CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE WATCHGUARD.
M. Paul Emanuel owned an acute sensitiveness to the annoyance ofinterruption, from whatsoever cause occurring, during his lessons: topass through the classe under such circumstances was considered by theteachers and pupils of the school, individually and collectively, to beas much as a woman's or girl's life was worth.
Madame Beck herself, if forced to the enterprise, would ”skurry”through, retrenching her skirts, and carefully coasting the formidableestrade, like a ship dreading breakers. As to Rosine, the portress--onwhom, every half-hour, devolved the fearful duty of fetching pupils outof the very heart of one or other of the divisions to take theirmusic-lessons in the oratory, the great or little saloon, thesalle-a-manger, or some other piano-station--she would, upon her secondor third attempt, frequently become almost tongue-tied from excess ofconsternation--a sentiment inspired by the unspeakable looks levelledat her through a pair of dart-dealing spectacles.
One morning I was sitting in the carre, at work upon a piece ofembroidery which one of the pupils had commenced but delayed to finish,and while my fingers wrought at the frame, my ears regaled themselveswith listening to the crescendos and cadences of a voice haranguing inthe neighbouring classe, in tones that waxed momentarily more unquiet,more ominously varied. There was a good strong partition-wall betweenme and the gathering storm, as well as a facile means of flight throughthe glass-door to the court, in case it swept this way; so I am afraidI derived more amusement than alarm from these thickening symptoms.Poor Rosine was not safe: four times that blessed morning had she madethe passage of peril; and now, for the fifth time, it became herdangerous duty to snatch, as it were, a brand from the burning--a pupilfrom under M. Paul's nose.
”Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” cried she. ”Que vais-je devenir? Monsieur va metuer, je suis sure; car il est d'une colere!”
Nerved by the courage of desperation, she opened the door.
”Mademoiselle La Malle au piano!” was her cry.
Ere she could make good her retreat, or quite close the door, thisvoice uttered itself:--
”Des ce moment!--la classe est defendue. La premiere qui ouvrira cetteporte, ou passera par cette division, sera pendue--fut-ce Madame Beckelle-meme!”
Ten minutes had not succeeded the promulgation of this decree whenRosine's French pantoufles were again heard shuffling along thecorridor.
”Mademoiselle,” said she, ”I would not for a five-franc piece go intothat classe again just now: Monsieur's lunettes are really terrible;and here is a commissionaire come with a message from the Athenee. Ihave told Madame Beck I dare not deliver it, and she says I am tocharge you with it.”
”Me? No, that is rather too bad! It is not in my line of duty. Come,come, Rosine! bear your own burden. Be brave--charge once more!”
”I, Mademoiselle?--impossible! Five times I have crossed him this day.Madame must really hire a gendarme for this service. Ouf! Je n'en puisplus!”
”Bah! you are only a coward. What is the message?”
”Precisely of the kind with which Monsieur least likes to be pestered:an urgent summons to go directly to the Athenee, as there is anofficial visitor--inspector--I know not what--arrived, and Monsieur_must_ meet him: you know how he hates a _must_.”
Yes, I knew well enough. The restive little man detested spur or curb:against whatever was urgent or obligatory, he was sure to revolt.However, I accepted the responsibility--not, certainly, without fear,but fear blent with other sentiments, curiosity, amongst them. I openedthe door, I entered, I closed it behind me as quickly and quietly as arather unsteady hand would permit; for to be slow or bustling, torattle a latch, or leave a door gaping wide, were aggravations of crimeoften more disastrous in result than the main crime itself. There Istood then, and there he sat; his humour was visibly bad--almost at itsworst; he had been giving a lesson in arithmetic--for he gave lessonson any and every subject that struck his fancy--and arithmetic being adry subject, invariably disagreed with him: not a pupil but trembledwhen he spoke of figures. He sat, bent above his desk: to look up atthe sound of an entrance, at the occurrence of a direct breach of hiswill and law, was an effort he could not for the moment bring himselfto make. It was quite as well: I thus gained time to walk up the longclasse; and it suited my idiosyncracy far better to encounter the nearburst of anger like his, than to bear its menace at a distance.
At his estrade I paused, just in front; of course I was not worthy ofimmediate attention: he proceeded with his lesson. Disdain would notdo: he must hear and he must answer my message.
