CHAPTER XX.

THE CONCERT.

One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly¹ into my room, desired me to open my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without a word.

“That will do,” said she, when she had turned them over. “You must have a new one.”

She went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker. She had me measured. “I mean,” said she, “to follow my own taste, and to have my own way in this little matter.”

Two days after came home—a pink dress!

“That is not for me,” I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almost as soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.

“We shall see whether it is for you or not,” rejoined my godmother, adding with her resistless decision: “Mark my words. You will wear it this very evening.”

I thought I should not; I thought no human force should avail to put me into it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had not proved it.

My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham to a concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grand affair to be held in the large salle, or hall, of the principal musical society. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to perform: it was to be followed by a lottery⁴ “au bénéfice des pauvres;” and to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecour were to be present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined⁶ attention to costume as a compliment due to royalty⁷: he also recommended punctual readiness by seven o’clock.

About six, I was ushered⁸ upstairs. Without any force at all, I found myself led and influenced by another’s will, unconsulted, unpersuaded, quietly overruled. In short, the pink dress went on, softened⁹ by some drapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande tenue, and requested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling; with more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o’clock struck; Dr. Bretton was come; my godmother and I went down. She was clad in brown velvet¹⁰; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those folds of grave, dark majesty¹¹! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.

“I do hope he will not think I have been decking myself out to draw attention,” was my uneasy aspiration¹².

“Here, Lucy, are some flowers,” said he, giving me a bouquet¹³. He took no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and satisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear of ridicule¹⁴. For the rest; the dress was made with extreme simplicity¹⁵, guiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric¹⁶ and bright tint¹⁷ which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing absurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled.

I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, can hardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or a concert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity: I am not sure that I expected great pleasure from the concert, having but a very vague notion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snug¹⁸ comfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued forth¹⁹ to the open chaussée, the passage through the city gates, the lights there burning, the guards there posted, the pretence²⁰ of inspection²¹, to which we there submitted, and which amused us so much—all these small matters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiarly exhilarating charm. How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused²³ about me, I know not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood, contending animatedly²⁵ with each other the whole way, and as frankly²⁶ kind to me as if I had been of their kin⁵.

Our way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streets brightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant seemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of life along the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the Rue²⁷ Fossette came across me—of the walled-in garden and school-house, and of the dark, vast “classes,” where, as at this very hour, it was my wont²⁸ to wander all solitary²⁹, gazing at the stars through the high, blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in the refectory, monotonously³⁰ exercised upon the “lecture pieuse.” Thus must I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the future stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present.

By this time we had got into a current of carriages all tending in one direction, and soon the front of a great illuminated³¹ building blazed before us. Of what I should see within this building, I had, as before intimated, but an imperfect idea; for no place of public entertainment had it ever been my lot to enter yet.

We alighted under a portico³² where there was a great bustle³³ and a great crowd, but I do not distinctly remember further details, until I found myself mounting a majestic³⁴ staircase wide and easy of ascent³⁵, deeply and softly carpeted with crimson³⁶, leading up to great doors closed solemnly, and whose panels were also crimson-clothed.

I hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back—Dr. John managed these points; roll back they did, however, and within was disclosed a hall—grand, wide, and high, whose sweeping³⁷ circular walls, and domed³⁸ hollow ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus with nice art was it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting⁴⁰, and garlandry, either bright, like gold burnished⁴¹, or snow-white, like alabaster⁴², or white and gold mingled⁴³ in wreaths of gilded⁴⁴ leaves and spotless lilies: wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions placed, the sole colour employed was deep crimson. Pendent from the dome³⁹, flamed a mass that dazzled me—a mass, I thought, of rock-crystal, sparkling with facets⁴⁵, streaming with drops, ablaze⁴⁶ with stars, and gorgeously tinged⁴⁷ with dews of gems⁴⁸ dissolved, or fragments of rainbows shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for me it seemed the work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a huge, dark, cloudy hand—that of the Slave of the Lamp—were not hovering⁴⁹ in the lustrous⁵⁰ and perfumed atmosphere of the cupola, guarding its wondrous⁵¹ treasure.

We moved on—I was not at all conscious whither—but at some turn we suddenly encountered another party approaching from the opposite direction. I just now see that group, as it flashed—upon me for one moment. A handsome middle-aged⁵² lady in dark velvet; a gentleman who might be her son—the best face, the finest figure, I thought, I had ever seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle⁵³.

