Several of M. de Bassompierre’s friends-the savants-being more or less connected with the Athénée, they were expected to attend on this occasion; together with the worshipful municipality of Villette, M. le Chevalier Staas, the burgomaster, and the parents and kinsfolk of the Athenians in general. M. de Bassompierre was engaged by his friends to accompany them; his fair daughter would, of course, be of the party, and she wrote a little note to Ginevra and myself, bidding us come early that we might join her.
As Miss Fanshawe and I were dressing4 in the dormitory of the Rue5 Fossette, she (Miss F.) suddenly burst into a laugh.
“What now?” I asked; for she had suspended the operation of arranging her attire6, and was gazing at me.
“It seems so odd,” she replied, with her usual half-honest half-insolent unreserve, “that you and I should now be so much on a level, visiting in the same sphere; having the same connections.”
“Why, yes,” said I; “I had not much respect for the connections you chiefly frequented awhile ago: Mrs. Cholmondeley and Co. would never have suited me at all.”
“Who are you, Miss Snowe?” she inquired, in a tone of such undisguised and unsophisticated curiosity, as made me laugh in my turn.
“You used to call yourself a nursery governess; when you first came here you really had the care of the children in this house: I have seen you carry little Georgette in your arms, like a bonne — few governesses would have condescended7 so far — and now Madame Beck treats you with more courtesy than she treats the Parisienne, St. Pierre; and that proud chit, my cousin, makes you her bosom8 friend!”
“Wonderful!” I agreed, much amused at her mystification. “Who am I indeed? Perhaps a personage in disguise. Pity I don’t look the character.”
“I wonder you are not more flattered by all this,” she went on; “you take it with strange composure. If you really are the nobody I once thought you, you must be a cool hand.”
“The nobody you once thought me!” I repeated, and my face grew a little hot; but I would not be angry: of what importance was a school-girl’s crude use of the terms nobody and somebody? I confined myself, therefore, to the remark that I had merely met with civility; and asked “what she saw in civility to throw the recipient9 into a fever of confusion?”
“One can’t help wondering at some things,” she persisted.
“Wondering at marvels10 of your own manufacture. Are you ready at last?”
“Yes; let me take your arm.”
“I would rather not: we will walk side by side.”
When she took my arm, she always leaned upon me her whole weight; and, as I was not a gentleman, or her lover, I did not like it.
“There, again!” she cried. “I thought, by offering to take your arm, to intimate approbation11 of your dress and general appearance: I meant it as a compliment.”
“You did? You meant, in short, to express that you are not ashamed to be seen in the street with me? That if Mrs. Cholmondeley should be fondling her lapdog at some window, or Colonel de Hamal picking his teeth in a balcony, and should catch a glimpse of us, you would not quite blush for your companion?”
“Yes,” said she, with that directness which was her best point — which gave an honest plainness to her very fibs when she told them — which was, in short, the salt, the sole preservative12 ingredient of a character otherwise not formed to keep.
I delegated the trouble of commenting on this “yes” to my countenance13; or rather, my under-lip voluntarily anticipated my tongue of course, reverence14 and solemnity were not the feelings expressed in the look I gave her.
“Scornful, sneering15 creature!” she went on, as we crossed a great square, and entered the quiet, pleasant park, our nearest way to the Rue Crécy. “Nobody in this world was ever such a Turk to me as you are!”
“You bring it on yourself: let me alone: have the sense to be quiet: I will let you alone.”
“As if one could let you alone, when you are so peculiar16 and so mysterious!”
“The mystery and peculiarity17 being entirely18 the conception of your own brain — maggots — neither more nor less, be so good as to keep them out of my sight.”
“But are you anybody?” persevered19 she, pushing her hand, in spite of me, under my arm; and that arm pressed itself with inhospitable closeness against my side, by way of keeping out the intruder.
“Yes,” I said, “I am a rising character: once an old lady’s companion, then a nursery-governess, now a school-teacher.”