Not being quite tall enough to lift my head over his desk, elevatedupon the estrade, and thus suffering eclipse in my present position, Iventured to peep round, with the design, at first, of merely getting abetter view of his face, which had struck me when I entered as bearinga close and picturesque resemblance to that of a black and sallowtiger. Twice did I enjoy this side-view with impunity, advancing andreceding unseen; the third time my eye had scarce dawned beyond theobscuration of the desk, when it was caught and transfixed through itsvery pupil--transfixed by the ”lunettes.” Rosine was right; theseutensils had in them a blank and immutable terror, beyond the mobilewrath of the wearer's own unglazed eyes.
I now found the advantage of proximity: these short-sighted ”lunettes”were useless for the inspection of a criminal under Monsieur's nose;accordingly, he doffed them, and he and I stood on more equal terms.
I am glad I was not really much afraid of him--that, indeed, close inhis presence, I felt no terror at all; for upon his demanding cord andgibbet to execute the sentence recently pronounced, I was able tofurnish him with a needleful of embroidering thread with suchaccommodating civility as could not but allay some portion at least ofhis surplus irritation. Of course I did not parade this courtesy beforepublic view: I merely handed the thread round the angle of the desk,and attached it, ready noosed, to the barred back of the Professor'schair.
”Que me voulez-vous?” said he in a growl of which the music was whollyconfined to his chest and throat, for he kept his teeth clenched; andseemed registering to himself an inward vow that nothing earthly shouldwring from him a smile.
My answer commenced uncompromisingly: ”Monsieur,” I said, ”je veuxl'impossible, des choses inouies;” and thinking it best not to mincematters, but to administer the ”douche” with decision, in a low butquick voice, I delivered the Athenian message, floridly exaggeratingits urgency.
Of course, he would not hear a word of it. ”He would not go; he wouldnot leave his present class, let all the officials of Villette send forhim. He would not put himself an inch out of his way at the bidding ofking, cabinet, and chambers together.”
I knew, however, that he _must_ go; that, talk as he would, both hisduty and interest commanded an immediate and literal compliance withthe summons: I stood, therefore, waiting in silence, as if he had notyet spoken. He asked what more I wanted.
”Only Monsieur's answer to deliver to the commissionaire.”
He waved an impatient negative.
I ventured to stretch my hand to the bonnet-grec which lay in grimrepose on the window-sill. He followed this daring movement with hiseye, no doubt in mixed pity and amazement at its presumption.
”Ah!” he muttered, ”if it came to that--if Miss Lucy meddled with hisbonnet-grec--she might just put it on herself, turn garcon for theoccasion, and benevolently go to the Athenee in his stead.”
With great respect, I laid the bonnet on the desk, where its tasselseemed to give me an awful nod.
”I'll write a note of apology--that will do!” said he, still bent onevasion.
Knowing well it would _not_ do, I gently pushed the bonnet towards hishand. Thus impelled, it slid down the polished slope of the varnishedand unbaized desk, carried before it the light steel-framed ”lunettes,”and, fearful to relate, they fell to the estrade. A score of times erenow had I seen them fall and receive no damage--_this_ time, as LucySnowe's hapless luck would have it, they so fell that each clear pebblebecame a shivered and shapeless star.
Now, indeed, dismay seized me--dismay and regret. I knew the value ofthese ”lunettes”: M. Paul's sight was peculiar, not easily fitted, andthese glasses suited him. I had heard him call them his treasures: as Ipicked them up, cracked and worthless, my hand trembled. Frightenedthrough all my nerves I was to see the mischief I had done, but I thinkI was even more sorry than afraid. For some seconds I dared not lookthe bereaved Professor in the face; he was the first to speak.
”La!” said he: ”me voila veuf de mes lunettes! I think MademoiselleLucy will now confess that the cord and gallows are amply earned; shetrembles in anticipation of her doom. Ah, traitress! traitress! You areresolved to have me quite blind and helpless in your hands!”
I lifted my eyes: his face, instead of being irate, lowering, andfurrowed, was overflowing with the smile, coloured with the bloom I hadseen brightening it that evening at the Hotel Crecy. He was notangry--not even grieved. For the real injury he showed himself full ofclemency; under the real provocation, patient as a saint. This event,which seemed so untoward--which I thought had ruined at once my chanceof successful persuasion--proved my best help. Difficult of managementso long as I had done him no harm, he became graciously pliant as soonas I stood in his presence a conscious and contrite offender.
Still gently railing at me as ”une forte femme--une Anglaiseterrible--une petite casse-tout”--he declared that he dared not butobey one who had given such an instance of her dangerous prowess; itwas absolutely like the ”grand Empereur smashing the vase to inspiredismay.” So, at last, crowning himself with his bonnet-grec, and takinghis ruined ”lunettes” from my hand with a clasp of kind pardon andencouragement, he made his bow, and went off to the Athenee infirst-rate humour and spirits.
* * * * *
After all this amiability, the reader will be sorry for my sake to hearthat I was quarrelling with M. Paul again before night; yet so it was,and I could not help it.
It was his occasional custom--and a very laudable, acceptable custom,too--to arrive of an evening, always a l'improviste, unannounced, burstin on the silent hour of study, establish a sudden despotism over usand our occupations, cause books to be put away, work-bags to bebrought out, and, drawing forth a single thick volume, or a handful ofpamphlets, substitute for the besotted ”lecture pieuse,” drawled by asleepy pupil, some tragedy made grand by grand reading, ardent by fieryaction--some drama, whereof, for my part, I rarely studied theintrinsic merit; for M. Emanuel made it a vessel for an outpouring, andfilled it with his native verve and passion like a cup with a vitalbrewage. Or else he would flash through our conventual darkness areflex of a brighter world, show us a glimpse of the current literatureof the day, read us passages from some enchanting tale, or the lastwitty feuilleton which had awakened laughter in the saloons of Paris;taking care always to expunge, with the severest hand, whether fromtragedy, melodrama, tale, or essay, whatever passage, phrase, or word,could be deemed unsuited to an audience of ”jeunes filles.” I noticedmore than once, that where retrenchment without substitute would haveleft unmeaning vacancy, or introduced weakness, he could, and did,improvise whole paragraphs, no less vigorous than irreproachable; thedialogue--the description--he engrafted was often far better than thathe pruned away.
Well, on the evening in question, we were sitting silent as nuns in a”retreat,” the pupils studying, the teachers working. I remember mywork; it was a slight matter of fancy, and it rather interested me; ithad a purpose; I was not doing it merely to kill time; I meant it whenfinished as a gift; and the occasion of presentation being near, hastewas requisite, and my fingers were busy.
We heard the sharp bell-peal which we all knew; then the rapid stepfamiliar to each ear: the words ”Voila Monsieur!” had scarcely brokensimultaneously from every lip, when the two-leaved door split (as splitit always did for his admission--such a slow word as ”open” isinefficient to describe his movements), and he stood in the midst of us.
There were two study tables, both long and flanked with benches; overthe centre of each hung a lamp; beneath this lamp, on either side thetable, sat a teacher; the girls were arranged to the right hand and theleft; the eldest and most studious nearest the lamps or tropics; theidlers and little ones towards the north and south poles. Monsieur'shabit was politely to hand a chair to some teacher, generally Zelie St.Pierre, the senior mistress; then to take her vacated seat; and thusavail himself of the full beam of Cancer or Capricorn, which, owing tohis near sight, he needed.
As usual, Zelie rose with alacrity, smiling to the whole extent of hermouth, and the full display of her upper and under rows of teeth--thatstrange smile which passes from ear to ear, and is marked only by asharp thin curve, which fails to spread over the countenance, andneither dimples the cheek nor lights the eye. I suppose Monsieur didnot see her, or he had taken a whim that he would not notice her, forhe was as capricious as women are said to be; then his ”lunettes” (hehad got another pair) served him as an excuse for all sorts of littleoversights and shortcomings. Whatever might be his reason, he passed byZelie, came to the other side of the table, and before I could start upto clear the way, whispered, ”Ne bougez pas,” and established himselfbetween me and Miss Fanshawe, who always would be my neighbour, andhave her elbow in my side, however often I declared to her, ”Ginevra, Iwish you were at Jericho.”
It was easy to say, ”Ne bougez pas;” but how could I help it? I mustmake him room, and I must request the pupils to recede that _I_ mightrecede. It was very well for Ginevra to be gummed to me, ”keepingherself warm,” as she said, on the winter evenings, and harassing myvery heart with her fidgetings and pokings, obliging me, indeed,sometimes to put an artful pin in my girdle by way of protectionagainst her elbow; but I suppose M. Emanuel was not to be subjected tothe same kind of treatment, so I swept away my working materials, toclear space for his book, and withdrew myself to make room for hisperson; not, however, leaving more than a yard of interval, just whatany reasonable man would have regarded as a convenient, respectfulallowance of bench. But M. Emanuel never _was_ reasonable; flint andtinder that he was! he struck and took fire directly.
”Vous ne voulez pas de moi pour voisin,” he growled: ”vous vous donnezdes airs de caste; vous me traitez en paria;” he scowled. ”Soit! jevais arranger la chose!” And he set to work.
”Levez vous toutes, Mesdemoiselles!” cried he.
The girls rose. He made them all file off to the other table. He thenplaced me at one extremity of the long bench, and having duly andcarefully brought me my work-basket, silk, scissors, all my implements,he fixed himself quite at the other end.