I noted⁵⁴ them all—the third person as well as the other two—and for the fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receiving an impartial⁵⁵ impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly felt and not fixed⁵⁶, before the consciousness that I faced a great mirror, filling a compartment⁵⁷ between two pillars, dispelled⁵⁸ it: the party was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only time in my life, I enjoyed the “giftie” of seeing myself as others see me. No need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord⁵⁹, a pang⁶⁰ of regret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful; it might have been worse.

At last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view of that vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it was filled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that the women were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; and foreigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to possess the art of appearing graceful⁶¹ in public: however blunt and boisterous⁶² those every-day and home movements connected with peignoir and papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head and arms, a mien⁶³ of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for gala use—always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on with the “parure.”

Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar²² style of beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set, sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is almost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain still and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch painters give to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but round, straight but stolid⁶⁴; and for their depth of expressionless calm, of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a type. Women of this order need no ornament⁶⁵, and they seldom wear any; the smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast to the smoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; the rounded arm and perfect neck require neither bracelet⁶⁶ nor chain.

With one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture⁶⁷ to be perfectly⁶⁸ acquainted: the inert⁶⁹ force of the deep, settled love she bore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proud impotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veins⁷⁰ conducted no flow; placid⁷¹ lymph filled and almost obstructed⁷² her arteries⁷³.

Such a Juno as I have described sat full in our view—a sort of mark for all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to the magnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, and beauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding⁷⁴, which rose at her side.

Observing that Dr. John’s attention was much drawn⁷⁵ towards her, I entreated⁷⁶ him in a low voice “for the love of heaven to shield well his heart. You need not fall in love with that lady,” I said, “because, I tell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and she would not love you again.”

“Very well,” said he, “and how do you know that the spectacle of her grand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus⁷⁷ to homage⁷⁸? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant to my emotions: but” (shrugging his shoulders) “you know nothing about these things; I’ll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I’m in a dangerous way.”

“As if that interested me!” said Mrs. Bretton.

“Alas! the cruelty of my lot!” responded her son. “Never man had a more unsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think that such a calamity⁷⁹ can befall her as a daughter-in-law.”

“If I don’t, it is not for want of having that same calamity held over my head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. ‘Mamma, I am going to be married soon!’ was the cry before you were well out of jackets.”

“But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden, when you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob or Esau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of these which are of the daughters of the land.”

“At your peril⁸⁰, John Graham! that is all.”

“This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealous old lady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in the pale blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with ‘reflets satinés’ as those of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were to bring that goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton, junior?”

“You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little château⁸¹ will not contain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height, bulk⁸², and circumference⁸³ of that mighty⁸⁴ doll in wood and wax, and kid and satin.”

“Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!”

“Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper⁸⁵! a rueful chair should it be for her: but hush⁸⁶, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use your eyes.”

During the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed full at the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until the semicircle before the stage presented one dense⁸⁷ mass of heads, sloping from floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporary platform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was now overflowing⁸⁸ with life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre, a white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering⁸⁹, while Graham and his mother were engaged in discussing the belle⁹⁰ in blue satin, and had watched with interest the process of arraying and marshalling them. Two gentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this virgin⁹¹ troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long hair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck’s pensionnat, to give lessons to the few pupils whose parents were rich enough to allow their daughters the privilege of his instructions; his name was M. Josef Emanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul: which potent⁹² personage was now visible in the person of the second gentleman.

M. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed so thoroughly⁹³ in his element—standing⁹⁴ conspicuous⁹⁵ in presence of a wide and grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about one hundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest—so energetic, so intent, and, above all, so absolute: and yet what business had he there? What had he to do with music or the Conservatoire—he who could hardly distinguish one note from another? I knew that it was his love of display and authority which had brought him there—a love not offensive, only because so naive⁹⁶. It presently became obvious that his brother, M. Josef, was as much under his control as were the girls themselves. Never was such a little hawk⁹⁷ of a man as that M. Paul! Ere long, some noted singers and musicians dawned upon the platform: as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set. Insufferable to him were all notorieties and celebrities⁹⁸: where he could not outshine, he fled.

