Villette

ball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives so chilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk one quadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animation and good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavy festal mass which lightened the whole; she tasted a condiment which gave it zest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicest attractions.
    In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seen who was not married and a father – M. Paul excepted – that gentleman, too, being the sole creature of his sex permitted to lead out a pupil to the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as a matter of old-established custom (for he was a kinsman of Madame Beck's, and high in her confidence), partly because he would always have his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because – wilful, passionate, partial, as he might be – he was the soul of honour, and might be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest, in perfect security that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many of the girls – it may be noted in parenthesis – were not pure-minded at all, very much otherwise; but they no more dare betray their natural coarseness in M. Paul's presence, than they dare tread purposely on his corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speak above their breath while some crisis of irritability was covering his human visage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. M. Paul, then, might dance with whom he would – and woe be to the interference which put him out of step.
    Others there were admitted as spectators – with (seeming) reluctance, through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special and difficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious good-nature, and whom she all the evening – with her own personal surveillance – kept far aloof at the remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carré – a small, forlorn, band of ›jeunes gens;‹ these being all of the best families, grown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in the school. That whole evening was madame on duty beside these ›jeunes gens‹ – attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as a dragon. There was a sort of cordon sketched before them, which they wearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revive themselves by one dance with that »belle blonde,« or that »jolie brune,« or »cette jeune fille magnifique aux cheveux noirs comme le jais.«
    »Taisez-vous!« madame would reply, heroically and inexorably. »Vous ne passerez pas à moins que ce ne soit sur mon cadavre, et vous ne danserez qu'avec la nonnette du jardin« (alluding to the legend). And she majestically walked to and fro along their disconsolate and impatient line, like a little Buonaparte in a mouse-coloured silk gown.
    Madame knew something of the world; madame knew much of human nature. I don't think that another directress in Villette would have dared to admit a ›jeune homme‹ within her walls; but madame knew that by granting such admission, on an occasion like the present, a bold stroke might be struck, and a great point gained.
    In the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, for it was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly: the admission of these rattle-snakes, so fascinating and so dangerous, served to draw out madame precisely in her strongest character – that of a first-rate
surveillante.
Thirdly: their presence furnished a most piquant ingredient to the entertainment: the pupils knew it, and saw it, and the view of such golden apples shining afar on, animated them with a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled. The children's pleasure spread to the parents; life and mirth circulated quickly round the ball-room; the ›jeunes gens‹ themselves, though restrained, were amused: for madame never permitted them to feel dull – and thus Madame Beck's fête annually ensured a success unknown to the fête of any other directress in the land.
    I observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at large through the classes: there was about him a manly, responsible look, that redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his beauty; but as soon as the ball began, madame ran up to him.
    »Come, Wolf; come,« said she, laughing: »You wear sheep's clothing, but you must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a fine menagerie of