At this arrangement, highly absurd as it was, not a soul in the roomdared to laugh; luckless for the giggler would have been the giggle. Asfor me, I took it with entire coolness. There I sat, isolated and cutoff from human intercourse; I sat and minded my work, and was quiet,and not at all unhappy.
”Est ce assez de distance?” he demanded.
”Monsieur en est l'arbitre,” said I.
”Vous savez bien que non. C'est vous qui avez cree ce vide immense: moije n'y ai pas mis la main.”
And with this assertion he commenced the reading.
For his misfortune he had chosen a French translation of what he called”un drame de Williams Shackspire; le faux dieu,” he further announced,”de ces sots paiens, les Anglais.” How far otherwise he would havecharacterized him had his temper not been upset, I scarcely needintimate.
Of course, the translation being French, was very inefficient; nor didI make any particular effort to conceal the contempt which some of itsforlorn lapses were calculated to excite. Not that it behoved orbeseemed me to say anything: but one can occasionally _look_ theopinion it is forbidden to embody in words. Monsieur's lunettes beingon the alert, he gleaned up every stray look; I don't think he lostone: the consequence was, his eyes soon discarded a screen, that theirblaze might sparkle free, and he waxed hotter at the north pole towhich he had voluntarily exiled himself, than, considering the generaltemperature of the room, it would have been reasonable to become underthe vertical ray of Cancer itself.
The reading over, it appeared problematic whether he would depart withhis anger unexpressed, or whether he would give it vent. Suppressionwas not much in his habits; but still, what had been done to himdefinite enough to afford matter for overt reproof? I had not uttered asound, and could not justly be deemed amenable to reprimand or penaltyfor having permitted a slightly freer action than usual to the musclesabout my eyes and mouth.
The supper, consisting of bread, and milk diluted with tepid water, wasbrought in. In respectful consideration of the Professor's presence,the rolls and glasses were allowed to stand instead of beingimmediately handed round.
”Take your supper, ladies,” said he, seeming to be occupied in makingmarginal notes to his ”Williams Shackspire.” They took it. I alsoaccepted a roll and glass, but being now more than ever interested inmy work, I kept my seat of punishment, and wrought while I munched mybread and sipped my beverage, the whole with easy _sang-froid_; with acertain snugness of composure, indeed, scarcely in my habits, andpleasantly novel to my feelings. It seemed as if the presence of anature so restless, chafing, thorny as that of M. Paul absorbed allfeverish and unsettling influences like a magnet, and left me none butsuch as were placid and harmonious.
He rose. ”Will he go away without saying another word?” Yes; he turnedto the door.
No: he _re_-turned on his steps; but only, perhaps, to take hispencil-case, which had been left on the table.
He took it--shut the pencil in and out, broke its point against thewood, re-cut and pocketed it, and . . . walked promptly up to me.
The girls and teachers, gathered round the other table, were talkingpretty freely: they always talked at meals; and, from the constanthabit of speaking fast and loud at such times, did not now subdue theirvoices much.
M. Paul came and stood behind me. He asked at what I was working; and Isaid I was making a watchguard.
He asked, ”For whom?” And I answered, ”For a gentleman--one of myfriends.”
M. Paul stooped down and proceeded--as novel-writers say, and, as wasliterally true in his case--to ”hiss” into my ear some poignant words.
He said that, of all the women he knew, I was the one who could makeherself the most consummately unpleasant: I was she with whom it wasleast possible to live on friendly terms. I had a ”caractereintraitable,” and perverse to a miracle. How I managed it, or whatpossessed me, he, for his part, did not know; but with whatever pacificand amicable intentions a person accosted me--crac! I turned concord todiscord, good-will to enmity. He was sure, he--M. Paul--wished me wellenough; he had never done me any harm that he knew of; he might, atleast, he supposed, claim a right to be regarded as a neutralacquaintance, guiltless of hostile sentiments: yet, how I behaved tohim! With what pungent vivacities--what an impetus of mutiny--what a”fougue” of injustice!
Here I could not avoid opening my eyes somewhat wide, and even slippingin a slight interjectional observation: ”Vivacities? Impetus? Fougue? Ididn't know....”
