CHAPTER XXI.
REACTION.
Yet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. I almostnumbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I haveretarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them: theywere already gone while I yet feared their departure.
Lucy will not leave us to-day, said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly atbreakfast; she knows we can procure a second respite.
I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word, said I. Ilong to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossetteagain. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packedand corded.
It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had saidhe would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day,and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words.Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I couldhave cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leavethem as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: thatis, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell.On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.
It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck'sdoor. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it hadrained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such anight was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped atthis very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the veryshapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while,with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door atwhich I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I hadbriefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of thatrencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination todo so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best keptthere.
Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was justthat period of the evening when the half-boarders took theirdeparture--consequently, Rosine was on the alert.
Don't come in, said I to him; but he stepped a moment into thewell-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that the waterstood in my eyes, for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlesslyshown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal--to relieve--when,physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in hispower.
Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as truefriends. We will not forget you.
Nor will I forget you, Dr. John.
My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go,but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content hisgenerous impulses.
Lucy,--stepping after me--shall you feel very solitary here?
At first I shall.
Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I'll tellyou what I'll do. I'll write--just any cheerful nonsense that comesinto my head--shall I?
Good, gallant heart! thought I to myself; but I shook my head,smiling, and said, Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task._You_ write to _me_!--you'll not have time.
Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!
He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen--the pangwas experienced.
Allowing myself no time to think or feel--swallowing tears as if theyhad been wine--I passed to Madame's sitting-room to pay the necessaryvisit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectlywell-acted cordiality--was even demonstrative, though brief, in herwelcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-a-manger Iproceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were nowassembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, Ithink, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.
And will Graham really write? I questioned, as I sank tired on theedge of the bed.
Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long,dim chamber, whispered sedately--He may write once. So kind is hisnature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it_cannot_ be continued--it _may_ not be repeated. Great were that follywhich should build on such a promise--insane that credulity whichshould mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow onedraught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons.
I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whisperedme, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my earwith the chill blue lips of eld.
If, muttered she, if he _should_ write, what then? Do you meditatepleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hopeno delight of heart--no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion tofeeling--give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendlyexchange: foster no genial intercommunion....
But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide, I pleaded.
No, said she, I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. Youconverse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion ofinferiority--no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penurystamp your language....
But, I again broke in, where the bodily presence is weak and thespeech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making writtenlanguage the medium of better utterance than faltering lips canachieve?
Reason only answered, At your peril you cherish that idea, or sufferits influence to animate any writing of yours!
But if I feel, may I _never_ express?
_Never!_ declared Reason.
I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never--never--oh, hard word! Thishag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: shecould not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, andbroken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece ofbread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life todespond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times todefy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour toImagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine Hope.We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terriblerevenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for meshe was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it haschiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I shouldhave died of her ill-usage her stint, her chill, her barren board, hericy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power whoholds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out bynight, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawedbone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothingmore for me--harshly denied my right to ask better things.... Then,looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, ofwhich the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent.A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended with quietflight to the waste--bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed ofeternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannotfade--fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes purefrom a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has thisgood angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongstgleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first freshhour of a heavenly day; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferablefears which weep away life itself--kindly given rest to deadlyweariness--generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair.Divine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee toother than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful onmountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun--altarsdedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build,nor lips consecrate: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thyworship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome--atemple whose floors are space--rites whose mysteries transpire inpresence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds!
Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army ofmartyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deityunquestioned, thine essence foils decay!
This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, andshe came with comfort: Sleep, she said. Sleep, sweetly--I gild thydreams!
She kept her word, and watched me through a night's rest; but at dawnReason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain wasdashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry atintervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in themiddle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whommental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of wakingsnatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant's gripe. How quickly Idressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-coldwater in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like otherdram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.
Ere long the bell rang its _reveillee_ to the whole school. Beingdressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was litand the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, withthe nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but thebeginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintryblight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little whenI first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense ofcomfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.
Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deepargument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and herdecrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made foritself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties allweak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeyingthrough the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith--awatching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awewhile they illumine--hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking thelonging out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps,never to be, reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are tobe viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.
By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wounditself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, itsthrobbings, and made me fit for the day's work. I lifted my head.
As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wallbeneath the refectory and the carre, and thus sufficing to heat bothapartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was awindow, looking also into the carre; as I looked up a cap-tassel, abrow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of thosetwo eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I hadnot till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt themnow.
This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion,where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy wasat hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this malespy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwontedhour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No otherprofessor would have dared to cross the carre before the class-bellrang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was somebook of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion toconsult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. Itwas very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each sideof him: he had seen me through the little window--he now opened therefectory door, and there he stood.
Mademoiselle, vous etes triste.
Monsieur, j'en ai bien le droit.
Vous etes malade de coeur et d'humeur, he pursued. You are at oncemournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know arehot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speakyou eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded whilewatching you?
Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time forconversation is very scant and brief at this hour--excuse----
I excuse everything, he interrupted; my mood is so meek, neitherrebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of ayoung she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture offire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.
Unwarrantable accost!--rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to ateacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seenhim vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice shouldfind no gratification; I sat silent.
