Villette

Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found her house charming.«
    »I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley's.«
    »Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance?«
    »My uncle de Bassompierre is come.«
    »Your uncle de Bassompierre! Are you not glad? – I thought he was a favourite.«
    »You thought wrong: the man is odious; I hate him.«
    »Because he is a foreigner? or for what other reason of equal weight?«
    »He is not a foreigner. The man is English enough, goodness knows; and had an English name till three or four years ago; but his mother was a foreigner, a de Bassompierre, and some of her family are dead and have left him estates, a title, and this name: he is quite a great man now.«
    »Do you hate him for that reason?«
    »Don't I know what mama says about him? He is not my own uncle, but married mama's sister. Mama detests him; she says he killed aunt Ginevra with unkindness: he looks like a bear. Such a dismal evening!« she went on. »I'll go no more to his big hotel. Fancy me walking into a room alone, and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, and after a few minutes' conversation actually turning his back upon me, and then abruptly going out of the room. Such odd ways! I dare-say his conscience smote him, for they all say at home I am the picture of Aunt Ginevra. Mama often declares the likeness is quite ridiculous.«
    »Were you the only visitor?«
    »The only visitor? Yes, then there was missy, my cousin: little spoiled, pampered thing.«
    »M. de Bassompierre has a daughter?«
    »Yes, yes: don't tease one with questions. Oh dear! I am so tired.«
    She yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed, she added, »It seems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hubbub at the theatre some weeks ago.«
    »Ah! indeed. And they live at a large hotel in the Rue Crécy?«
    »Justement. How do
you
know?«
    »I have been there.«
    »Oh you have? Really! You go everywhere in these days. I suppose Mother Bretton took you? She and Esculapius have the
entrée
of the de Bassompierre apartments: it seems ›my son John‹ attended missy on the occasion of her accident – accident? Bah! All affectation! I don't think she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her airs. And now there is quite an intimacy struck up: I heard something about ›Auld lang syne,‹ and what not? Oh, how stupid they all were!«
    »
All!
You said you were the only visitor?«
    »Did I? You see one forgets to particularize an old woman and her boy.«
    »Dr. and Mrs. Bretton were at M. de Bassompierre's this evening?«
    »Ay, ay! as large as life; and missy played the hostess. What a conceited doll it is!«
    Soured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was beginning to disclose the causes of her prostrate condition. There had been a retrenchment of incense, a diversion or a total withholding of homage and attention: coquetry had failed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification. She lay fuming in the vapours.
    »Is Miss de Bassompierre quite well now?« I asked.
    »As well as you or I, no doubt; but she is an affected little thing, and gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice. And to see the old dowager making her recline on a couch, and ›my son John‹ prohibiting excitement, etcetera – faugh! the scene was quite sickening.«
    »It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed: if
you
had taken Miss de Bassompierre's place.«
    »Indeed! I hate ›my son John!‹«
    »›My son John!‹ – whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton's mother never calls him so.«
    »Then she ought. A clownish, bearish John he is.«
    »You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patience is now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise from that bed, and vacate this room.«
    »Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonder what always makes you so mighty testy à l'endroit du gros Jean? ›John Anderson, my jo, John!‹ Oh! the distinguished name!«
    Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer folly to have given vent – for there was no contending with that unsubstantial feather, that mealy-winged moth – I extinguished my taper, locked my bureau, and left her, since she would not leave me. Small-beer as she was, she had turned insufferably acid.
    The morrow was Thursday and a half-holiday. Breakfast was over; I had withdrawn to the first classe. The dreaded hour, the post-hour, was nearing, and I sat waiting it, much as a