Villette

Madame Beck herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to warn me not to study too much, lest »the blood should all go to my head.« Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that »Meess Lucie« was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel: who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used to take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those in whose style or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainly stamped; flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and meritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited its powers and its action – thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture.
    The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with wholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of my co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment. When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the play-ground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the »Pas de Géant,« or to join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called »Un, deux, trois,« were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had ceased some time ago – ceased, too, without my finding it necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one quarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made no scruple of – at times – catching me as I was crossing the carré, whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the mental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon my »learned leisure.« She carried a huge music-book under her arm.
    »Go to your practising,« said I to her at once: »away with you to the little salon!«
    »Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse?«
    »Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse! – a fiddlestick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don't want your company.«
    »But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manœuvre with our gifted compatriote – the learned ›ourse Britannique.‹ And so, Ourson, you know Isidore?«
    »I know John Bretton.«
    »Oh, hush!« (putting her fingers in her ears) »you crack my tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my behaviour the other night? Wasn't I cruel?«
    »Do you think I noticed you?«
    »It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady – my future mama-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude in quizzing her.«
    »Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what
you
did, don't make yourself in the least uneasy; Mrs. Bretton will survive
your
sneer.«
    »She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.«
    »He said you looked as if, at heart, you were already Madame de Hamal.«
    »Did he?« she cried, with delight. »He noticed that? How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy.«
    »Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to give you up?«
    »Oh! you know he
can't
do that: but wasn't he mad?«
    »Quite mad,« I assented; »as mad as a March hare.«
    »Well, and how
ever
did you get him home?«
    »How
ever,
indeed! Have you no