You look, said he, like one who would snatch at a draught of sweetpoison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust.
Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And towhatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny itsown delicious quality--sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly apleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.
Yet, said he, you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if Ihad the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, Iwould, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.
I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterlydispleased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, inmy present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.
Come, said he, more softly, tell me the truth--you grieve at beingparted from friends--is it not so?
The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorialcuriosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the benchabout two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently,in attempts to draw me into conversation--attempts necessarilyunavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I entreated to be letalone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on myarms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a whilelonger. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and hisretreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.
I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appearedat that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite asjocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seatopposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinklinggleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to beshaken. Miss Fanshawe's travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed withher mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round asapples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don't knowthat she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind ofcareless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaidedwith black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of herbloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.
I am glad you are come back, Timon, said she. Timon was one of herdozen names for me. You don't know how often I have wanted you in thisdismal hole.
Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have somethingfor me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps. I never gave Ginevra aminute's or a farthing's credit for disinterestedness.
Crabbed and crusty as ever! said she. I expected as much: it wouldnot be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hopeyou like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are youdisposed to barter?
Take your own way.
This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She didnot like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strongor sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite,like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls,which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowancewas served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gavehalf to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many othersused to covet the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes giveme a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught;hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don't know why Ichose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, iftwo had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimeshappened--for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, andhalted for refreshment at a farm--I always contrived that she should bemy convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion's share, whetherof the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however,and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were neveralienated.
After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sitand read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till thenine-o'clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush ofexternes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance onthat bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.
I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.
Pardon, Mademoiselle, said a pensionnaire, entering gently; andhaving taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrewon tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, Que mademoiselle estappliquee!
Appliquee, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, butI was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing.Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beckherself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used towarn me not to study too much, lest the blood should all go to myhead. Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition thatMeess Lucie was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel,who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, hadobtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and usedto take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee overtheir scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about thispenury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure inreading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whosestyle or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainly stamped;flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever andmeritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned,God had limited its powers and, its action--thankful, I trust, for thegift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlesslyeager after higher culture.
The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap,in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known whothis was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told withwholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of myco-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment.When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt Germanwould clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotousLabassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards theplayground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the Pas de Geant, orto join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called Un, deux,trois, were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these littleattentions had ceased some time ago--ceased, too, without my finding itnecessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I hadnow no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from onequarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe madeno scruple of--at times--catching me as I was crossing the carre,whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying themental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. GinevraFanshawe it was who now broke in upon my learned leisure. She carrieda huge music-book under her arm.
Go to your practising, said I to her at once: away with you to thelittle salon!
Not till I have had a talk with you, chere amie. I know where you havebeen spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing tothe graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at theconcert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who isyour tailleuse?
Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!--a fiddlestick!Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don't want your company.
But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a littlereluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvrewith our gifted compatriote--the learned 'ourse Britannique.' And so,Ourson, you know Isidore?
I know John Bretton.
Oh, hush! (putting her fingers in her ears) you crack my tympanumswith your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tellme about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to mybehaviour the other night? Wasn't I cruel?
Do you think I noticed you?
It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then towatch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady--myfuture mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rudein quizzing her.
Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don't makeyourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive _your_ sneer.
She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell mewhat he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.
He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.
Did he? she cried with delight. He noticed that? How charming! Ithought he would be mad with jealousy.
Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him togive you up?
Oh! you know he _can't_ do that: but wasn't he mad?
Quite mad, I assented; as mad as a March hare.
Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?
How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancyus holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us,fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong,somehow, and we lost our way.
You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe--
I assure you it is fact--and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would _not_stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ ride outside.
And afterwards?
Afterwards--when he _did_ reach home--the scene transcendsdescription.
Oh, but describe it--you know it is such fun!
Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but (with stern gravity) you know theproverb--'What is sport to one may be death to another.'
Go on, there's a darling Timon.
Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.
I have--such an immensity, you don't know!
Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Brettonrejecting his supper in the first instance--the chicken, the sweetbreadprepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then----butit is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice itto say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy,had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had thatnight.
He wouldn't lie still?
He wouldn't lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in,but the thing was to keep them tucked in.
And what did he say?
Say! Can't you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra,anathematizing that demon, de Hamal--raving about golden locks, blueeyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?
No, did he? He saw the bracelet?
Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for thefirst time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure hasencircled your arm. Ginevra (rising, and changing my tone), come, wewill have an end of this. Go away to your practising.
And I opened the door.
But you have not told me all.
You had better not wait until I _do_ tell you all. Such extracommunicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!
Cross thing! said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classewas my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice ofquittance from me.
Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with herthan I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast betweenthe reality and my description--to remember Dr. John enjoying the drivehome, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest withChristian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that Ifelt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.
* * * * *
A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness ofschool, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy ofcustom. One afternoon, in crossing the carre, on my way to the firstclasse, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of style andliterature, I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows,Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante.She always stood at ease; one of her hands rested in herapron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter,whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberatelystudied the seal.
