Silas—the whole
conjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did me
good. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, or
dismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;
but, as yet, I was not dead.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Fascinated as by a basilisk with three heads, I could not leave this
clique; the ground near them seemed to hold my feet. The canopy of
entwined trees held out shadow, the night whispered a pledge of
protection, and an officious lamp flashed just one beam to show me an
obscure, safe seat, and then vanished. Let me now briefly tell the
reader all that, during the past dark fortnight, I have been silently
gathering from Rumour, respecting the origin and the object of M.
Emanuel’s departure. The tale is short, and not new: its alpha is
Mammon, and its omega Interest.
If Madame Walravens was hideous as a Hindoo idol, she seemed also to
possess, in the estimation of these her votaries, an idol’s
consequence. The fact was, she had been rich—very rich; and though, for
the present, without the command of money, she was likely one day to be
rich again. At Basseterre, in Guadaloupe, she possessed a large estate,
received in dowry on her marriage sixty years ago, sequestered since
her husband’s failure; but now, it was supposed, cleared of claim, and,
if duly looked after by a competent agent of integrity, considered
capable of being made, in a few years, largely productive.
Père Silas took an interest in this prospective improvement for the
sake of religion and the church, whereof Magliore Walravens was a
devout daughter. Madame Beck, distantly related to the hunchback and
knowing her to be without family of her own, had long brooded over
contingencies with a mother’s calculating forethought, and, harshly
treated as she was by Madame Walravens, never ceased to court her for
interest’s sake. Madame Beck and the priest were thus, for money
reasons, equally and sincerely interested in the nursing of the West
Indian estate.
But the distance was great, and the climate hazardous. The competent
and upright agent wanted, must be a devoted man. Just such a man had
Madame Walravens retained for twenty years in her service, blighting
his life, and then living on him, like an old fungus; such a man had
Père Silas trained, taught, and bound to him by the ties of gratitude,
habit, and belief. Such a man Madame Beck knew, and could in some
measure influence. “My pupil,” said Père Silas, “if he remains in
Europe, runs risk of apostacy, for he has become entangled with a
heretic.” Madame Beck made also her private comment, and preferred in
her own breast her secret reason for desiring expatriation. The thing
she could not obtain, she desired not another to win: rather would she
destroy it. As to Madame Walravens, she wanted her money and her land,
and knew Paul, if he liked, could make the best and faithfullest
steward: so the three self-seekers banded and beset the one unselfish.
They reasoned, they appealed, they implored; on his mercy they cast
themselves, into his hands they confidingly thrust their interests.
They asked but two or three years of devotion—after that, he should
live for himself: one of the number, perhaps, wished that in the
meantime he might die.
No living being ever humbly laid his advantage at M. Emanuel’s feet, or
confidingly put it into his hands, that he spurned the trust or
repulsed the repository. What might be his private pain or inward
reluctance to leave Europe—what his calculations for his own
future—none asked, or knew, or reported. All this was a blank to me.
His conferences with his confessor I might guess; the part duty and
religion were made to play in the persuasions used, I might conjecture.
He was gone, and had made no sign. There my knowledge closed.
With my head bent, and my forehead resting on my hands, I sat amidst
grouped tree-stems and branching brushwood. Whatever talk passed
amongst my neighbours, I might hear, if I would; I was near enough; but
for some time, there was scarce motive to attend. They gossiped about
the dresses, the music, the illuminations, the fine night. I listened
to hear them say, “It is calm weather for _his_ voyage; the _Antigua_”
(his ship) “will sail prosperously.” No such remark fell; neither the