“Do — do tell me who you are? I’ll not repeat it,” she urged, adhering with ludicrous tenacity20 to the wise notion of an incognito21 she had got hold of; and she squeezed the arm of which she had now obtained full possession, and coaxed22 and conjured23 till I was obliged to pause in the park to laugh. Throughout our walk she rang the most fanciful changes on this theme; proving, by her obstinate24 credulity, or incredulity, her incapacity to conceive how any person not bolstered25 up by birth or wealth, not supported by some consciousness of name or connection, could maintain an attitude of reasonable integrity. As for me, it quite sufficed to my mental tranquillity26 that I was known where it imported that known I should be; the rest sat on me easily: pedigree, social position, and recondite27 intellectual acquisition, occupied about the same space and place in my interests and thoughts; they were my third-class lodgers28 — to whom could be assigned only the small sitting-room29 and the little back bedroom: even if the dining and drawing-rooms stood empty, I never confessed it to them, as thinking minor30 accommodations better suited to their circumstances. The world, I soon learned, held a different estimate: and I make no doubt, the world is very right in its view, yet believe also that I am not quite wrong in mine.
There are people whom a lowered position degrades morally, to whom loss of connection costs loss of self-respect: are not these justified31 in placing the highest value on that station and association which is their safeguard from debasement? If a man feels that he would become contemptible32 in his own eyes were it generally known that his ancestry33 were simple and not gentle, poor and not rich, workers and not capitalists, would it be right severely34 to blame him for keeping these fatal facts out of sight — for starting, trembling, quailing36 at the chance which threatens exposure? The longer we live, the more out experience widens; the less prone37 are we to judge our neighbour’s conduct, to question the world’s wisdom: wherever an accumulation of small defences is found, whether surrounding the prude’s virtue38 or the man of the world’s respectability, there, be sure, it is needed.
We reached the H?tel Crécy; Paulina was ready; Mrs. Bretton was with her; and, under her escort and that of M. de Bassompierre, we were soon conducted to the place of assembly, and seated in good seats, at a convenient distance from the Tribune. The youth of the Athénée were marshalled before us, the municipality and their bourgmestre were in places of honour, the young princes, with their tutors, occupied a conspicuous39 position, and the body of the building was crowded with the aristocracy and first burghers of the town.
Concerning the identity of the professor by whom the “discours” was to be delivered, I had as yet entertained neither care nor question. Some vague expectation I had that a savant would stand up and deliver a formal speech, half dogmatism to the Athenians, half flattery to the princes.
The Tribune was yet empty when we entered, but in ten minutes after it was filled; suddenly, in a second of time, a head, chest, and arms grew above the crimson40 desk. This head I knew: its colour, shape, port, expression, were familiar both to me and Miss Fanshawe; the blackness and closeness of cranium, the amplitude41 and paleness of brow, the blueness and fire of glance, were details so domesticated42 in the memory, and so knit with many a whimsical association, as almost by this their sudden apparition43, to tickle44 fancy to a laugh. Indeed, I confess, for my part, I did laugh till I was warm; but then I bent45 my head, and made my handkerchief and a lowered veil the sole confidants of my mirth.
I think I was glad to see M. Paul; I think it was rather pleasant than otherwise, to behold46 him set up there, fierce and frank, dark and candid47, testy48 and fearless, as when regnant on his estrade in class. His presence was such a surprise: I had not once thought of expecting him, though I knew he filled the chair of Belles49 Lettres in the college. With him in that Tribune, I felt sure that neither formalism nor flattery would be our doom50; but for what was vouchsafed51 us, for what was poured suddenly, rapidly, continuously, on our heads — I own I was not prepared.
He spoke52 to the princes, the nobles, the magistrates53, and the burghers, with just the same ease, with almost the same pointed54, choleric55 earnestness, with which he was wont56 to harangue57 the three divisions of the Rue Fossette. The collegians he addressed, not as schoolboys, but as future citizens and embryo58 patriots59. The times which have since come on Europe had not been foretold60 yet, and M. Emanuel’s spirit seemed new to me. Who would have thought the flat and fat soil of Labassecour could yield political convictions and national feelings, such as were now strongly expressed? Of the bearing of his opinions I need here give no special indication; yet it may be permitted me to say that I believed the little man not more earnest than right in what he said: with all his fire he was severe and sensible; he trampled61 Utopian theories under his heel; he rejected wild dreams with scorn; — but when he looked in the face of tyranny — oh, then there opened a light in his eye worth seeing; and when he spoke of injustice62, his voice gave no uncertain sound, but reminded me rather of the band-trumpet, ringing at twilight63 from the park.