A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain inits very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter lastnight. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether Ishould have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at thatwhite envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No;I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff fromDisappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the trampof her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of theProfessor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him.Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with theclass under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps,exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carre, I shouldbe sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, toenforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidstthe profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with hisvehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow,prophetic of choler.
As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead offlashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career haltedmidway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his backto the pupils and the room, he gave me a look--such a look as mighthave licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant--a lookof scowling distrust.
Voila! pour vous, said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, andplacing on my desk a letter--the very letter I had seen in Rosine'shand--the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop's-eyeof vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on theretina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of myhope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransomfrom my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interferinghabits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.
I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: Iheld in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, atleast, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial,satisfying. And here was the direction, Miss Lucy Snowe, in a clean,clear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftlydropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress ofinitials, J. G. B. I experienced a happy feeling--a glad emotionwhich went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins. Foronce a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy:not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowychances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannotlive; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which,indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable andpreternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surelyloathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildlypraying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew andessence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neithersweet hail nor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscioushoney, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter,nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh,healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarchdemanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of hislast breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who hadvouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, Thank you, thankyou, Monsieur!
Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, andstrode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, thoughhe had good points.
Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at onceand with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every day?
I knew better. The cover with its address--the seal, with its threeclear letters--was bounty and abundance for the present. I stole fromthe room, I procured the key of the great dormitory, which was keptlocked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and tremblinglest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer,unlocked a box, and took out a case, and--having feasted my eyes withone more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shameand delight, to my lips--I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fairand inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up boxand drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class,feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange,sweet insanity! And this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yetread: did not yet know the number of its lines.
When I re-entered the schoolroom, behold M. Paul raging like apestilence! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough tosuit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he wasraving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as Iappeared, he fell on me.
Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess to teach them theconduct befitting ladies?--and did I permit and, he doubted not,encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, tomince and mash it between their teeth, as if they had some base causeto be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty? He knewbetter. It was a vile pseudo sentiment--the offspring or the forerunnerof evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing, this mincingand grimacing, this, grinding of a noble tongue, this generalaffectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the firstclass, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petitesmaitresses, and confine himself to teaching the ABC to the babies ofthe third division.
What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he wouldallow me to be silent. The storm recommenced.
Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed to beconsidered in _that_ place--that conceited boudoir of a first classe,with its pretentious book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish offlower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreignsurveillante, forsooth!--it seemed to be the fashion to think _there_that the Professor of Literature was not worthy of a reply! These werenew ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from 'la GrandeBretagne:' they savoured of island insolence and arrogance.
Lull the second--the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep atear for the rebukes of any other master, now all melting likesnow-statues before the intemperate heat of M. Emanuel: I not yet muchshaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work.
Something--either in my continued silence or in the movement of myhand, stitching--transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary ofpatience; he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near mydesk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from itshinges, the fuel was made to fly.
Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter? said he to me, in alow, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arrangingthe fire.
It was time to soothe him a little if possible.
Mais, Monsieur, said I, I would not insult you for the world. Iremember too well that you once said we should be friends.
I did not intend my voice to falter, but it did: more, I think, throughthe agitation of late delight than in any spasm of present fear. Stillthere certainly was something in M. Paul's anger--a kind of passion ofemotion--that specially tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, normuch afraid, yet I wept.
Allons, allons! said he presently, looking round and seeing thedeluge universal. Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have onlyone pocket-handkerchief, he added, but if I had twenty, I would offeryou each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, MissLucy.
And he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now aperson who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and hisimpulses, would naturally have bungled at this offer--declinedaccepting the same--et cetera. But I too plainly felt this would neverdo: the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipienttreaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received itwith decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, andretaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap, took especialcare during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle northimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul cast atthese implements; he hated them mortally, considering sewing a sourceof distraction from the attention due to himself. A very eloquentlesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere hehad done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out--tears wereexchanged for smiles.
In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk.
And your letter? said he, this time not quite fiercely.
I have not yet read it, Monsieur.
Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as, when I was a boy,I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?
The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-risingwarmth in my face from revealing as much.
You promise yourself a pleasant moment, said he, in reading thatletter; you will open it when alone--n'est-ce pas? Ah! a smile answers.Well, well! one should not be too harsh; 'la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps.'
Monsieur, Monsieur! I cried, or rather whispered after him, as heturned to go, do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely afriend's letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that.
Je concois, je concois: on sait ce que c'est qu'un ami. Bonjour,Mademoiselle!
But, Monsieur, here is your handkerchief.
Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shallread the billet's tenor in your eyes.
When he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of theschoolroom into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court totake their customary recreation before the five-o'clock dinner, I stooda moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief round my arm.For some reason--gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the goldenglimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of its buoyancy,made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, above all, solacedat heart by the joyous consciousness of that treasure in the case, box,drawer up-stairs,--I fell to playing with the handkerchief as if itwere a ball, casting it into the air and catching it--as it fell. Thegame was stopped by another hand than mine--a hand emerging from apaletot-sleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught theextemporised plaything and bore it away with these sullen words:
Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets.
Really that little man was dreadful: a mere sprite of caprice and,ubiquity: one never knew either his whim or his whereabout.