Villette

M. Isidore is the benefactor: that it is from him you have accepted that costly
parure;
that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves?«
    »You express yourself so disagreeably,« said she, »one hardly knows how to answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore the pleasure and honour of expressing his homage, by the offer of a trifle.«
    »It comes to the same thing ... Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth, I don't very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doing very wrong – seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certain that you will be able to marry M. Isidore – your parents and uncle have given their consent – and, for your part, you love him entirely?«
    »Mais pas du tout!« (she always had recourse to French, when about to say something specially heartless and perverse). »Je suis sa reine, mais il n'est pas mon roi.«
    »Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry. There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the good nature and the purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference. You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow.«
    »No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is ...«
    And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her. »Yes!« I said, »try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To me, it seems in a great mess – chaotic as a rag-bag.«
    »It is something in this fashion,« she cried out ere long: »the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense, – for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my ease with you, old lady – you, you dear cross-patch – who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and I have agreed to be a part of my character.«
    »This is all very well,« I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve that gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this whimsical candour, »but it does not alter that wretched business of the presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and send them back.«
    »Indeed, I won't,« said she stoutly.
    »Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by accepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day receive an equivalent, in your regard ...«
    »But he won't,« she interrupted: »he has his equivalent now, in the pleasure of seeing me wear them – quite enough for him: he is only bourgeois.«
    This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She rattled on:
    »My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fettering myself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I saw Isidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it. I believed he would be content with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and part and flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and thoughtful. Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnés, ne sont pas à mon gout. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beaux fats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et les plaisirs! A bas les grandes passions et les sévères vertus!«
    She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.
    »J'aime mon beau colonel,« she went on: »Je n' aimerai jamais son rival. Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!«
    I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment should be relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing.
     
     
Chapter X
Dr. John
    Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all the world, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into no deviation from the even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitous about her family, vigilant for their interests, and