I do not think his audience were generally susceptible64 of sharing his flame in its purity; but some of the college youth caught fire as he eloquently65 told them what should be their path and endeavour in their country’s and in Europe’s future. They gave him a long, loud, ringing cheer, as he concluded: with all his fierceness, he was their favourite professor.
As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knew me, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and uttered the words “Qu’en dites vous?”— question eminently66 characteristic, and reminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive67 restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought, but he did care, and he was too natural to conceal68, too impulsive69 to repress his wish. Well! if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his naiveté. I would have praised him: I had plenty of praise in my heart; but, alas70! no words on my lips. Who has words at the right moment? I stammered71 some lame35 expressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up with profuse72 congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy.
A gentleman introduced him to M. de Bassompierre; and the Count, who had likewise been highly gratified, asked him to join his friends (for the most part M. Emanuel’s likewise), and to dine with them at the H?tel Crécy. He declined dinner, for he was a man always somewhat shy at meeting the advances of the wealthy: there was a strength of sturdy independence in the stringing of his sinews — not obtrusive73, but pleasant enough to discover as one advanced in knowledge of his character; he promised, however, to step in with his friend, M. A——a French Academician, in the course of the evening.
At dinner that day, Ginevra and Paulina each looked, in her own way, very beautiful; the former, perhaps, boasted the advantage in material charms, but the latter shone pre-eminent for attractions more subtle and spiritual: for light and eloquence74 of eye, for grace of mien75, for winning variety of expression. Ginevra’s dress of deep crimson relieved well her light curls, and harmonized with her rose-like bloom. Paulina’s attire — in fashion close, though faultlessly neat, but in texture76 clear and white — made the eye grateful for the delicate life of her complexion77, for the soft animation78 of her countenance, for the tender depth of her eyes, for the brown shadow and bounteous79 flow of her hair — darker than that of her Saxon cousin, as were also her eyebrows80, her eyelashes, her full irids, and large mobile pupils. Nature having traced all these details slightly, and with a careless hand, in Miss Fanshawe’s case; and in Miss de Bassompierre’s, wrought81 them to a high and delicate finish.
Paulina was awed82 by the savants, but not quite to mutism: she conversed84 modestly, diffidently; not without effort, but with so true a sweetness, so fine and penetrating85 a sense, that her father more than once suspended his own discourse86 to listen, and fixed87 on her an eye of proud delight. It was a polite Frenchman, M. Z——a very learned, but quite a courtly man, who had drawn88 her into discourse. I was charmed with her French; it was faultless — the structure correct, the idioms true, the accent pure; Ginevra, who had lived half her life on the Continent, could do nothing like it not that words ever failed Miss Fanshawe, but real accuracy and purity she neither possessed89, nor in any number of years would acquire. Here, too, M. de Bassompierre was gratified; for, on the point of language, he was critical.
Another listener and observer there was; one who, detained by some exigency90 of his profession, had come in late to dinner. Both ladies were quietly scanned by Dr. Bretton, at the moment of taking his seat at the table; and that guarded survey was more than once renewed. His arrival roused Miss Fanshawe, who had hitherto appeared listless: she now became smiling and complacent91, talked — though what she said was rarely to the purpose — or rather, was of a purpose somewhat mortifyingly92 below the standard of the occasion. Her light, disconnected prattle93 might have gratified Graham once; perhaps it pleased him still: perhaps it was only fancy which suggested the thought that, while his eye was filled and his ear fed, his taste, his keen zest95, his lively intelligence, were not equally consulted and regaled. It is certain that, restless and exacting96 as seemed the demand on his attention, he yielded courteously97 all that was required: his manner showed neither pique98 nor coolness: Ginevra was his neighbour, and to her, during dinner, he almost exclusively confined his notice. She appeared satisfied, and passed to the drawing-room in very good spirits.