And now all was prepared: but one compartment of the hall waited to be filled—a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase and doors, furnished with stuffed and cushioned benches, ranged on each side of two regal chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy⁹⁹.

A signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly stood up, the orchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a choral burst, enter the King, the Queen, the Court of Labassecour.

Till then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it may consequently be conjectured¹⁰⁰ how I strained my powers of vision to take in these specimens¹⁰² of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld¹⁰³ for the first time, there will always be experienced a vague surprise bordering on disappointment, that the same does not appear seated, en permanence, on a throne, bonneted¹⁰⁴ with a crown, and furnished, as to the hand, with a sceptre. Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half cheated, half pleased.

Well do I recall that King—a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little grey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and at first the strong hieroglyphics¹⁰⁵ graven as with iron stylet on his brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct. Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of those characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer—a nervous, melancholy¹⁰⁶ man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a certain ghost—had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over against him, amidst all that brilliant throng¹⁰⁷. Hypochondria has that wont, to rise in the midst of thousands—dark as Doom¹⁰⁸, pale as Malady¹⁰⁹, and well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be happy one moment—“Not so,” says she; “I come.” And she freezes the blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.

Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King’s brows which bent¹¹⁰ them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the effects of early bereavement¹¹¹. Something there might be of both these; but these are embittered¹¹² by that darkest foe¹¹³ of humanity—constitutional melancholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it seemed to me, the reflection of her husband’s grief lay, a subduing¹¹⁴ shadow, on her own benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman that princess seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid charms and marble feelings described a page or two since. Hers was a somewhat slender shape; her features, though distinguished¹¹⁵ enough, were too suggestive of reigning¹¹⁶ dynasties and royal lines to give unqualified pleasure. The expression clothing that profile was agreeable in the present instance; but you could not avoid connecting it with remembered effigies¹¹⁷, where similar lines appeared, under phase ignoble¹¹⁸; feeble, or sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The Queen’s eye, however, was her own; and pity, goodness, sweet sympathy, blessed it with divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a lady—kind, loving, elegant. Her little son, the Prince of Labassecour, and young Duc de Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother’s knee; and, ever and anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her observant of the monarch¹¹⁹ at her side, conscious of his beclouded abstraction, and desirous to rouse him from it by drawing his attention to their son. She often bent her head to listen to the boy’s remarks, and would then smilingly repeat them to his sire. The moody¹²⁰ King started, listened, smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good angel ceased speaking. Full mournful and significant was that spectacle! Not the less so because, both for the aristocracy and the honest bourgeoisie of Labassecour, its peculiarity¹²² seemed to be wholly invisible: I could not discover that one soul present was either struck or touched.

With the King and Queen had entered their court, comprising two or three foreign ambassadors; and with them came the elite¹²³ of the foreigners then resident in Villette. These took possession of the crimson benches; the ladies were seated; most of the men remained standing: their sable¹²⁴ rank, lining¹²⁵ the background, looked like a dark foil to the splendour displayed in front. Nor was this splendour without varying light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was filled with matrons in velvets and satins, in plumes¹²⁶ and gems; the benches in the foreground, to the Queen’s right hand, seemed devoted¹²⁷ exclusively to young girls, the flower—perhaps, I should rather say, the bud—of Villette aristocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses, no velvet pile or silken sheen: purity, simplicity, and aërial grace reigned¹²⁸ in that virgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms (I was going to write sylph forms, but that would have been quite untrue: several of these “jeunes filles,” who had not numbered more than sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust¹²⁹ and solid as those of a stout¹³⁰ Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)—fair forms robed in white, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven and angels. I knew a couple, at least, of these “rose et blanche” specimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck’s late pupils—Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angélique: pupils who, during their last year at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whose brains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they had been under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them to translate rationally a page of The Vicar of Wakefield. Also during three months I had one of them for my vis-à-vis at table, and the quantity of household bread, butter, and stewed¹³² fruit, she would habitually¹³³ consume at “second déjeuner” was a real world’s wonder—to be exceeded only by the fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat. Here be truths—wholesome truths, too.

