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Villette

Titel: Villette Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Charlotte Bronte
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Paul that morning handled them: he spared nothing – neither their minds, morals, manners, nor personal appearance. I specially remember his abuse of their tall stature, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly dress, their pedantic education, their impious scepticism (!), their insufferable pride, their pretentious virtue: over which he ground his teeth malignantly, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have said singular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid, savage; and, as a natural consequence, detestably ugly.
    »Little wicked venomous man!« thought I; »am I going to harass myself with fears of displeasing
you,
or hurting
your
feelings? No, indeed; you shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in your pyramid.«
    I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For some time the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid: I bore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissing cockatrice was determined to sting, and he said such things at last – fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest names and best men; sullying the shield of Britannia, and dabbling the union-jack in mud – that I
was
stung. With vicious relish he brought up the most spicy current continental historical falsehoods – than which nothing can be conceived more offensive. Zélie, and the whole class, became one grin of vindictive delight; for it is curious to discover how these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, I struck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose this cry: –
    »Vive l'Angleterre, l'Histoire et les Héros! A bas la France, la Fiction et les Faquins!«
    The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. The professor put up his handkerchief, and fiendishly smiled into its folds. Little monster of malice! He now thought he had got the victory, since he had made me angry. In a second he became good-humoured. With great blandness he resumed the subject of his flowers; talked poetically and symbolically of their sweetness, perfume, purity, etcetera; made Frenchified comparisons between the ›jeunes filles‹ and the sweet blossoms before him; paid Mademoiselle St Pierre a very full-blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet; and ended by announcing that the first really, fine, mild, and balmy morning in spring, he intended to take the whole class out to breakfast in the country. »Such of the class, at least,« he added, with emphasis, »as he could count amongst the number of his friends.«
    »Donc je n'y serai pas,« declared I, involuntarily.
    »Soit!« was his response, and, gathering his flowers in his arms, he flashed out of classe; while I, consigning my work, scissors, thimble, and the neglected little box, to my desk, swept up-stairs. I don't know whether
he
felt hot and angry, but I am free to confess that
I
did.
    Yet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edge of my bed, picturing and repicturing his look, manner, words, ere I smiled at the whole scene. A little pang of regret I underwent that the box had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate would not have it so.
    In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in classe were by no means inviolate repositories, and thinking that it was as well to secure the box, on account of the initials in the lid, P.C.D.E., for Paul Carl (or Carlos) David Emanuel – such was his full name – these foreigners must always have a string of baptismals – I descended to the school-room.
    It slept in holiday repose. The day-pupils were all gone home, the boarders were out walking, the teachers, except the surveillante of the week, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite of divisions was vacant; so was the grande salle, with its huge solemn globe hanging in the midst, its pair of many-branched chandeliers, and its horizontal grand piano closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I rather wondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room being usually locked when empty, and being then inaccessible to any save Madame Beck and myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wondered still more, on approaching, to hear a vague movement as of life – a step, a chair stirred, a sound like the opening of a desk.
    »It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty,« was the conclusion following a moment's reflection. The partially-opened door gave opportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not the

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