Yet, no sooner had we reached that place of refuge, than she again became flat and listless: throwing herself on a couch, she denounced both the “discours” and the dinner as stupid affairs, and inquired of her cousin how she could hear such a set of prosaic99 “gros-bonnets” as her father gathered about him. The moment the gentlemen were heard to move, her railings ceased: she started up, flew to the piano, and dashed at it with spirit. Dr. Bretton entering, one of the first, took up his station beside her. I thought he would not long maintain that post: there was a position near the hearth100 to which I expected to see him attracted: this position he only scanned with his eye; while he looked, others drew in. The grace and mind of Paulina charmed these thoughtful Frenchmen: the fineness of her beauty, the soft courtesy of her manner, her immature101, but real and inbred tact102, pleased their national taste; they clustered about her, not indeed to talk science; which would have rendered her dumb, but to touch on many subjects in letters, in arts, in actual life, on which it soon appeared that she had both read and reflected. I listened. I am sure that though Graham stood aloof103, he listened too: his hearing as well as his vision was very fine, quick, discriminating104. I knew he gathered the conversation; I felt that the mode in which it was sustained suited him exquisitely105 — pleased him almost to pain.
In Paulina there was more force, both of feeling and character; than most people thought — than Graham himself imagined — than she would ever show to those who did not wish to see it. To speak truth, reader, there is no excellent beauty, no accomplished106 grace, no reliable refinement107, without strength as excellent, as complete, as trustworthy. As well might you look for good fruit and blossom on a rootless and sapless tree, as for charms that will endure in a feeble and relaxed nature. For a little while, the blooming semblance108 of beauty may flourish round weakness; but it cannot bear a blast: it soon fades, even in serenest109 sunshine. Graham would have started had any suggestive spirit whispered of the sinew and the stamina110 sustaining that delicate nature; but I who had known her as a child, knew or guessed by what a good and strong root her graces held to the firm soil of reality.
While Dr. Bretton listened, and waited an opening in the magic circle, his glance restlessly sweeping111 the room at intervals112, lighted by chance on me, where I sat in a quiet nook not far from my godmother and M. de Bassompierre, who, as usual, were engaged in what Mr. Home called “a two-handed crack:” what the Count would have interpreted as a tête-à-tête. Graham smiled recognition, crossed the room, asked me how I was, told me I looked pale. I also had my own smile at my own thought: it was now about three months since Dr. John had spoken to me-a lapse113 of which he was not even conscious. He sat down, and became silent. His wish was rather to look than converse83. Ginevra and Paulina were now opposite to him: he could gaze his fill: he surveyed both forms — studied both faces.
Several new guests, ladies as well as gentlemen, had entered the room since dinner, dropping in for the evening conversation; and amongst the gentlemen, I may incidentally observe, I had already noticed by glimpses, a severe, dark, professorial outline, hovering114 aloof in an inner saloon, seen only in vista115. M. Emanuel knew many of the gentlemen present, but I think was a stranger to most of the ladies, excepting myself; in looking towards the hearth, he could not but see me, and naturally made a movement to approach; seeing, however, Dr. Bretton also, he changed his mind and held back. If that had been all, there would have been no cause for quarrel; but not satisfied with holding back, he puckered116 up his eyebrows, protruded117 his lip, and looked so ugly that I averted118 my eyes from the displeasing119 spectacle. M. Joseph Emanuel had arrived, as well as his austere120 brother, and at this very moment was relieving Ginevra at the piano. What a master-touch succeeded her school-girl jingle121! In what grand, grateful tones the instrument acknowledged the hand of the true artist!
“Lucy,” began Dr. Bretton, breaking silence and smiling, as Ginevra glided122 before him, casting a glance as she passed by, “Miss Fanshawe is certainly a fine girl.”
Of course I assented123.
“Is there,” he pursued, “another in the room as lovely?”
“I think there is not another as handsome.”
