Villette

tout de suite dans l'Enfer.«
    »Croyez-vous?«
    »Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait: et d'ailleurs le prêtre me l'a dit.«
    Isabelle was an odd, blunt little creature. She added,
sotto voce:
    »Pour assurer votre salut là-haut, on ferait bien de vous brûler toute vive ici-bas.«
    I laughed, as, indeed, it was impossible to do otherwise.
     
    Has the reader forgotten Miss Ginevra Fanshawe? If so, I must be allowed to re-introduce that young lady as a thriving pupil of Madame Beck's, for such she was. On her arrival in the Rue Fossette, two or three days after my sudden settlement there, she encountered me with very little surprise. She must have had good blood in her veins, for never was any duchess more perfectly, radically, unaffectedly
nonchalante
than she: a weak, transient amaze was all she knew of the sensation of wonder. Most of her other faculties seemed to be in the same flimsy condition: her liking and disliking, her love and hate, were mere cobweb and gossamer; but she had one thing about her that seemed strong and durable enough, and that was – her selfishness.
    She was not proud; and –
bonne d'enfants
as I was – she would forthwith have made of me a sort of friend and confidant. She teased me with a thousand vapid complaints about school-quarrels and household economy: the cookery was not to her taste – the people about her, teachers and pupils, she held to be despicable, because they were foreigners. I bore with her abuse of the Friday's salt-fish and hard eggs – with her invective against the soup, the bread, the coffee – with some patience for a time; but at last, wearied by iteration, I turned crusty and put her to rights – a thing I ought to have done in the very beginning, for a salutary setting down always agreed with her.
    Much longer had I to endure her demands on me in the way of work. Her wardrobe, so far as concerned articles of external wear, was well and elegantly supplied; but there were other habiliments not so carefully provided: what she had, needed frequent repair. She hated needle-drudgery herself, and she would bring her hose, etc., to me in heaps, to be mended. A compliance of some weeks threatening to result in the establishment of an intolerable bore – I at last distinctly told her she must make up her mind to mend her own garments. She cried on receiving this information, and accused me of having ceased to be her friend; but I held by my decision, and let the hysterics pass as they could.
    Notwithstanding these foibles, and various others needless to mention – but by no means of a refined or elevating character – how pretty she was! How charming she looked, when she came down on a sunny Sunday morning, well-dressed and well-humoured, robed in pale lilac silk, and with her fair long curls reposing on her white shoulders. Sunday was a holiday which she always passed with friends resident in town; and amongst these friends she speedily gave me to understand was one who would fain become something more. By glimpses and hints it was shown me, and by the general buoyancy of her look and manner it was ere long proved that ardent admiration – perhaps genuine love – was at her command. She called her suitor ›Isidore‹: this, however, she intimated was not his real name, but one by which it pleased her to baptize him – his own, she hinted, not being ›very pretty.‹ Once, when she had been bragging about the vehemence of ›Isidore's‹ attachment, I asked if she loved him in return.
    »Comme cela,« said she: »he is handsome, and he loves me to distraction, so that I am well amused. Ça suffit.«
    Finding that she carried the thing on longer than, from her very fickle tastes, I had anticipated, I one day took it upon me to make serious inquiries as to whether the gentleman was such as her parents, and especially her uncle – on whom, it appeared, she was dependent – would be likely to approve. She allowed that this was very doubtful, as she did not believe ›Isidore‹ had much money.
    »Do you encourage him?« I asked.
    »Furieusement, sometimes,« said she.
    »Without being certain that you will be permitted to marry him?«
    »Oh how dowdyish you are! I don't want to be married. I am too young.«
    »But if he loves you as much as you say, and yet it comes to nothing in the end, he will be made miserable.«
    »Of course he will break his heart. I should be shocked and disappointed if he did n't.«
    »I wonder whether this M. Isidore