Villette

filled his blue eye and smoothed his broad forehead. I, too was happy, happy with the bright day, happier with his presence, happiest with his kindness.
    He asked, by-and-by, if I would not rather run to my companions than sit there? I said, no; I felt content to be where he was. He asked whether, if I were his sister, I should always be content to stay with a brother such as he. I said, I believed I should; and I felt it. Again, he inquired whether, if he were to leave Villette, and go far away, I should be sorry; and I dropped Corneille, and made no reply.
    »Petite sœur,« said he; »how long could you remember me if we were separated?«
    »That, monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know how long it will be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly.«
    »If I were to go beyond seas for two – three – five years, should you welcome me on my return?«
    »Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?«
    »Pourtant j'ai été pour vous bien dur, bien exigeant.«
    I hid my face with the book, for it was covered with tears. I asked him why he talked so; and he said he would talk so no more, and cheered me again with the kindest encouragement. Still, the gentleness with which he treated me during the rest of the day, went somehow to my heart. It was too tender. It was mournful. I would rather he had been abrupt, whimsical, and irate as was his wont.
    When hot noon arrived – for the day turned out as we had anticipated; glowing as June – our shepherd collected his sheep from the pasture, and proceeded to lead us all softly home. But we had a whole league to walk – thus far from Villette was the farm where we had breakfasted; the children, especially, were tired with their play; the spirits of most flagged at the prospect of this mid-day walk over chaussées flinty, glaring and dusty. This state of things had been foreseen and provided for. Just beyond the boundary of the farm we met two spacious vehicles coming to fetch us – such conveyances as are hired out purposely for the accommodation of school-parties; here, with good management, room was found for all, and in another hour M. Paul made safe consignment of his charge at the Rue Fossette. It had been a pleasant day: it would have been perfect, but for the breathing of melancholy which had dimmed its sunshine a moment.
    That tarnish was renewed the same evening.
    Just about sunset, I saw M. Emanuel come out of the front-door, accompanied by Madame Beck. They paced the centre-alley for nearly an hour, talking earnestly: he – looking grave, yet restless; she – wearing an amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air.
    I wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame Beck re-entered the house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman Paul yet lingering in the garden, I said to myself –
    »He called me ›petite sœur‹ this morning. If he were really my brother, how I should like to go to him just now, and ask what it is that presses on his mind. See how he leans against that tree, with his arms crossed and his brow bent. He wants consolation, I know: Madame does not console, she only remonstrates. What now –?«
    Starting from quiescence to action, M. Paul came striding erect and quick down the garden. The carré doors were yet open: I thought he was probably going to water the orange-trees in the tubs, after his occasional custom; on reaching the court, however, he took an abrupt turn and made for the berceau and the first classe glass-door. There, in that first classe I was, thence I had been watching him; but there I could not find courage to await his approach. He had turned so suddenly, he strode so fast, he looked so strange; the coward within me grew pale, shrunk and – not waiting to listen to reason, and hearing the shrubs crush and the gravel crunch to his advance – she was gone on the wings of panic.
    Nor did I pause till I had taken sanctuary in the oratory, now empty. Listening there with beating pulses, and an unaccountable, undefined apprehension, I heard him pass through all the schoolrooms, clashing the doors impatiently as he went; I heard him invade the refectory which the »lecture pieuse« was now holding under hallowed constraint; I heard him pronounce these words –
    »Où est Mademoiselle Lucie?«
    And just as, summoning my courage, I was preparing to go down and do what, after all, I most wished to do in the world – viz., meet him – the wiry voice of St Pierre replied glibly and falsely, »Elle est au lit.« And