Villette

pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us, fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way.«
    »You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe –«
    »I assure you it is fact – and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would
not
stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and
would
ride outside.«
    »And afterwards?«
    »Afterwards – when we
did
reach home – the scene transcends description.«
    »Oh, but describe it – you know it is such fun!«
    »Fun for
you,
Miss Fanshawe; but« (with stern gravity) »you know the proverb – ›What is sport to one may be death to another.‹«
    »Go on, there's a darling Timon.«
    »Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.«
    »I have – such an immensity, you don't know!«
    »Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton rejecting his supper in the first instance – the chicken, the sweet-bread prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then – but it is of no use dwelling at length on harrowing details. Suffice it to say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy, had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that night.«
    »He wouldn't lie still?«
    »He wouldn't lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in, but the thing was to keep them tucked in.«
    »And what did he say?«
    »Say! Can't you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra, anathematizing that demon, De Hamal – raving about golden locks, blue eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?«
    »No, did he? He saw the bracelet?«
    »Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has circled your arm. Ginevra,« (rising, and changing my tone) »come, we will have an end of this. Go away to your practising.« And I opened the door.
    »But you've not told me all.«
    »You had better not wait until I
do
tell you all. Such extra communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!«
    »Cross thing!« said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe was my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of quittance from me.
    Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between the reality and my description – to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with Christian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.
     
    A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of school, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of custom. One afternoon in crossing the carré, on my way to the first class, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of »style and literature,« I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante. She always »stood at ease;« one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other, at this moment, held to her eyes a letter, whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately studied the seal.
    A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last night. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from Disappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him. Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should be sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his vehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow, prophetic of choler.
    As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder;