CHAPTER 38.

CLOUD.

But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done it surely will be, whether we humble¹ ourselves to resignation or not. The impulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen and unseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must be given. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In fire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and in blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer⁴, gird up thy loins; look upward, march onward⁵. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in friendly company. Dark through the wilderness⁶ of this world stretches the way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our banner. For staff we have His promise, whose “word is tried, whose way perfect:” for present hope His providence⁷, “who gives the shield of salvation⁸, whose gentleness makes great;” for final home His bosom⁹, who “dwells in the height of Heaven;” for crowning prize a glory, exceeding and eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardness as good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant in the issue to come off more than conquerors¹⁰: “Art thou not from everlasting¹¹ mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!”

On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the lesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.

The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written compositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them, neatly¹² tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the Professor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July, the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh breeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent¹³, looked in, seeming to whisper tidings.

M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his being a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and, instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon us the cautious Madame Beck.

She approached M. Paul’s desk; she stood before it; she drew round her the light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet firm tones, and with a fixed¹⁴ gaze, she said, “This morning there will be no lesson of literature.”

The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes’ pause.

“It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall require at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for M. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks usefully.

“Your Professor, ladies,” she went on, “intends, if possible, duly to take leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that ceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent summons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided¹⁵ to leave Europe for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself. Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this morning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.”

She bent her head courteously¹⁶, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and passed from the classe.

A great silence fell: then a murmur¹⁷ went round the room: I believe some pupils wept.

Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing¹⁸ increased. I became conscious of a relaxation¹⁹ of discipline, a sort of growing disorder²⁰, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn²¹, and that surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of duty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in my usual tone, to enjoin²², and finally to establish quiet. I made the English reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I remember feeling a sentiment of impatience²³ towards the pupils who sobbed²⁴. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an hysteric agitation²⁵. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed²⁶ them. I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that gasping²⁷ sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited pupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless²⁸ necessity obliged and assisted me so to accost²⁹ her, that she dared not carry on the demonstration³⁰, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.

That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school was over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when they were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them before—pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse yielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that poignant³¹ strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.

I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have liked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the night, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me ill for the next day’s ordeal³² of insufferable gossip. Of course this news fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied the first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of “Emanuel.” He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.

They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude of their words and rumours³³, grew at last some intelligence. About the third day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then—that he was bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck’s face, and into her eyes, for disproof or confirmation³⁴ of this report; I perused³⁵ her all over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what was unperturbed and commonplace.

“This secession was an immense loss to her,” she alleged³⁶. “She did not know how she should fill up the vacancy³⁷. She was so used to her kinsman³⁸, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him? She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his duty.”

She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking audibly to Zélie St. Pierre.

“Why was it his duty?” I could have asked her that. I had impulses to take hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to stretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, “Stop. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Why is it his duty to go into banishment³⁹?” But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never looked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the question.

The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid us good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned whether or not he would come; none betrayed torment⁴⁰ lest he should depart silent and unseen; incessantly⁴¹ did they talk, and never, in all their talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course could see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should she care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?

The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that his destination was “Basseterre in Guadaloupe:” the business which called him abroad related to a friend’s interests, not his own: I thought as much.

“Basseterre in Guadaloupe.” I had little sleep about this time, but whenever I did slumber⁴², it followed infallibly that I was quickly roused with a start, while the words “Basseterre,” “Guadaloupe,” seemed pronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before me, in zigzag⁴³ characters of red or violet light.

For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M. Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing hourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the theological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel. Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived aloof⁴⁴; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he had spent hours with me, with temper soothed⁴⁶, with eye content, with manner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown between us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had communicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it more than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was over; the mutual⁴⁷ understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection and deep esteem⁴⁹ and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.

What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts⁵⁰ on my “intellect,” no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for the jealous gibe⁵¹, and the more jealous, half-passionate⁵² eulogy⁵³, were substituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender forbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he would sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty brought separation, he would leave with words like these, “Il est doux, le repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!”

One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in my alley⁵⁵. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant to arrest my attention.

“Bonne petite amie!” said he, softly; “douce consolatrice!” But through his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity⁵⁶?

His eloquent⁵⁷ look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight⁵⁸ alley broke an interruption: it came dual⁵⁹ and ominous⁶⁰: we faced two bodeful forms—a woman’s and a priest’s—Madame Beck and Père Silas.

The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it expressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection just surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of ecclesiastical jealousy⁶². He spoke⁶³ to me with unction. He looked on his pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw nothing—nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand of the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal⁶⁴, but clasping it close and fast.

Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had struck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent repetition, and the credence⁶⁵ of the hundred and fifty minds round me, which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense⁶⁶, with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of explanation—I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.

The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak his farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.

This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living creature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as usual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their late Professor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary duties.

So oblivious⁶⁸ was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings⁶⁹, so inexpectant its aspect—I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere thus stagnant⁷⁰, thus smothering⁷¹. Would no one lend me a voice? Had no one a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say—Amen?

I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle—a treat, a holiday, a lesson’s remission; they could not, they would not now band to besiege⁷³ Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a Master who had certainly been loved, at least by some—loved as they could love—but, oh! what is the love of the multitude?

I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or communicated with; the distance was scarce a stone’s-throw: had it been in the next room—unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To follow, to seek out, to remind, to recall—for these things I had no faculty⁷⁴.

M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed silent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him to go by.

Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart trembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was quite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post—or do my work. Yet the little world round me plodded⁷⁵ on indifferent; all seemed jocund⁷⁶, free of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days since, had wept hysterically⁷⁷ at a startling piece of news, appeared quite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion.

A little before five o’clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent for me to her chamber⁷⁸, to read over and translate some English letter she had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to this work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her chamber; she even shut and fastened the casement⁷⁹, though it was a hot day, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as indispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce distrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what sound?

I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening and winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting⁸⁰ prey⁸¹, and hearing far off the traveller’s tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the middle of the letter I heard—what checked my pen—a tread in the vestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine—acting⁸² doubtless by orders—had anticipated such réveillée. Madame saw me halt. She coughed, made a bustle⁸³, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the classes.

“Proceed,” said Madame; but my hand was fettered⁸⁴, my ear enchained, my thoughts were carried off captive.

The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from the dwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stir of numbers, a whole division rising at once.

“They are putting away work,” said Madame.

It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush⁸⁵—that instant quell⁸⁶ of the tumult⁸⁷?

“Wait, Madame—I will see what it is.”

And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not be left: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my shadow. I turned on the last step of the stair.

“Are you coming, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar⁸⁸ aspect—a look, clouded, yet resolute⁸⁹.

We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps.

He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once more appeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him away, but he was come.

The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving his farewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. This last ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting—so solemn, to last so long.

I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following and watching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under her breath; I became terribly goaded⁹⁰.

He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came to the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped out suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify⁹¹ her drapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and deficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis—the total default of self-assertion—with which, in a crisis, I could be struck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she mastered his attention, she hurried him to the door—the glass-door opening on the garden. I think he looked round; could I but have caught his eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and there would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the room was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure was lost among thirty more conspicuous⁹². Madame had her will; yes, she got him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five o’clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, the room emptied.

There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction⁹³ in some certain minutes I then passed alone—a grief inexpressible over a loss unendurable. What should I do; oh! what should I do; when all my life’s hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged⁹⁵ heart?

What I should have done, I know not, when a little child—the least child in the school—broke with its simplicity⁹⁶ and its unconsciousness into the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict.

“Mademoiselle,” lisped the treble voice, “I am to give you that. M. Paul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to the cellar, and when I found you, to give you that.”

And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its olive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these words:—

“It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by to the rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. The interview is deferred⁹⁷. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at leisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments are numbered, and, just now, monopolized⁹⁸; besides, I have a private business on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate—even to you.—PAUL.”

“Be ready?” Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on the morrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of his vessel’s departure advertised. Oh! I would be ready, but could that longed-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the schemers seemed so watchful⁹⁹, so active, so hostile; the way of access appeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm—Apollyon straddled across it, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide reach me?

Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it seemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the whole throb¹⁰¹ of mine.

I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. I think if Eternity¹⁰² held torment, its form would not be fiery¹⁰³ rack, nor its nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days which never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades—stood, shone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional¹⁰⁴ pardon, kindled¹⁰⁵ a doubtful hope of bliss¹⁰⁶ to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked for, revealed in his own glory and grandeur¹⁰⁷ the height and compass of his promise: spoke thus—then towering, became a star, and vanished into his own Heaven. His legacy¹⁰⁸ was suspense—a worse boon¹⁰⁹ than despair.

All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet in the midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold and peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-belied presentiment¹¹⁰. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clung to the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud—like the wrack¹¹¹ scudding¹¹² before a storm.

They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log; the crimson¹¹³ of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blue shades, over the pale and ashen¹¹⁴ gleams of its night.

Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired¹¹⁵. I still remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at least disregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before.

How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot many hours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had made for myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when certain that the whole household were abed, and quite out of hearing—there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding¹¹⁶ in Solitude¹¹⁷, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs¹¹⁸ chained, no longer; they heaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief could be sacred?

Soon after eleven o’clock—a very late hour in the Rue¹⁰⁰ Fossette—the door unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp’s flame invaded the moonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as if coming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of at once addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to seek something: she loitered over this feigned¹¹⁹ search long, too long. She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence¹²⁰; driven beyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted respects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual circumstances, no yoke¹²¹ could now be borne—no curb¹²² obeyed.

“It is more than time for retirement,” said Madame; “the rule of the house has already been transgressed¹²³ too long.”

Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way, I put her out of it.

“Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,” said she, trying to speak softly.

“No!” I said; “neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.”

“Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall make you comfortable: she shall give you a sedative¹²⁴.”

“Madame,” I broke out, “you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity¹²⁵, your peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make your own bed warm and soft; take sedatives¹²⁶ and meats, and drinks spiced and sweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow or disappointment—and, perhaps, you have—nay, I know you have—seek your own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however. Leave me, I say!”

“I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.”

“I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and my troubles. Oh, Madame! in your hand there is both chill and poison. You envenom and you paralyze.”

“What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.”

“Dog in the manger!” I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, and had always wanted him. She called him “insupportable:” she railed at him for a “dévot:” she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that she might bind¹²⁷ him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame’s secrets I had entered—I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration which came to me—I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, I had slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a rival. She was my rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the smoothest bearing, and utterly¹²⁸ unknown to all save her and myself.

Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my power, because in some moods, such as the present—in some stimulated¹²⁹ states of perception, like that of this instant—her habitual¹³⁰ disguise, her mask and her domino, were to me a mere⁷² network reticulated with holes; and I saw underneath¹³¹ a being heartless, self-indulgent, and ignoble¹³². She quietly retreated from me: meek¹³³ and self-possessed, though very uneasy, she said, “If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she must reluctantly leave me.” Which she did incontinent, perhaps even more glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish.

This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre which ever occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene was never repeated. It did not one whit¹³⁴ change her manner to me. I do not know that she revenged it. I do not know that she hated me the worse for my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secret philosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked her to remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurred no repetition of, no allusion¹³⁵ to, that fiery passage.

That night passed: all nights—even the starless night before dissolution—must wear away. About six o’clock, the hour which called up the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its cold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass, set in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: my cheeks and lips were sodden¹³⁶ white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids¹³⁷ swollen¹³⁸ and purple.

On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me—my heart seemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously¹³⁹ certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired.

“Isabelle,” the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached me. Would she, too, mock me!

“Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!” said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.

Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance: before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude¹⁴⁰ towards the whole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to read hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own counsel—be his own secret’s sovereign. In the course of that day, proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was still mine only. It was not known—it had not been noted—that I held in peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by; curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering¹⁴¹ always round, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had called me, and I had obeyed him: “M. Paul wants Miss Lucy”—“Miss Lucy is with M. Paul”—such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody commented, far less condemned¹⁴². Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame Beck read the riddle¹⁴³: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was called illness—a headache: I accepted the baptism.

But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he was gone without a farewell—this cruel conviction that fate and pursuing furies—a woman’s envy and a priest’s bigotry—would suffer me to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like the first—untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary¹⁴⁴ room in an unalterable passion of silent desolation?

Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night—she did not come near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe—a more efficient agent for the purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra’s first words—“Is your headache very bad to-night?” (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had a headache—an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)—her first words, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of reach. And soon, what followed—plaints about her own headaches—completed the business.

I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed—my miserable¹⁴⁵ bed—haunted with quick scorpions¹⁴⁶. I had not been laid down five minutes, when another emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I was consumed with thirst—I drank eagerly; the beverage¹⁴⁷ was sweet, but I tasted a drug.

“Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,” said Goton, as she received back the emptied cup.

Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a strong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.

The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory hushed. Sleep soon reigned¹⁴⁸: over those pillows, sleep won an easy supremacy¹⁴⁹: contented¹⁵⁰ sovereign over heads and hearts which did not ache—he passed by the unquiet.

