CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CLOUD.
But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done itsurely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. Theimpulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen andunseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must begiven. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. Infire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire andin blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not throughterror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins;look upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join infriendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretchesthe way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross ourbanner. For staff we have His promise, whose word is tried, whose wayperfect: for present hope His providence, who gives the shield ofsalvation, whose gentleness makes great; for final home His bosom, whodwells in the height of Heaven; for crowning prize a glory, exceedingand eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardnessas good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliantin the issue to come off more than conquerors: Art thou not fromeverlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!
On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for thelesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.
The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-writtencompositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them,neatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of theProfessor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July,the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a freshbreeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in,seeming to whisper tidings.
M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at hisbeing a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and,instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly uponus the cautious Madame Beck.
She approached M. Paul's desk; she stood before it; she drew round herthe light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yetfirm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, This morning there willbe no lesson of literature.
The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes'pause.
It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shallrequire at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute forM. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanksusefully.
Your Professor, ladies, she went on, intends, if possible, duly totake leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for thatceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgentsummons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leaveEurope for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself.Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, thismorning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.
She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, andpassed from the classe.
A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believe somepupils wept.
Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbingincreased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort ofgrowing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, andthat surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense ofduty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak inmy usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. I made theEnglish reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. Iremember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils whosobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only anhysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them.I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or thatgasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spiritedpupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless necessity obligedand assisted me so to accost her, that she dared not carry on thedemonstration, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.
That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when schoolwas over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and whenthey were gone, I did what I had never done to one among thembefore--pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulseyielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon thatpoignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.
I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should haveliked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; thenight, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing meill for the next day's ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course thisnews fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompaniedthe first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; everytongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name ofEmanuel. He, whose connection with the school was contemporary withits commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.
They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitudeof their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About thethird day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then--that hewas bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck's face, and intoher eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused herall over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than whatwas unperturbed and commonplace.
This secession was an immense loss to her, she alleged. She did notknow how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to herkinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him?She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was hisduty.
She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speakingaudibly to Zelie St. Pierre.
Why was it his duty? I could have asked her that. I had impulses totake hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, tostretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, Stop. Let us hear theconclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to go intobanishment? But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and neverlooked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in thequestion.
The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bidus good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questionedwhether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he shoulddepart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in alltheir talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of coursecould see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should _she_care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?
The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, thathis destination was Basseterre in Guadaloupe: the business whichcalled him abroad related to a friend's interests, not his own: Ithought as much.
Basseterre in Guadaloupe. I had little sleep about this time, butwhenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I was quicklyroused with a start, while the words Basseterre, Guadaloupe, seemedpronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and beforeme, in zigzag characters of red or violet light.
For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M.Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growinghourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled thetheological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel.Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not livedaloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; hehad spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, withmanner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grownbetween us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I hadcommunicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat itmore than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar wasover; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings ofunion and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affectionand deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.
What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on myintellect, no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, forthe jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, weresubstituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tenderforbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when hewould sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or dutybrought separation, he would leave with words like these, Il est doux,le repos! Il est precieux le calme bonheur!
One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking inmy alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meantto arrest my attention.
Bonne petite amie! said he, softly; douce consolatrice! But throughhis touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thoughtfound a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend orbrother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity?
His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, hisinterpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alleybroke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodefulforms--a woman's and a priest's--Madame Beck and Pere Silas.
The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse itexpressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affectionjust surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice ofecclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ with unction. He looked onhis pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, sawnothing--nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the handof the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping itclose and fast.
Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure hadstruck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequentrepetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me,which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense,with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word ofexplanation--I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.
The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speakhis farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.
This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a livingcreature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted asusual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their lateProfessor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinaryduties.
So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, soinexpectant its aspect--I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmospherethus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no one lend me a voice? Had noone a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say--Amen?
I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, aholiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they _would_ not nowband to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with aMaster who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as _they_could love--but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude?
I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, orcommunicated with; the distance was scarce a stone's-throw: had it beenin the next room--unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. Tofollow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for these things I had nofaculty.
M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passedsilent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered himto go by.
Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My hearttrembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I wasquite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post--or do my work. Yetthe little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund,free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven dayssince, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appearedquite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.
A little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sentfor me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English lettershe had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling tothis work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of herchamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hotday, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her asindispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fiercedistrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? whatsound?
I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the eveningand winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far offthe traveller's tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About themiddle of the letter I heard--what checked my pen--a tread in thevestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless byorders--had anticipated such reveillee. Madame saw me halt. Shecoughed, made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to theclasses.
Proceed, said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, mythoughts were carried off captive.
The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from thedwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stirof numbers, a whole division rising at once.
They are putting away work, said Madame.
It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush--thatinstant quell of the tumult?
Wait, Madame--I will see what it is.
And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not beleft: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as myshadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.
Are you coming, too? I asked.