“I agree with you, Lucy: you and I do often agree in opinion, in taste, I think; or at least in judgment124.”
“Do we?” I said, somewhat doubtfully.
“I believe if you had been a boy, Lucy, instead of a girl — my mother’s god-son instead of her god-daughter, we should have been good friends: our opinions would have melted into each other.”
He had assumed a bantering125 air: a light, half-caressing, half-ironic126, shone aslant127 in his eye. Ah, Graham! I have given more than one solitary128 moment to thoughts and calculations of your estimate of Lucy Snowe: was it always kind or just? Had Lucy been intrinsically the same but possessing the additional advantages of wealth and station, would your manner to her, your value for her, have been quite what they actually were? And yet by these questions I would not seriously infer blame. No; you might sadden and trouble me sometimes; but then mine was a soon-depressed, an easily-deranged temperament129 — it fell if a cloud crossed the sun. Perhaps before the eye of severe equity130 I should stand more at fault than you.
Trying, then, to keep down the unreasonable131 pain which thrilled my heart, on thus being made to feel that while Graham could devote to others the most grave and earnest, the manliest132 interest, he had no more than light raillery for Lucy, the friend of lang syne133, I inquired calmly — “On what points are we so closely in accordance?”
“We each have an observant faculty134. You, perhaps, don’t give me credit for the possession; yet I have it.”
“But you were speaking of tastes: we may see the same objects, yet estimate them differently?”
“Let us bring it to the test. Of course, you cannot but render homage135 to the merits of Miss Fanshawe: now, what do you think of others in the room? — my mother, for instance; or the lions yonder, Messieurs A—— and Z——; or, let us say, that pale little lady, Miss de Bassompierre?”
“You know what I think of your mother. I have not thought of Messieurs A—— and Z——.”
“And the other?”
“I think she is, as you say, a pale little lady — pale, certainly, just now, when she is fatigued136 with over-excitement.”
“You don’t remember her as a child?”
“I wonder, sometimes, whether you do.”
“I had forgotten her; but it is noticeable, that circumstances, persons, even words and looks, that had slipped your memory, may, under certain conditions, certain aspects of your own or another’s mind, revive.”
“That is possible enough.”
“Yet,” he continued, “the revival137 is imperfect — needs confirmation138, partakes so much of the dim character of a dream, or of the airy one of a fancy, that the testimony139 of a witness becomes necessary for corroboration140. Were you not a guest at Bretton ten years ago, when Mr. Home brought his little girl, whom we then called ‘little Polly,’ to stay with mamma?”
“I was there the night she came, and also the morning she went away.”
“Rather a peculiar child, was she not? I wonder how I treated her. Was I fond of children in those days? Was there anything gracious or kindly141 about me — great, reckless, schoolboy as I was? But you don’t recollect142 me, of course?”
“You have seen your own picture at La Terrasse. It is like you personally. In manner, you were almost the same yesterday as to-day.”
“But, Lucy, how is that? Such an oracle143 really whets144 my curiosity. What am I to-day? What was I the yesterday of ten years back?”
“Gracious to whatever pleased you — unkindly or cruel to nothing.”
“There you are wrong; I think I was almost a brute145 to you, for instance.”
“A brute! No, Graham: I should never have patiently endured brutality146.”
“This, however, I do remember: quiet Lucy Snowe tasted nothing of my grace.”
“As little of your cruelty.”
“Why, had I been Nero himself, I could not have tormented147 a being inoffensive as a shadow.”
I smiled; but I also hushed a groan148. Oh! — I just wished he would let me alone — cease allusion149 to me. These epithets150 — these attributes I put from me. His “quiet Lucy Snowe,” his “inoffensive shadow,” I gave him back; not with scorn, but with extreme weariness: theirs was the coldness and the pressure of lead; let him whelm me with no such weight. Happily, he was soon on another theme.
“On what terms were ‘little Polly’ and I? Unless my recollections deceive me, we were not foes151 —”
“You speak very vaguely152. Do you think little Polly’s memory, not more definite?”
