Villette
peculiar circumstances, become liable to misapplication—perhaps abuse.”
“But if you write,” said I, “I _must_ have your letters; and I _will_
have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from
me. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline:
Monsieur, I _will not_.”
“Doucement—doucement,” rejoined he; “we will contrive a plan; we have
our resources: soyez tranquille.”
So speaking, he paused.
We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of
a clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It
was before the white door-step of a very neat abode that M. Paul had
halted.
“I call here,” said he.
He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and
entered at once. Ushering me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant
appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and
tastefully painted; its vista closed in a French window with vines
trained about the panes, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass.
Silence reigned in this dwelling.
Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon—very tiny,
but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged like a
blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its
centre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth;
there was a little couch, a little chiffonnière, the half-open,
crimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain on the shelves; there was
a French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments in biscuit china; the
recess of the single ample window was filled with a green stand,
bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowing
in bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, and upon
it a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice of
this room was open; the outer air breathing through, gave freshness,
the sweet violets lent fragrance.
“Pretty, pretty place!” said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.
“Must we sit down here and wait?” I asked in a whisper, half awed by
the deep pervading hush.
“We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell,” he
replied.
“Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?” I inquired.
“Yes, I dare,” said he, quietly.
He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and
oven, with few but bright brasses, two chairs and a table. A small
cupboard held a diminutive but commodious set of earthenware.
“There is a coffee service of china in the salon,” said M. Paul, as I
looked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, the
cups and jugs to match.
Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse
of two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more led
below, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than
had yet been opened.
Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this
door. He opened, put me in before him.
“Voici!” he cried.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously clean, though
bare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards
were carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with
an alley down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher’s chair
and table; behind them a tableau. On the walls hung two maps; in the
windows flowered a few hardy plants; in short, here was a miniature
classe—complete, neat, pleasant.
“It is a school then?” said I. “Who keeps it? I never heard of an
establishment in this faubourg.”
“Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses for
distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?” asked he, taking from his
surtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my
hand. I looked, I read—printed in fair characters:—
“Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice,
Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.”
And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?
Certain junctures of our lives must always be difficult of recall to
memory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and
amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and
whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun.
I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes
succeeding this disclosure, than I can retrace the experience of my
earliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is the
consciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and over
again:—
“Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did
you get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is
there another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something.”
But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look,
his attitude, are visible to me now.
“How is it? I must know all—_all_,” I cried.
The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I
had fastened thereon, oblivious of all else.
“Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days,” said he. “Poor
old Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging about three
mortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker to
charwoman. Lucy and Lucy’s cot, the sole thoughts in his head!”
I hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on his cuff,
and then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was his foresight, his
goodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, that overpowered me
by their proved reality. It was the assurance of his sleepless interest
which broke on me like a light from heaven; it was his—I will dare to
say it—his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In the
midst of all I forced myself to look at the practical.
“The trouble!” I cried, “and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?”
“Plenty of money!” said he heartily. “The disposal of my large teaching
connection put me in possession of a handsome sum with part of it I
determined to give myself the richest treat that I _have_ known or
_shall_ know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hour day and night
lately. I would not come near you, because I would not forestall it.
Reserve is neither my virtue nor my vice. If I had put myself into your
power, and you had begun with your questions of look and lip—Where have
you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? What is your mystery?—my
solitary first and last secret would presently have unravelled itself
in your lap. Now,” he pursued, “you shall live here and have a school;
you shall employ yourself while I am away; you shall think of me
sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for my sake, and
when I come back—”
There he left a blank.
I promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard and willingly.
“I will be your faithful steward,” I said; “I trust at your coming the
account will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are _too_ good!”
In such inadequate language my feelings struggled for expression: they
could not get it; speech, brittle and unmalleable, and cold as ice,
dissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gently
raised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; I
pressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me had
been that hand’s bounty; to offer homage was both a joy and a duty.
The afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shaded
the quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afoot
since morning, he needed refreshment; he said I should offer him
chocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out and
ordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the small
guéridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window under
the screening vines. With what shy joy I accepted my part as hostess,
arranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest.
This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourg
were round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, and
fresh. Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses,
looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under her
smile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of pure
love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale
statue leaned over the play of waters.
M. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated that it mixed
harmonious with the silver whisper, the gush, the musical sigh, in
which light breeze, fountain and foliage intoned their lulling vesper:
Happy hour—stay one moment! droop those plumes, rest those wings;
incline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy light linger;
leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to that
time which needs a ray in retrospect!
Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of fresh
summer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formed
the whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and I
took a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whether
his friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done—whether
they had seen my house?
“Mon amie,” said he, “none knows what I have done save you and myself:
the pleasure is consecrated to us two, unshared and unprofaned. To
speak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement of
enjoyment I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides” (smiling)
“I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I _could_ keep a secret. How often
has she taunted me with lack of dignified reserve and needful caution!
How many times has she saucily insinuated that all my affairs are the
secret of Polichinelle!”
This was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhaps
on any other that was assailable. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted,
dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always had
it.
Continuing my queries, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was my
landlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particulars
in writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.
The house was not M. Paul’s—that I guessed: he was hardly the man to
become a proprietor; I more than suspected in him a lamentable absence
of the saving faculty; he could get, but not keep; he needed a
treasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the
Basse-Ville—a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding:
“a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most respectful
regard for you.” And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was
none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kind-hearted
bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in
the park. It seems M. Miret was, in his station, rich, as well as much
respected, and possessed several houses in this faubourg; the rent was
moderate, scarce half of what it would have been for a house of equal
size nearer the centre of Villette.
“And then,” observed M. Paul, “should fortune not favour you, though I
think she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands;
M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year’s rent you have
already in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and
herself. But now, what will you do for pupils?”
“I must distribute my prospectuses.”
“Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday.
Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, the
Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service.”
“Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would
become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to
number aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they never
come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret’s daughters.”
“Besides these,” pursued he, “another pupil offers, who will come daily