Yes, said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect--a look,clouded, yet resolute.
We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.
He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once moreappeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep himaway, but he was come.
The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving hisfarewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. Thislast ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting--so solemn,to last so long.
I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following andwatching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under herbreath; I became terribly goaded.
He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he cameto the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had steppedout suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify herdrapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness anddeficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis--thetotal default of self-assertion--with which, in a crisis, I could bestruck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, shemastered his attention, she hurried him to the door--the glass-dooropening on the garden. I think he looked round; could I but have caughthis eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, andthere would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already theroom was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figurewas lost among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will; yes, shegot him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Fiveo'clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, theroom emptied.
There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in somecertain minutes I then passed alone--a grief inexpressible over a lossunendurable. _What_ should I do; oh! _what_ should I do; when all mylife's hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart?
What I _should_ have done, I know not, when a little child--the leastchild in the school--broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousnessinto the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.
Mademoiselle, lisped the treble voice, I am to give you that. M.Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to thecellar, and when I found you, to give you that.
And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, itsolive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only thesewords:--
It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by tothe rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. Theinterview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you atleisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments arenumbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a privatebusiness on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate--evento you.--PAUL.
Be ready? Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on themorrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of hisvessel's departure advertised. Oh! _I_ would be ready, but could thatlonged-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, theschemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of accessappeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm--Apollyon straddled acrossit, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guidereach me?
Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; itseemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to thewhole throb of mine.
I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. Ithink if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, norits nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those dayswhich never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades--stood,shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled adoubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlookedfor, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height and compass ofhis promise: spoke thus--then towering, became a star, and vanishedinto his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense--a worse boon than despair.
All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet inthe midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Coldand peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-beliedpresentiment. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clungto the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud--likethe wrack scudding before a storm.
They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log;the crimson of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blueshades, over the pale and ashen gleams of its night.
Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired. Istill remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at leastdisregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before.
How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot manyhours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had madefor myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, whencertain that the whole household were abed, and quite out ofhearing--there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding inSolitude, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; theyheaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief couldbe sacred?
Soon after eleven o'clock--a very late hour in the Rue Fossette--thedoor unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp's flame invaded themoonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as ifcoming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of atonce addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed toseek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long.She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; drivenbeyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wontedrespects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usualcircumstances, no yoke could now be borne--no curb obeyed.
It is more than time for retirement, said Madame; the rule of thehouse has already been transgressed too long.
Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way,I put her out of it.
Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,said she, trying to speak softly.
No! I said; neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.
Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall makeyou comfortable: she shall give you a sedative.
Madame, I broke out, you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity,your peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make yourown bed warm and soft; take sedatives and meats, and drinks spiced andsweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow ordisappointment--and, perhaps, you have--nay, I _know_ you have--seekyour own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however._Leave me_, I say!
I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.
I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and mytroubles. Oh, Madame! in _your_ hand there is both chill and poison.You envenom and you paralyze.
What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.
Dog in the manger! I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, andhad always wanted him. She called him insupportable: she railed athim for a devot: she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that shemight bind him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame's secrets Ihad entered--I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration whichcame to me--I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, Ihad slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be arival. She was _my_ rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under thesmoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself.
Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in mypower, because in some moods, such as the present--in some stimulatedstates of perception, like that of this instant--her habitual disguise,her mask and her domino, were to me a mere network reticulated withholes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, self-indulgent, andignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, thoughvery uneasy, she said, If I would not be persuaded to take rest, shemust reluctantly leave me. Which she did incontinent, perhaps evenmore glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish.
This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre whichever occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene wasnever repeated. It did not one whit change her manner to me. I do notknow that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worsefor my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secretphilosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked herto remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurredno repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage.
That night passed: all nights--even the starless night beforedissolution--must wear away. About six o'clock, the hour which calledup the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in itscold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carre, a piece of mirror-glass,set in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: mycheeks and lips were sodden white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelidsswollen and purple.
On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me--my heartseemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideouslycertain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess whyand for whom I despaired.
Isabelle, the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approachedme. Would she, too, mock me!
Que vous etes pale! Vous etes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle! saidshe, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistfulstupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than thekeenest intelligence.
Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance:before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards thewhole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than toread hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his owncounsel--be his own secret's sovereign. In the course of that day,proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow wasunguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, wasstill mine only. It was not known--it had not been noted--that I heldin peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by;curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering alwaysround, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may livein a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come andgone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he hadcalled me, and I had obeyed him: M. Paul wants Miss Lucy--Miss Lucyis with M. Paul--such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobodycommented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. MadameBeck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered wascalled illness--a headache: I accepted the baptism.
But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that hewas gone without a farewell--this cruel conviction that fate andpursuing furies--a woman's envy and a priest's bigotry--would suffer meto see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me likethe first--untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in anunalterable passion of silent desolation?
Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night--she did notcome near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe--a more efficient agent for thepurpose she could not have employed. Ginevra's first words--Is yourheadache very bad to-night? (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I hada headache--an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white inthe face, and insanely restless in the foot)--her first words, I say,inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out ofreach. And soon, what followed--plaints about her ownheadaches--completed the business.
I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed--my miserable bed--hauntedwith quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, whenanother emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. Iwas consumed with thirst--I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, butI tasted a drug.
Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou, said Goton, as shereceived back the emptied cup.
Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me astrong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.
The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitoryhushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easysupremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did notache--he passed by the unquiet.
The drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged orunder-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Insteadof stupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought--to reveriepeculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, theirbugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination wasroused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. Withscorn she looked on Matter, her mate--Rise! she said. Sluggard! thisnight I will have _my_ will; nor shalt thou prevail.
Look forth and view the night! was her cry; and when I lifted theheavy blind from the casement close at hand--with her own royalgesture, she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep and splendid.
To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits,the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me toleave this den and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.
She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight.Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleysall silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin--thatbasin I knew, and beside which I had often stood--deep-set in thetree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy,rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked,sentinelled: the place could not be entered.
Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, Imechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lyingstill--excited from head to foot--what could I do better than dress?
The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, noadmission to the park?
The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending tothe circumstance, a gap in the paling--one stake broken down: I now sawthis gap again in recollection--saw it very plainly--the narrow,irregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, plantedorderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through thataperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but Ithought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, atthis hour the whole park would be mine--the moonlight, midnight park!
How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quietbreathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? Ifelt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: whathindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, itslarge white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct.
As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creakinghinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air couldnot be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will thedormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever aboard is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat asI descend, but not much:--I am in the carre.
The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the otherhand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to mythought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, andfor me, filled with spectral and intolerable Memories, laid miserableamongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerfulvista, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street.
Hush!--the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of thisconvent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum ofthe last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a soundlike bells or like a band--a sound where sweetness, where victory,where mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen toit alone by the rushy basin! Let me go--oh, let me go! What hinders,what does not aid freedom?
There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, myshawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochere; there is nokey to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be openedfrom the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn.Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious facility.I wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose--I wonderas I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at thestrange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if Ihad been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gonebefore me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort.
Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summernight of which I mused; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in theair. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so closeunder the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace isnot what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that skybears the aspect of a world's death. The park also will be calm--Iknow, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere--yet let me seek the park.
I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial and royalHaute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it washushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bellmusic came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strongtide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movementgathered, chimes pealed--to what was I coming? Entering on the level ofa Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plungedamidst a gay, living, joyous crowd.
Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seemsabroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her ownflambeaux, beholds her own splendour--gay dresses, grand equipages,fine horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see evenscores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But whereis the park?--I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare thepark must be shadowy and calm--_there_, at least, are neither torches,lamps, nor crowd?
I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled withknown faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; thespirited horses fretted in their curbed ardour. I saw the occupants ofthat carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know,folded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in thatmotley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count deBassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely andcheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo ofher beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenanceof joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note thegala elegance of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floatingabout her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her Isaw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caughtits lustre--the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamed first out of his.
It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight(carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours.Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by aflaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiouslybeneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?
In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkledwith coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby andgolden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, butof strangest architectural wealth--of altar and of temple, of pyramid,obelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols ofEgypt teemed throughout the park of Villette.
No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine--the key of themystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled--no matter that I quicklyrecognised the material of these solemn fragments--the timber, thepaint, and the pasteboard--these inevitable discoveries failed to quitedestroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matterthat I now seized the explanation of the whole great fete--a fete ofwhich the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had openedat dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.
In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fateof Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights andliberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, ifnot wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets--a bustle--arunning to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even alittle of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the oldBasse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, acertain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of thesaid patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory--the morningbeing given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the eveningdevoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these Inow saw.
While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column--whilefathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close ofwhich was couched a sphinx--I lost sight of the party which, from themiddle of the great square, I had followed--or, rather, they vanishedlike a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed adream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movementfloating, every voice echo-like--half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulinaand her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had reallyseen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far lessregret them as protectors amidst the night.
That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half thepeasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and thedecent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. Mystraw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and longcalico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took theprecaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementaryribbon--and then I felt safe as if masked.
Safe I passed down the avenues--safe I mixed with the crowd where itwas deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. Itook a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air--the swell ofsound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness orHope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now--I scorned Despair.
My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its cleardepth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, withthe passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, andhurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed tocome on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassingtherein her pearly front.
I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing itdirect: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me downthis alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees whichframed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a gladeto the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heavenwere to open--such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above the plain ofBethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.
The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly onfast-strengthening pinions--there swept through these shades so full astorm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, Ithink I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me,unnumbered; instruments varied and countless--bugle, horn, and trumpetI knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves.
