Villette

father tenderly; then turning to Graham, »You said, sir, you are a medical man?«
    »I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse.«
    »Good. Will you step into my carriage?«
    »My own carriage is here: I will seek it, and accompany you.«
    »Be pleased, then, to follow us.« And he named his address: »The Hotel Crécy, in the Rue Crécy.«
    We followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Graham were silent. This seemed like an adventure.
    Some little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we reached the hotel, perhaps, about ten minutes after these strangers. It was an hotel in the foreign sense: a collection of dwelling-houses, not an inn – a vast, lofty pile, with a huge arch to its street- leading through a vaulted covered way, into a square all built round.
    We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stopped at Numéro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising the abode of I know not what ›prince Russe,‹ as Graham informed me. On ringing the bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suite of very handsome apartments. Announced by a servant in livery, we entered a drawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, and whose walls gleamed with foreign mirrors. Near the hearth appeared a little group; a slight form sunk in a deep arm-chair, one or two women busy about it, the iron-gray gentleman anxiously looking on.
    »Where is Harriet? I wish Harriet would come to me,« said the girlish voice, faintly.
    »Where
is
Mrs. Hurst?« demanded the gentleman impatiently and somewhat sternly of the manservant who had admitted us.
    »I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young lady gave her leave till to-morrow.«
    »Yes – I did – I did. She is gone to see her sister; I said she might go: I remember now,« interposed the young lady; »but I am so sorry, for Manon and Louison cannot understand a word I say, and they hurt me without meaning to do so.«
    Dr. John and the gentleman now interchanged greetings; and while they passed a few minutes in consultation, I approached the easy-chair, and seeing what the faint and sinking girl wished to have done, I did it for her.
    I was still occupied in the arrangement, when Graham drew near; he was no less skilled in surgery than medicine, and, on examination, found that no further advice than his own was necessary to the treatment of the present case. He ordered her to be carried to her chamber, and whispered to me: –
    »Go with the women, Lucy; they seem but dull; you can at least direct their movements, and thus spare her some pain. She must be touched very tenderly.«
    The chamber was a room shadowy with pale-blue hangings, vaporous with curtainings and veilings of muslin; the bed seemed to me like snow-drift and mist – spotless, soft, and gauzy. Making the women stand apart, I undressed their mistress, without their well-meaning but clumsy aid. I was not in a sufficiently collected mood to note with separate distinctness every detail of the attire I removed, but I received a general impression of refinement, delicacy, and perfect personal cultivation; which, in a period of after-thought, offered in my reflections a singular contrast to notes retained of Miss Ginevra Fanshawe's appointments.
    This girl was herself a small, delicate creature, but made like a model. As I folded back her plentiful yet fine hair, so shining and soft, and so exquisitely tended, I had under my observation a young, pale, weary, but high-bred face. The brow was smooth and clear; the eyebrows were distinct, but soft, and melting to a mere trace at the temples; the eyes were a rich gift of nature – fine and full, large, deep, seeming to hold dominion over the slighter subordinate features – capable, probably, of much significance at another hour and under other circumstances than the present, but now languid and suffering. Her skin was perfectly fair, the neck and hands veined finely like the petals of a flower; a thin glazing of the ice of pride, polished this delicate exterior, and her lip wore a curl – I doubt not inherent and unconscious, but which, if I had seen it first with the accompaniments of health and state, would have struck me as unwarranted, and proving in the little lady a quite mistaken view of life and her own consequence.
    Her demeanour under the Doctor's hands at first excited a smile: it was not puerile – rather, on the whole, patient and firm – but yet, once or twice she addressed him with suddenness and