Villette

It was not scarlet! It was pink, and pale pink, too; and further subdued by black lace.«
    »Pink or scarlet, yellow or crimson, pea-green or sky-blue; it was all one: these were all flaunting, giddy colours; and as to the lace I talked of,
that
was but a ›colifichet de plus.‹« And he sighed over my degeneracy. »He could not, he was sorry to say, be so particular on this theme as he could wish: not possessing the exact names of these ›babioles,‹ he might run into small verbal errors which would not fail to lay him open to my sarcasm, and excite my unhappily sudden and passionate disposition. He would merely say, in general terms – and in these general terms he knew he was correct – that my costume had of late assumed ›des façons mondaines,‹ which it wounded him to see.«
    What »façons mondaines« he discovered in my present winter merino and plain 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 would necessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a gentleman?« – holding up my bright little chainlet of silk and gold. His sole reply was a groan – I suppose over my levity.
    After sitting some minutes in silence, and watching the progress of the chain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, he inquired:
    »Whether what he had just said would have the effect of making me entirely detest him?«
    I hardly remember what answer I made, or how it came about; I don't think I spoke at all, but I know we managed to bid good-night on friendly terms: and, even after M. Paul had reached the door, he turned back just to explain, »that he would not be understood to speak in entire condemnation of the scarlet dress« (»Pink! pink!« I threw in); »that he had no intention to deny it the merit of
looking
rather well« (the fact was, M. Emanuel's taste in colours decidedly leaned to the brilliant); »only he wished to counsel me, whenever I wore it, to do so in the same spirit as if its material were ›bure,‹ and its hue ›gris de poussière.‹«
    »And the flowers under my bonnet, monsieur?« I asked. »They are very little ones –?«
    »Keep them little, then,« said he. »Permit them not to become full-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 a pretty lecture – brought on yourself a ›rude savon,‹ and all through your wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it? You deemed yourself a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawe there regards you as a second Diogenes. M. de Bassompierre, the other day, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the wild gifts of the actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said, ›Miss Snowe looked uncomfortable.‹ Dr. John Bretton knows you only as ›quiet Lucy‹ – ›a creature inoffensive as a shadow;‹ he has said, and you have heard him say it: ›Lucy's disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes and manner – want of colour in character and costume.‹ Such are your own and your friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a little man, differing diametrically from all these, roundly charging you with being too airy and cheery – too volatile and versatile – too flowery and coloury. This harsh little man – this pitiless censor – gathers up all your poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless chiffon of rose-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 for each item. You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow in Life's sunshine: it is a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand to screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray.«
     
     
Chapter XXIX
Monsieur's Fête
    I was up the next morning an hour before daybreak, and finished my guard, kneeling on the dormitory floor beside the centre stand, for the benefit of such expiring glimmer as the night-lamp afforded in its last watch.
    All my materials – my whole stock of beads and silk – were used up before the chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought it double, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to suit the particular taste whose gratification was