The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followedits retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building--a sort of kiosknear the park's centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gatheredto a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, awild Jaeger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood,had but enhanced the sounds and their impression.
Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: someof their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, theflowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about theirdecorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gatheringsound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied thelittle light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardiangentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens,plebeians and police.
In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself thesilent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the shortpetticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe,the velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy,too, it suited me to be alone--quite alone. Having neither wish norpower to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was onthe farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could seelittle.
Mademoiselle is not well placed, said a voice at my elbow. Who daredaccost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather torepel than to reply. I saw a man--a burgher--an entire stranger, as Ideemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certaintradesman--a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with itsbooks and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for theexcessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of hismanner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitaryself, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil,sometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome littleexchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was anintelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; thethought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature boreaffinity to a part of M. Emanuel's (whom he knew well, and whom I hadoften seen sitting on Miret's counter, turning over the current month'spublications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation ofthat conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively regarded him.
Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-foldedshawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a wayfor me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carriedhis disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured mea chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained areby no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, theleast polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to findnothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending tome, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Havingsecured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question,without obtruding a remark, without adding a superfluous word. Nowonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge,and to read his feuilleton in M. Miret's shop--the two must have suited.
I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance andmy worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of afamiliar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and deBassompierres. Within reach of my hand--had I chosen to extend it--sata figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leavesseemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, beingforest-green. My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leanedforward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. Theywere too near; having been just recognised by a comparative stranger, Ifelt uneasy at this close vicinage of intimate acquaintance.
It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, andspeaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,--I wonder what mysteady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish wehad brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.
So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is apity but we had asked her, rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, Ilike to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.
Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in theirremembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which haddriven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless andreckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mindto bend over the elders' shoulders, and answer their goodness with thethanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know _me_, but Iknew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plainsincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly Imight have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one ofhis stately firm movements, so different from those, of asharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, ahundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide itsscrutiny--why then did he concentrate all on me--oppressing me with thewhole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he _would_ look,did not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest hiselbow on its back, and study me leisurely? He could not see my face, Iheld it down; surely, he _could_ not recognise me: I stooped, I turned,I _would_ not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived toapproach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity wouldhave been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerfulhands. There was but one way to evade or to check him. I implied, by asort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone;after that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacleof Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (andLucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, orabsolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. Heshook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor didhe again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one singleinstant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole myway--speaking what somehow stilled my heart like the south-windquieting the earth. Graham's thoughts of me were not entirely those ofa frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, hisheart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy mighthave entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as thechambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hallwhere he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where hetreasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion wherehis marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long andequal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, overthe 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 orcompass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long Icarried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that holdand constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse mighthave magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.
Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity; thisdangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity,rose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucywas contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he nevercould be certain, for he did not see my face.
Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I nothad enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish forsafety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the schooldormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever coulddistract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night's drama was butbegun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody andturfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidentsunlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told meas much.
Straying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I wasbrought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or toweringsingly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it amore scattered character. These confines were far from the music, andsomewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough tosoothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Herehad chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, lateas was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom ithad 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 aseat--a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned toone, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of thissite standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was alady, holding by the hand a little girl.
When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself roundon her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flinging herselffrom side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perversemovements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a characterfearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared thechild's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, thewhite bonnet--the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garbof a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Desiree Beck--andDesiree Beck it was--she, or an imp in her likeness.
I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbolewould have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than onedegree, ere it reached its climax.
On whose hand could the amiable Desiree swing thus selfishly, whoseglove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain withimpunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trampleinsolently, 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 Desiree in hercrib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of thejust, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the RueFossette. Most certainly also they did not picture Meess Lucieotherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our ebats in thefete-blazing park at midnight!
The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiablewont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers--thoughwithout at the time particularly noticing the gossip--that often, whenwe thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed,to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sortof taste for a monastic life, and took care--largely, thoughdiscreetly--to season her existence with a relish of the world.
Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, Iwas not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M.Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair--acalm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance Icould not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts ofcharacter and of countenance, something there still was which recalleda face--mobile, fervent, feeling--a face changeable, now clouded, andnow alight--a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, butwhere my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and inglow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs ofgenius--that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, thething, the spirit, and the secret itself--I could never tell. Yes--thisJosef Emanuel--this man of peace--reminded me of his ardent brother.
Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. Thisthird person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too wasstooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the mostconspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was PereSilas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in thepriest's presence at this fete. This was not considered a show ofVanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Churchpatronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests inthe park that night.
Pere Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rusticbench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was--bearing noshape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, andfeatures, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, youcould almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung atrandom on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced onclear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,nor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyesof the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked morewitch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she wasindeed no corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, uponsome aggravation in the clamorous petition of Desiree Beck to hermother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenlyfetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane.
There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Pere Silas--the wholeconjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did megood. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, ordismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;but, as yet, I was not dead.