I knew another of these seraphs—the prettiest, or, at any rate, the least demure¹³⁴ and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated by the daughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking girl: both had entered in the suite¹³⁵ of the British embassy. She (i.e. my acquaintance) had a slight, pliant¹³⁶ figure, not at all like the forms of the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a shell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked like hair, and waved from her head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and seemed full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and her position. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw Ginevra Fanshawe: he had become so quiet, he answered so briefly¹³⁷ his mother’s remarks, he so often suppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He had confessed a taste for the pursuit of love under difficulties; here was full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him from a sphere above his own: he could not come near her; he was not certain that he could win from her a look. I watched to see if she would so far favour him. Our seat was not far from the crimson benches; we must inevitably¹³⁸ be seen thence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss Fanshawe’s, and very soon those optics of hers were upon us: at least, upon Dr. and Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight, not wishing to be immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily¹³⁹ at Dr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute or two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon the performance commencing, her rambling¹⁴⁰ attention was attracted to the platform.

On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my impressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while to record them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. The young ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made rather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Josef Emanuel stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact¹⁴¹ or influence of his kinsman¹⁴², who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have compelled pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism¹⁴³ and self-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric débutantes¹⁴⁴ between two fires—terror of the audience, and terror of himself—and would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the latter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this.

Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky lady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected¹⁴⁵ me like the tricks of a conjuror¹⁴⁶: I wondered how she did it—how she made her voice run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers¹⁴⁷; but a simple Scotch¹⁴⁸ melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more deeply.

Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented¹⁴⁹ a bitter outcry against a certain “fausse Isabelle.” I thought he seemed especially to solicit¹⁵⁰ the Queen’s sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously¹⁵¹ mistaken, her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than the earnestness of interest. This gentleman’s state of mind was very harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of the same.

Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening’s entertainment. There were present deputies from all the best provincial¹⁵² choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, native Labassecouriens. These worthies¹⁵³ gave voice without mincing¹⁵⁴ the matter their hearty¹⁵⁵ exertions¹⁵⁶ had at least this good result—the ear drank thence a satisfying sense of power.

Through the whole performance—timid instrumental duets, conceited¹⁵⁷ vocal¹⁵⁸ solos, sonorous¹⁵⁹, brass-lunged choruses—my attention gave but one eye and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently¹⁶⁰ retained in the service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease to question how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was amused or the contrary. At last he spoke¹⁶¹.

“And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet,” he said, in his own cheerful tone.

“I am quiet,” I said, “because I am so very, very much interested: not merely with the music, but with everything about me.”

He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so much equanimity¹⁶³ and composure that I began to think he had really not seen what I had seen, and I whispered—“Miss Fanshawe is here: have you noticed her?”

“Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too.”

“Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?”

“Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra was in her train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ——’s train, who was in the Queen’s train. If this were not one of the compact little minor¹⁶⁴ European courts, whose very formalities are little more imposing¹⁶⁵ than familiarities, and whose gala grandeur¹⁶⁶ is but homeliness¹⁶⁷ in Sunday array, it would sound all very fine.”

“Ginevra saw you, I think?”

“So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since you withdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a little spectacle which you were spared.”

I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which was presently given.

“Miss Fanshawe,” he said, “has a companion with her—a lady of rank. I happen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me in professionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent¹⁶⁸, and I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by making a butt¹³¹ of her neighbours.”

“What neighbours?”

“Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural: nothing, I suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeois¹²¹ doctor; but my mother! I never saw her ridiculed¹⁶⁹ before. Do you know, the curling lip, and sarcastically¹⁷⁰ levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious sensation?”

“Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra were in a giddy mood, as she is eminently¹⁷¹ to-night, she would make no scruple¹⁷² of laughing at that mild, pensive¹⁷³ Queen, or that melancholy King. She is not actuated by malevolence¹⁷⁴, but sheer, heedless folly¹⁷⁵. To a feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred.”

“But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in the light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not my divinity—the angel of my career?”

“Hem²! There was your mistake.”

“To speak the honest truth, without any false rant¹⁷⁶ or assumed romance, there actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought her divine. Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite open with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with which you took it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of your lights, I allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was that test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her beauty retained its fascination¹⁷⁷: three days—three hours ago, I was very much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphant¹⁷⁸ in beauty, my emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer¹⁷⁹, I should yet be the humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed¹⁸⁰ at me, and, while wounding, she would not soon have alienated¹⁸¹ me: through myself, she could not in ten years have done what, in a moment, she has done through my mother.”