The drug wrought¹⁵¹. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or under-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead of stupor¹⁵², came excitement. I became alive to new thought—to reverie peculiar in colouring. A gathering¹⁵³ call ran among the faculties¹⁵⁴, their bugles¹⁵⁵ sang, their trumpets¹⁵⁶ rang an untimely summons. Imagination was roused from her rest, and she came forth¹⁵⁸ impetuous and venturous. With scorn she looked on Matter, her mate—“Rise!” she said. “Sluggard¹⁵⁹! this night I will have my will; nor shalt thou prevail.”

“Look forth and view the night!” was her cry; and when I lifted the heavy blind from the casement close at hand—with her own royal gesture, she showed me a moon supreme¹⁶⁰, in an element deep and splendid.

To my gasping senses she made the glimmering¹⁶¹ gloom, the narrow limits, the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured¹⁶² me to leave this den³ and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.

She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight. Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleys¹⁶³ all silent, lone⁹⁴ and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin—that basin I knew, and beside which I had often stood—deep-set in the tree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy, rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked, sentinelled: the place could not be entered.

Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving¹⁶⁴ it, I mechanically dressed. Utterly incapable¹⁶⁵ of sleeping or lying still—excited from head to foot—what could I do better than dress?

The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no admission to the park?

The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to the circumstance, a gap in the paling—one stake broken down: I now saw this gap again in recollection—saw it very plainly—the narrow, irregular aperture¹⁶⁶ visible between the stems of the lindens, planted orderly as a colonnade¹⁶⁷. A man could not have made his way through that aperture, nor could a stout¹⁶⁸ woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I thought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at this hour the whole park would be mine—the moonlight, midnight park!

How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers¹⁶⁹! What quiet breathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I felt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what hindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its large white face and jet black figures must be vividly¹⁷⁰ distinct.

As for hindrance¹⁷¹ to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking hinge or a clicking latch¹⁷². On these hot July nights, close air could not be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the dormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a board is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat as I descend¹⁷³, but not much:—I am in the carré.

The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the other hand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to my thought, great dreary¹⁷⁴ jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, and for me, filled with spectral¹⁷⁵ and intolerable Memories, laid miserable amongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerful vista¹⁷⁶, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street.

Hush!—the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of this convent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum of the last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a sound like bells or like a band—a sound where sweetness, where victory, where mourning blend. Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen to it alone by the rushy basin! Let me go—oh, let me go! What hinders, what does not aid freedom?

There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, my shawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochère; there is no key to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be opened from the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn. Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious¹⁷⁷ facility. I wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose—I wonder as I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at the strange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if I had been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gone before me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort.

Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summer night of which I mused¹⁷⁸; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in the air. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so close under the dungeon¹⁷⁹, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is not what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that sky bears the aspect of a world’s death. The park also will be calm—I know, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere—yet let me seek the park.

I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial¹⁸⁰ and royal Haute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it was hushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bell music came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong tide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement gathered, chimes pealed—to what was I coming? Entering on the level of a Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plunged¹⁸¹ amidst a gay, living, joyous¹⁸² crowd.

Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems abroad; moonlight and heaven are banished¹⁸³: the town, by her own flambeaux, beholds¹⁸⁴ her own splendour—gay dresses, grand equipages, fine horses and gallant¹⁸⁵ riders throng¹⁸⁶ the bright streets. I see even scores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where is the park?—I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the park must be shadowy and calm—there, at least, are neither torches, lamps, nor crowd?

I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled with known faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; the spirited horses fretted¹⁸⁷ in their curbed¹⁸⁸ ardour. I saw the occupants of that carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know, folded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that motley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count de Bassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely¹⁸⁹ and cheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo of her beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenance¹⁹⁰ of joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note the gala elegance¹⁹¹ of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floating about her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I saw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught its lustre—the light repeated in her eyes beamed first out of his.

It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I did follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight (carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours. Lo! the iron gateway¹⁹², between the stone columns, was spanned by a flaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously beneath that arch, where were they, and where was I?

In a land of enchantment¹⁹³, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled with coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby¹⁹⁴ and golden fire gemming¹⁹⁵ the foliage¹⁹⁶; a region, not of trees and shadow, but of strangest architectural wealth—of altar and of temple, of pyramid, obelisk¹⁹⁷, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of Egypt teemed¹⁹⁸ throughout the park of Villette.

No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine—the key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled—no matter that I quickly recognised the material of these solemn fragments—the timber, the paint, and the pasteboard—these inevitable¹⁹⁹ discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel²⁰⁰ of that night. No matter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête—a fête of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour²⁰¹ near midnight.

In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate of Labassecour, i