Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Charlotte Bronte [42]
‘Let that alone—will you?’ said a voice in good English; then, in correction, ‘Qu’est ce que vous faîtes done? Cette malle est à moi.’t
But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I turned:
‘Sir,’ said I, appealing to the stranger, without in my distress noticing what he was like, ‘I cannot speak French. May I entreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?’
Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was to which my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its expression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom of interference.
‘Do ask him; I would do as much for you,’ said I.
I don’t know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone; that is to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying,—
‘What sort of trunk was yours?’
I described it, including in my description the green ribbon. And forthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt, through all the storm of French which followed, that he raked him fore and aft. Presently he returned to me.
‘The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he removed your trunk after you saw it put on, and has left it behind at Boue-Marine with other parcels; he has promised, however, to forward it to-morrow; the day after, therefore, you will find it safe at this bureau.’
‘Thank you,’ said I: but my heart sank.
Meantime what should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw the failure of courage in my face; he inquired kindly,
‘Have you any friends in this city?’
‘No, and I don’t know where to go.’
There was a little pause, in the course of which, as he turned more fully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw that he was a young, distinguished, and handsome man; he might be a lord, for anything I knew: nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. His face was very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but not overbearing. I was turning away, in the deep consciousness of all absence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he.
‘Was all your money in your trunk?’ he asked, stopping me.
How thankful was I to be able to answer with truth,—
‘No. I have enough in my purse’ (for I had near twenty francs) ‘to keep me at a quiet inn till the day after to-morrow; but I am quite a stranger in Villette, and don’t know the streets and the inns.’
‘I can give you the address of such an inn as you want,’ said he; ‘and it is not far off: with my direction you will easily find it.’
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words and gave it to me. I did think him kind; and as to distrusting him, or his advice, or his address, I should almost as soon have thought of distrusting the Bible. There was goodness in his countenance and honour in his bright eyes.
‘Your shortest way will be to follow the boulevard, and cross the park,’ he continued; ‘but it is too late and too dark for a woman to go through the park alone; I will step with you thus far.’
He moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the small soaking rain. The Boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the water dripping from its trees; the park was black as midnight. In the double gloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only follow his tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed that frank tread, through continual night, to the world’s end.
‘Now,’ said he, when the park was traversed, ‘you will go along this broad street till you come to steps; two lamps will show you where they are: these steps you will descend: a narrower street lies below; following that, at the bottom you will find your inn. They speak English there, so your difficulties are now pretty well over. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, sir,’ said I: ‘accept my sincerest thanks.’ And we parted.
The remembrance of his countenance, which I am sure wore a light not unbenignant to the