He held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and so little sunshine in Dr. John’s blue eye as just now.

“Lucy,” he recommenced, “look well at my mother, and say, without fear or favour, in what light she now appears to you.”

“As she always does—an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally composed and cheerful.”

“So she seems to me—bless her! The merry may laugh with mamma, but the weak only will laugh at her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my consent, at least; nor without my—my scorn—my antipathy—my—”

He stopped: and it was time—for he was getting excited—more it seemed than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his complexion¹⁸², the expansion of his nostril¹⁸³, the bold curve which disdain¹⁸⁴ gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase. Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave¹⁸⁵ and serene¹⁸⁶, is not a pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive¹⁸⁷ thrill which passed through his strong young frame.

“Do I frighten you, Lucy?” he asked.

“I cannot tell why you are so very angry.”

“For this reason,” he muttered in my ear. “Ginevra is neither a pure angel, nor a pure-minded woman.”

“Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her.”

“Too much for me. I can see where you are blind. Now dismiss the subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself.”

“John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?”

They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the previous dialogue had taken place.

“You hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager¹⁸⁸ my studs, which are genuine, against your paste brooch—”

“My paste brooch, Graham? Profane¹⁸⁹ boy! you know that it is a stone of value.”

“Oh! that is one of your superstitions¹⁹⁰: you were cheated in the business.”

“I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen to be acquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observed two of them pay you no small attention during the last half-hour.”

“I wish you would not observe them.”

“Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me? She is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive¹⁹¹ that her titter will discomfit¹⁹² the old lady?”

“The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than ten wives yet.”

“Don’t be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have to carry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverse your last speech, and exclaim, ‘Mother, ten wives could hardly be worse to me than you are!’”

The concert over, the Lottery “au bénéfice des pauvres” came next: the interval¹⁹³ between was one of general relaxation¹⁹⁴, and the pleasantest imaginable stir and commotion¹⁹⁵. The white flock was cleared from the platform; a busy throng of gentlemen crowded it instead, making arrangements for the drawing; and amongst these—the busiest of all—re-appeared that certain well-known form, not tall but active, alive with the energy and movement of three tall men. How M. Paul did work! How he issued directions, and, at the same time, set his own shoulder to the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants were at his beck to remove the pianos, &c.; no matter, he must add to their strength his own. The redundancy of his alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous: in my mind I both disapproved¹⁹⁶ and derided¹⁹⁷ most of this fuss. Yet, in the midst of prejudice and annoyance¹⁹⁸, I could not, while watching, avoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naïveté in all he did and said; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of his physiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng of tamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of his forehead, pale, broad, and full—the mobility¹⁹⁹ of his most flexible mouth. He lacked the calm of force, but its movement and its fire he signally possessed²⁰⁰.

Meantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose and remained standing, for a change; some walked about, all talked and laughed. The crimson compartment presented a peculiarly animated²⁴ scene. The long cloud of gentlemen, breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbow line of ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King and conversed²⁰¹ with him. The Queen, leaving her chair, glided²⁰² along the rank of young ladies, who all stood up as she passed; and to each in turn I saw her vouchsafe²⁰³ some token of kindness—a gracious word, look or smile. To the two pretty English girls, Lady Sara and Ginevra Fanshawe, she addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, and especially the latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification. They were afterwards accosted²⁰⁴ by several ladies, and a little circle of gentlemen gathered round them; amongst these—the nearest to Ginevra—stood the Count de Hamal.

“This room is stiflingly²⁰⁵ hot,” said Dr. Bretton, rising with sudden impatience²⁰⁶. “Lucy—mother—will you come a moment to the fresh air?”

“Go with him, Lucy,” said Mrs. Bretton. “I would rather keep my seat.”

Willingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham’s desire must take precedence of my own; I accompanied him.

We found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem to feel it; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spread cloudless. I was wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on the pavement; in passing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye.

“You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?”

“I was only fearing that you were grieved.”

“Not at all: so be of good cheer—as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, my persuasion²⁰⁷ is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I may seem to droop²⁰⁸ for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment has yet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at home?”

“Generally.”

“I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady for a dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thank you, Miss Fanshawe!” And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, and made a mock reverence²⁰⁹.

“Yes,” he said, “I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts in ten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bled from a mere¹⁶² puncture²¹⁰: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice.