Villette

done it more tenderly and efficiently. The mother – on the whole a good woman – died blessing him; the strange, godless, loveless, misanthrope grandmother lived still, entirely supported by this self-sacrificing man. She, who had been the bane of his life, blighting his hope, and awarding him, for love and domestic happiness, long mourning and cheerless solitude, he treated with the respect a good son might offer a kind mother. He had brought her to this house, »and,« continued the priest, while genuine tears rose to his eyes, »here, too, he shelters me, his old tutor, and Agnes, a superannuated servant of his father's family. To our sustenance, and to other charities, I know he devotes three parts of his income, keeping only the fourth to provide himself with bread and the most modest accommodations. By this arrangement he has rendered it impossible to himself ever to marry: he has given himself to God and to his angel-bride as much as if he were a priest, like me.«
    The father had wiped away his tears before he uttered these last words, and in pronouncing them, he for one instant raised his eyes to mine. I caught that glance, despite its veiled character; the momentary gleam shot a meaning which struck me.
    These Romanists are strange beings. Such a one among them – whom you know no more than the last Inca of Peru, or the first Emperor of China – knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying to you so and so, when you simply thought the communication sprang impromptu from the instant's impulse: his plan in bringing it about that you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such and such circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crude apprehension the ordinance of chance, or the sequel of exigency. Madame Beck's suddenly recollected message and present, my artless embassy to the Place of the Magi, the old priest, accidentally descending the steps and crossing the square, his interposition on my behalf with the bonne who would have sent me away, his reappearance on the staircase, my introduction to this room, the portrait, the narrative so affably volunteered – all these little incidents, taken as they fell out, seemed each independent of its successor; a handful of loose beads; but threaded through by that quick-shot and crafty glance of a Jesuit-eye, they dropped pendant in a long string, like that rosary on the prie-dieu. Where lay the link of junction, where the little clasp of this monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but could not yet find the spot, or detect the means of connection.
    Perhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time fallen, appeared somewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he gently interrupted:
    »Mademoiselle,« said he, »I trust you have not far to go through these inundated streets?«
    »More than half a league.«
    »You live –?«
    »In the Rue Fossette.«
    »Not« (with animation), »not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?«
    »The same.«
    »Donc« (clapping his hands), »donc, vous devez connaître mon noble élève, mon Paul?«
    »Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?«
    »He, and none other.«
    A brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have become palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.
    »Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?« I presently inquired. »Was he your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?«
    »Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant; and moreover« (with a certain emphasis), »he was and
is
the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in Heaven – Justine Marie.«
    »And who, father, are
you?
« I continued; and though I accentuated the question, its utterance was well-nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came.
    »I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you once honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for a day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by her high training, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired by the zeal she alone gives – I realize what then might be your spiritual rank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy her prey.«
    This struck me as a special state of things – I half-realized myself in that condition also; passed under