Villette

twenty here in the carré: let me place you amongst my collection.«
    »But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice.«
    »Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness: it is impiety. Sortez, sortez, et au plus vîte.«
    She drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon.
    Ginevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in my retreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (a demonstration I could very well have dispensed with) cast her arms round my neck.
    »Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!« she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half hysterical.
    »What in the world is the matter?« I drily said.
    »How do I look – how do I look to-night?« she demanded.
    »As usual,« said I; »preposterously vain.«
    »Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful: I feel it, I see it – for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?«
    »I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of your bent.«
    The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance, remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow – whether it was possible it could feed to satiety – whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vain-glorious exultation.
    Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying with mock respect, she said:
    »I would not be you for a kingdom.«
    The remark was too
naïve
to rouse anger; I merely said:
    »Very good.«
    »And what would
you
give to be ME?« she inquired.
    »Not a bad sixpence – strange as it may sound,« I replied. »You are but a poor creature.«
    »You don't think so in your heart.«
    »No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only occasionally turn you over in my brain.«
    »Well, but,« said she, in an expostulatory tone, »just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and how miserable are you.«
    »Go on; I listen.«
    »In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, and though my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then, I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had a continental education, and though I can't spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I
am
pretty;
you
can't deny that; I may have as many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of them just now, which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red and pale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, and languishing ones at me. There is
me
– happy ME; now for
you,
poor soul!
    I suppose you are nobody's daughter, since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; you can't call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractive accomplishments – no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are; you can't even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the other teachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and never will be; you don't know the feeling: and so much the better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn't it all true?«
    »A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zélie St Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give to purchase you, body and soul.«
    »Just because I am not clever, and that is all
you
think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness.«
    »On the contrary, I consider you
are
clever, in your way – very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts – that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter; pray on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?«
    She approached her lips to my ear – »Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are both here,« she