“Oh! we don’t talk of ‘little Polly’ now. Pray say, Miss de Bassompierre; and, of course, such a stately personage remembers nothing of Bretton. Look at her large eyes, Lucy; can they read a word in the page of memory? Are they the same which I used to direct to a horn-book? She does not know that I partly taught her to read.”
“In the Bible on Sunday nights?”
“She has a calm, delicate, rather fine profile now: once what a little restless, anxious countenance was hers! What a thing is a child’s preference — what a bubble! Would you believe it? that lady was fond of me!”
“I think she was in some measure fond of you,” said I, moderately.
“You don’t remember then? I had forgotten; but I remember now. She liked me the best of whatever there was at Bretton.”
“You thought so.”
“I quite well recall it. I wish I could tell her all I recall; or rather, I wish some one, you for instance, would go behind and whisper it all in her ear, and I could have the delight — here, as I sit — of watching her look under the intelligence. Could you manage that, think you, Lucy, and make me ever grateful?”
“Could I manage to make you ever grateful?” said I. “No, I could not.” And I felt my fingers work and my hands interlock: I felt, too, an inward courage, warm and resistant153. In this matter I was not disposed to gratify Dr. John: not at all. With now welcome force, I realized his entire misapprehension of my character and nature. He wanted always to give me a role not mine. Nature and I opposed him. He did not at all guess what I felt: he did not read my eyes, or face, or gestures; though, I doubt not, all spoke. Leaning towards me coaxingly154, he said, softly, “Do content me, Lucy.”
And I would have contented155, or, at least, I would clearly have enlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me the part of officious soubrette in a love drama; when, following his, soft, eager, murmur156, meeting almost his pleading, mellow157 —”Do content me, Lucy!” a sharp hiss158 pierced my ear on the other side.
“Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!” sibillated the sudden boa-constrictor; “vous avez l’air bien triste, soumis, rêveur, mais vous ne l’êtes pas: c’est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme à l’ame, l’éclair aux yeux!”
“Oui; j’ai la flamme à l’ame, et je dois l’avoir!” retorted I, turning in just wrath159: but Professor Emanuel had hissed160 his insult and was gone.
The worst of the matter was, that Dr. Bretton, whose ears, as I have said, were quick and fine, caught every word of this apostrophe; he put his handkerchief to his face, and laughed till he shook.
“Well done, Lucy,” cried he; “capital! petite chatte, petite coquette! Oh, I must tell my mother! Is it true, Lucy, or half-true? I believe it is: you redden to the colour of Miss Fanshawe’s gown. And really, by my word, now I examine him, that is the same little man who was so savage161 with you at the concert: the very same, and in his soul he is frantic162 at this moment because he sees me laughing. Oh! I must tease him.”
And Graham, yielding to his bent for mischief163, laughed, jested, and whispered on till I could bear no more, and my eyes filled.
Suddenly he was sobered: a vacant space appeared near Miss de Bassompierre; the circle surrounding her seemed about to dissolve. This movement was instantly caught by Graham’s eye — ever-vigilant, even while laughing; he rose, took his courage in both hands, crossed the room, and made the advantage his own. Dr. John, throughout his whole life, was a man of luck — a man of success. And why? Because he had the eye to see his opportunity, the heart to prompt to well-timed action, the nerve to consummate164 a perfect work. And no tyrant-passion dragged him back; no enthusiasms, no foibles encumbered165 his way. How well he looked at this very moment! When Paulina looked up as he reached her side, her glance mingled166 at once with an encountering glance, animated167, yet modest; his colour, as he spoke to her, became half a blush, half a glow. He stood in her presence brave and bashful: subdued168 and unobtrusive, yet decided169 in his purpose and devoted170 in his ardour. I gathered all this by one view. I did not prolong my observation — time failed me, had inclination171 served: the night wore late; Ginevra and I ought already to have been in the Rue Fossette. I rose, and bade good-night to my godmother and M. de Bassompierre.
