Villette

settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late as was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it had not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.
    Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem, lifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a seat – a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to one, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this site standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverent circle was a lady, holding by the hand a little girl.
    When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round on her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flinging herself from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character fearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the child's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swans-down boa, the white bonnet – the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb of a cherub but too-well known, of that tadpole, Désirée Beck – and Désirée Beck it was – she, or an imp in her likeness.
    I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole would have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one degree, ere it reached its climax.
    On whose hand could the amiable Désirée swing thus selfishly, whose glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with impunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample insolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother? And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet – there, fresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant – there stood Madame Beck.
    Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Désirée in her crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the just, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture ›Meess Lucie‹ otherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our ›ébats‹ in the fête-blazing park at midnight!
    The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable wont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers – though without at the time particularly noticing the gossip – that often, when we thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed, to take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort of taste for a monastic life, and took care – largely, though discreetly – to season her existence with a relish of the world.
    Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I was not slow to recognize two or three. There was her brother, M. Victor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair – a calm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I could not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of character and of countenance, something there still was which recalled a face – mobile, fervent, feeling – a face changeable, now clouded, and now alight – a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but where my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in glow – that face, where I had often seen movements, so near the signs of genius – that why there did not shine fully out, the undoubted fire, the thing, the spirit, and the secret itself – I could never tell. Yes – this Josef Emanuel – this man of peace – reminded me of his ardent brother.
    Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This third person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was stooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most conspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was Père Silas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the priest's presence at this fête. This was not considered a show of Vanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church patronized it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in the park that night.
    Père Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic bench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was – bearing no shape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face and features, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you could almost have fancied a head