Villette

treasurer. The tenement, then, belonged to a citizen in the Basse-Ville – a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding: »a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most respectful regard for you.« And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in the Park. It seems M. Miret was in his station, rich, as well as much respected, and possessed several houses in this faubourg; the rent was moderate, scarce half of what it would have been, for a house of equal size, nearer the centre of Villette.
    »And then,« observed M. Paul, »should fortune not favour you, though I think she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands; M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year's rent you already have in your savings; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and herself. But now, what will you do for pupils?«
    »I must distribute my prospectuses.«
    »Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday. Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, the Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service.«
    »Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to number aristocrats in my little day-school; I care not if they never come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret's daughters.«
    »Besides these,« pursued he, »another pupil offers, who will come daily to take lessons in English; and, as she is rich, she will pay handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur.«
    What is in a name? – what in three words? Till this moment I had listened with living joy – I had answered with gleeful quickness; a name froze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden, and indeed I scarce tried to hide it.
    »What now?« said M. Paul.
    »Nothing.«
    »Nothing! Your countenance changes; your colour and your very eyes fade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what?«
    I had nothing to tell.
    He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continued silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance, he waited with patience.
    »Justine Marie is a good girl,« said he; »docile and amiable; not quick – but you will like her.«
    »I think not. I think she must not come here.« Such was my speech.
    »Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there
is
something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos: tell him the grief.«
    His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards him. »Do you know Marie Justine?« said he again.
    The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did not prostrate – no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through my veins – recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights of heart-sickness. Near me, as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had long twined his life in mine – far as had progressed, and near as was achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation – the very suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.
    »I want to tell you something,« I said; »I want to tell you all.«
    »Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you if I do not? Who is your friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!«
    I spoke. All leaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I narrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back to the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught – why it was given – its goading effect – how it had torn rest from under my head, shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure of a vivid yet solemn fancy – a summer-night solitude on turf, under trees, near a deep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, the masques, the music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells sounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed, all I had recognized, heard, and seen; how I had beheld and watched himself; how I listened, how much heard, what conjectured; the whole history, in brief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither truthful, literal, ardent, bitter.
    Still as I