”Chut! a l'instant! There! there I went--vive comme la poudre!” He wassorry--he was very sorry: for my sake he grieved over the haplesspeculiarity. This ”emportement,” this ”chaleur”--generous, perhaps, butexcessive--would yet, he feared, do me a mischief. It was a pity: I wasnot--he believed, in his soul--wholly without good qualities: and wouldI but hear reason, and be more sedate, more sober, less ”en l'air,”less ”coquette,” less taken by show, less prone to set an undue valueon outside excellence--to make much of the attentions of peopleremarkable chiefly for so many feet of stature, ”des couleurs depoupee,” ”un nez plus ou moins bien fait,” and an enormous amount offatuity--I might yet prove an useful, perhaps an exemplary character.But, as it was--And here, the little man's voice was for a minutechoked.
I would have looked up at him, or held out my hand, or said a soothingword; but I was afraid, if I stirred, I should either laugh or cry; soodd, in all this, was the mixture of the touching and the absurd.
I thought he had nearly done: but no; he sat down that he might go onat his ease.
”While he, M. Paul, was on these painful topics, he would dare my angerfor the sake of my good, and would venture to refer to a change he hadnoticed in my dress. He was free to confess that when he first knewme--or, rather, was in the habit of catching a passing glimpse of mefrom time to time--I satisfied him on this point: the gravity, theaustere simplicity, obvious in this particular, were such as to inspirethe highest hopes for my best interests. What fatal influence hadimpelled me lately to introduce flowers under the brim of my bonnet, towear 'des cols brodes,' and even to appear on one occasion in a_scarlet gown_--he might indeed conjecture, but, for the present, wouldnot openly declare.”
Again I interrupted, and this time not without an accent at onceindignant and horror-struck.
”Scarlet, Monsieur Paul? It was not scarlet! It was pink, and pale pinkto: and further subdued by black lace.”
”Pink or scarlet, yellow or crimson, pea-green or sky-blue, it was allone: these were all flaunting, giddy colours; and as to the lace Italked of, _that_ was but a 'colifichet de plus.'” And he sighed overmy degeneracy. ”He could not, he was sorry to say, be so particular onthis theme as he could wish: not possessing the exact names of these'babioles,' he might run into small verbal errors which would not failto lay him open to my sarcasm, and excite my unhappily sudden andpassionate disposition. He would merely say, in general terms--and inthese general terms he knew he was correct--that my costume had of lateassumed 'des facons mondaines,' which it wounded him to see.”
What ”facons mondaines” he discovered in my present winter merino andplain white collar, I own it puzzled me to guess: and when I asked him,he said it was all made with too much attention to effect--and besides,”had I not a bow of ribbon at my neck?”
”And if you condemn a bow of ribbon for a lady, Monsieur, you wouldnecessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a gentleman?”--holdingup my bright little chainlet of silk and gold. His sole reply was agroan--I suppose over my levity.
After sitting some minutes in silence, and watching the progress of thechain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, he inquired:”Whether what he had just said would have the effect of making meentirely detest him?”
I hardly remember what answer I made, or how it came about; I don'tthink I spoke at all, but I know we managed to bid good-night onfriendly terms: and, even after M. Paul had reached the door, he turnedback just to explain, ”that he would not be understood to speak inentire condemnation of the scarlet dress” (”Pink! pink!” I threw in);”that he had no intention to deny it the merit of _looking_ ratherwell” (the fact was, M. Emanuel's taste in colours decidedly leaned tothe brilliant); ”only he wished to counsel me, whenever, I wore it, todo so in the same spirit as if its material were 'bure,' and its hue'gris de poussiere.'”
”And the flowers under my bonnet, Monsieur?” I asked. ”They are verylittle ones--?”
”Keep them little, then,” said he. ”Permit them not to becomefull-blown.”
”And the bow, Monsieur--the bit of ribbon?”
”Va pour le ruban!” was the propitious answer.
And so we settled it.
* * * * *
”Well done, Lucy Snowe!” cried I to myself; ”you have come in for apretty lecture--brought on yourself a 'rude savant,' and all throughyour wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it?You deemed yourself a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawethere regards you as a second Diogenes. M. de Bassompierre, the otherday, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the wild gifts ofthe actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said, 'Miss Snowe lookeduncomfortable.' Dr. John Bretton knows you only as 'quiet Lucy'--'acreature inoffensive as a shadow;' he has said, and you have heard himsay it: 'Lucy's disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes andmanner--want of colour in character and costume.' Such are your own andyour friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a little man,differing diametrically from all these, roundly charging you with beingtoo airy and cheery--too volatile and versatile--too flowery andcoloury. This harsh little man--this pitiless censor--gathers up allyour poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless chiffon ofrose-colour, your small fringe of a wreath, your small scrap of ribbon,your silly bit of lace, and calls you to account for the lot, and foreach item. You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow inLife's sunshine: it is a new thing to see one testily lifting his handto screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray.”