I know not whether Professor Emanuel had noticed my reluctant acceptance of Dr. Bretton’s badinage172, or whether he perceived that I was pained, and that, on the whole, the evening had not been one flow of exultant173 enjoyment174 for the volatile175, pleasure-loving Mademoiselle Lucie; but, as I was leaving the room, he stepped up and inquired whether I had any one to attend me to the Rue Fossette. The professor now spoke politely, and even deferentially176, and he looked apologetic and repentant177; but I could not recognise his civility at a word, nor meet his contrition178 with crude, premature179 oblivion. Never hitherto had I felt seriously disposed to resent his brusqueries, or freeze before his fierceness; what he had said to-night, however, I considered unwarranted: my extreme disapprobation of the proceeding180 must be marked, however slightly. I merely said:—“I am provided with attendance.”
Which was true, as Ginevra and I were to be sent home in the carriage; and I passed him with the sliding obeisance181 with which he was wont to be saluted182 in classe by pupils crossing his estrade.
Having sought my shawl, I returned to the vestibule. M. Emanuel stood there as if waiting. He observed that the night was fine.
“Is it?” I said, with a tone and manner whose consummate chariness and frostiness I could not but applaud. It was so seldom I could properly act out my own resolution to be reserved and cool where I had been grieved or hurt, that I felt almost proud of this one successful effort. That “Is it?” sounded just like the manner of other people. I had heard hundreds of such little minced183, docked, dry phrases, from the pursed-up coral lips of a score of self-possessed, self-sufficing misses and mesdemoiselles. That M. Paul would not stand any prolonged experience of this sort of dialogue I knew; but he certainly merited a sample of the curt184 and arid185. I believe he thought so himself, for he took the dose quietly. He looked at my shawl and objected to its lightness. I decidedly told him it was as heavy as I wished. Receding186 aloof, and standing187 apart, I leaned on the banister of the stairs, folded my shawl about me, and fixed my eyes on a dreary188 religious painting darkening the wall.
Ginevra was long in coming: tedious seemed her loitering. M. Paul was still there; my ear expected from his lips an angry tone. He came nearer. “Now for another hiss!” thought I: had not the action been too uncivil I could have, stopped my ears with my fingers in terror of the thrill. Nothing happens as we expect: listen for a coo or a murmur; it is then you will hear a cry of prey189 or pain. Await a piercing shriek190, an angry threat, and welcome an amicable191 greeting, a low kind whisper. M. Paul spoke gently:—“Friends,” said he, “do not quarrel for a word. Tell me, was it I or ce grand fat d’Anglais” (so he profanely192 denominated Dr. Bretton), “who made your eyes so humid, and your cheeks so hot as they are even now?”
“I am not conscious of you, monsieur, or of any other having excited such emotion as you indicate,” was my answer; and in giving it, I again surpassed my usual self, and achieved a neat, frosty falsehood.
“But what did I say?” he pursued; “tell me: I was angry: I have forgotten my words; what were they?”
“Such as it is best to forget!” said I, still quite calm and chill.
“Then it was my words which wounded you? Consider them unsaid: permit my retractation; accord my pardon.”
“I am not angry, Monsieur.”
“Then you are worse than angry — grieved. Forgive me, Miss Lucy.”
“M. Emanuel, I do forgive you.”
“Let me hear you say, in the voice natural to you, and not in that alien tone, ‘Mon ami, je vous pardonne.’”
He made me smile. Who could help smiling at his wistfulness, his simplicity193, his earnestness?
“Bon!” he cried. “Voilà que le jour va poindre! Dites donc, mon ami.”
“Monsieur Paul, je vous pardonne.”
“I will have no monsieur: speak the other word, or I shall not believe you sincere: another effort — mon ami, or else in English — my friend!”
