Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Charlotte Bronte [231]
‘Qu’est-ce donc? What is it?’ said he, as this thought threw its weight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a moment’s pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal fear—lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and fitful—had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of re-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was courted. I grew quite happy—strangely happy—in making him secure, content, tranquil. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth held, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing. Countless times it has been my lot to watch apprehended sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
‘Lucy,’ said M. Paul, speaking low and still holding my hand, ‘did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?’
‘I did; a picture painted on a panel.’
‘The portrait of a nun?’
‘Yes.’
‘You heard her history?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?’
‘I shall never forget it.’
‘You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?’
‘I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait,’ said I; which was true enough.
‘You did not, nor will you fancy,’ pursued he, ‘that a saint in Heaven perturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset you?’
‘I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.’
‘Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good living woman—much less a pure, happy spirit—would trouble amity like ours—n’est il pas vrai?’ip
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy and abrupt, calling out that I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on some English family, who had applied for a prospectus: my services were needed as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable: sufficient for the day is always the evil;
CHAPTER 36
The Apple of Discord
Besides Fifine Beck’s mother, another power had a word to say to M. Paul and me, before that covenant of friendship could be ratified. We were under the surveillance of a sleepless eye: Rome watched jealousy her son through that mystic lattice at which I had knelt once, and to which M. Emanuel drew nigh month by month—the sliding panel of the confessional.
‘Why were you so glad to be friends with M. Paul?’ asks the reader. ‘Had he not long been a friend to you? Had he not given proof on proof of a certain partiality in his feelings?’
Yes, he had; but still I liked to hear him say so earnestly—that he was my close, true friend; I liked his modest doubts, his tender deference—that trust which longed to rest, and was grateful when taught how. He had called me ‘sister.’ It was well. Yes; he might call me what he pleased, so long as he confided in me. I was willing to be his sister, on condition that he did not invite me to fill that relation to some future wife of his; and tacitly vowed as he was to celibacy, of this dilemma there seemed little danger.
Through most of the succeeding night, I pondered that evening’s interview. I wanted much the morning to break, and then listened for the bell to ring; and, after rising and dressing, I deemed prayers and breakfast slow, and all the hours lingering, till that arrived at last which brought the lesson of literature. My wish was to get a more thorough comprehension of this fraternal alliance: to note with how much of the brother he would demean himself when we met again; to prove how much of the sister was in my own feelings; to discover whether I could summon a sister’s courage, and he a brother’s frankness.
He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted