Villette Charlotte Brontë (summer reads .txt) 📖

believe you never were in love, and never will be: you don’t know the feeling, and so much the better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn’t it all true?”

“A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zélie St. Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give to purchase you, body and soul.”

“Just because I am not clever, and that is all you think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness.”

“On the contrary, I consider you are clever, in your way⁠—very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts⁠—that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don’t quite enter; pray on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution tonight?”

She approached her lips to my ear⁠—“Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are both here,” she whispered.

“Oh! they are? I should like to see them.”

“There’s a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me, I will point them out.”

She proudly led the way⁠—“But you cannot see them well from the classes,” said she, turning, “Madame keeps them too far off. Let us cross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind: we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind.”

For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went⁠—penetrated into the corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the carré, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of jeunes gens.

I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal even undirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured little dandy. I say little dandy, though he was not beneath the middle standard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were his hands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated⁠—he was charming indeed. I said so. “What, a dear personage!” cried I, and commended Ginevra’s taste warmly; and asked her what she thought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had broken⁠—whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in otto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture of approbation, that the colonel’s hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe’s own, and suggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doted; and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic headpiece, I confessed I had no language to do such perfections justice.

“And if he were your lover?” suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.

“Oh! heavens, what bliss!” said I; “but do not be inhuman, Miss Fanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing poor outcast Cain a far glimpse of Paradise.”

“You like him, then?”

“As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers.”

Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; she could then readily credit that they were mine too.

“Now for Isidore,” I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see him than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.

“Alfred was admitted here tonight,” said she, “through the influence of his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him, can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening, and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him and then at the other, and madden them both.”

“But that other⁠—where is he? Show me Isidore.”

“I don’t like.”

“Why not?”

“I am ashamed of him.”

“For what reason?”

“Because⁠—because” (in a whisper) “he has such⁠—such whiskers, orange⁠—red⁠—there now!”

“The murder is out,” I subjoined. “Never mind, show him all the same; I engage not to faint.”

She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.

“You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor.”

“There is no draught, Dr. John,” said I, turning.

“She takes cold so easily,” he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme kindness. “She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl.”

“Permit me to judge for myself,” said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. “I want no shawl.”

“Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated.”

“Always preaching,” retorted she; “always coddling and admonishing.”

The answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart was hurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, he turned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plenty of shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.

“She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her,” said I, folding it well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and her arms. “Is that Isidore?” I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.

She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.

“Is that Isidore?” I repeated, giving her a shake: I could have given her a dozen.

“C’est lui-même,” said she. “How coarse he is, compared with the Colonel-Count! And then⁠—oh ciel!⁠—the whiskers!”

Dr. John now passed on.

“The Colonel-Count!” I echoed. “The doll⁠—the puppet⁠—the manikin⁠—the poor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John his valet, his foot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman⁠—handsome as a vision⁠—offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promises to protect your flimsy person and feckless mind through the storms and struggles of life⁠—and you hang back⁠—you scorn, you sting, you torture him! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Where is it? Does it lie all in your beauty⁠—your pink and white complexion, and your yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your