Now, “my friend” had rather another sound and significancy than “mon ami;” it did not breathe the same sense of domestic and intimate affection; “mon ami“ I could not say to M. Paul; “my friend,” I could, and did say without difficulty. This distinction existed not for him, however, and he was quite satisfied with the English phrase. He smiled. You should have seen him smile, reader; and you should have marked the difference between his countenance now, and that he wore half an hour ago. I cannot affirm that I had ever witnessed the smile of pleasure, or content, or kindness round M. Paul’s lips, or in his eyes before. The ironic, the sarcastic194, the disdainful, the passionately195 exultant, I had hundreds of times seen him express by what he called a smile, but any illuminated197 sign of milder or warmer feelings struck me as wholly new in his visage. It changed it as from a mask to a face: the deep lines left his features; the very complexion seemed clearer and fresher; that swart, sallow, southern darkness which spoke his Spanish blood, became displaced by a lighter198 hue199. I know not that I have ever seen in any other human face an equal metamorphosis from a similar cause. He now took me to the carriage: at the same moment M. de Bassompierre came out with his niece.
In a pretty humour was Mistress Fanshawe; she had found the evening a grand failure: completely upset as to temper, she gave way to the most uncontrolled moroseness200 as soon as we were seated, and the carriage-door closed. Her invectives against Dr. Bretton had something venomous in them. Having found herself impotent either to charm or sting him, hatred201 was her only resource; and this hatred she expressed in terms so unmeasured and proportion so monstrous202, that, after listening for a while with assumed stoicism, my outraged203 sense of justice at last and suddenly caught fire. An explosion ensued: for I could be passionate196, too; especially with my present fair but faulty associate, who never failed to stir the worst dregs of me. It was well that the carriage-wheels made a tremendous rattle94 over the flinty Choseville pavement, for I can assure the reader there was neither dead silence nor calm discussion within the vehicle. Half in earnest, half in seeming, I made it my business to storm down Ginevra. She had set out rampant204 from the Rue Crécy; it was necessary to tame her before we reached the Rue Fossette: to this end it was indispensable to show up her sterling205 value and high deserts; and this must be done in language of which the fidelity206 and homeliness207 might challenge comparison with the compliments of a John Knox to a Mary Stuart. This was the right discipline for Ginevra; it suited her. I am quite sure she went to bed that night all the better and more settled in mind and mood, and slept all the more sweetly for having undergone a sound moral drubbing.
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1
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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2
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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3
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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5
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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6
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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7
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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8
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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9
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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10
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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12
preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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13
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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14
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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15
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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16
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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17
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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18
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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19
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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21
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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22
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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23
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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24
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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25
bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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26
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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27
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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28
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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29
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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30
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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31
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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32
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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33
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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34
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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35
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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36
quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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37
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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38
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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39
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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40
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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41
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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42
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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44
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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47
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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48
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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49
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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50
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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51
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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56
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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57
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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58
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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59
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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60
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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62
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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63
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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64
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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65
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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66
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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67
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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68
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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69
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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70
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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71
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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73
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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74
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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75
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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76
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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77
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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78
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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79
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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80
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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81
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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82
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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84
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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85
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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86
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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87
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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90
exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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91
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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92
mortifyingly
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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93
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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94
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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95
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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96
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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97
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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98
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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100
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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101
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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102
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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103
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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104
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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105
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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106
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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107
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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108
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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109
serenest
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的最高级形式 | |
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110
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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111
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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112
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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113
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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114
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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115
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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116
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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119
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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120
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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121
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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122
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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123
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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125
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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126
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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127
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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128
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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129
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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130
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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131
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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132
manliest
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| manly（有男子气概的）的最高级形式 | |
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133
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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134
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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135
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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136
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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137
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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138
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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139
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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140
corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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141
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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142
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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143
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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144
whets
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的第三人称单数 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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145
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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146
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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147
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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148
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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149
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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150
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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151
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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152
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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153
resistant
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| adj.(to)抵抗的，有抵抗力的 | |
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154
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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155
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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156
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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157
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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158
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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159
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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160
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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161
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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162
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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163
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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164
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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165
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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167
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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168
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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169
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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170
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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171
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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172
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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173
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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174
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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175
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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176
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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177
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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178
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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179
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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180
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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181
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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182
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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183
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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184
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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185
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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186
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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187
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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188
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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189
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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190
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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191
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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192
profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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193
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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194
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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195
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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196
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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197
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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198
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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199
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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200
moroseness
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201
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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202
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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203
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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204
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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205
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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206
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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207
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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