Villette - The Original Classic Edition. Brontë Charlotte

alone; I will step with you thus far."

       He moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the small soaking rain. The Boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the water dripping from its trees; the park was black as midnight. In the double gloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only follow his tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed that frank tread, through continual night, to the world's end.

       "Now," said he, when the park was traversed, "you will go along this broad street till you come to steps; two lamps will show you where they are: these steps you will descend: a narrower street lies below; following that, at the bottom you will find your inn. They speak English there, so your difficulties are now pretty well over. Good-night."

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       "Good-night, sir," said I: "accept my sincerest thanks." And we parted.

       The remembrance of his countenance, which I am sure wore a light not unbenignant to the friendless--the sound in my ear of his voice, which spoke a nature chivalric to the needy and feeble, as well as the youthful and fair--were a sort of cordial to me long after. He was a true young English gentleman.

       On I went, hurrying fast through a magnificent street and square, with the grandest houses round, and amidst them the huge outline of more than one overbearing pile; which might be palace or church--I could not tell. Just as I passed a portico, two mustachioed men came suddenly from behind the pillars; they were smoking cigars: their dress implied pretensions to the rank of gentlemen, but, poor things! they were very plebeian in soul. They spoke with insolence, and, fast as I walked, they kept pace with me a long way.

       At last I met a sort of patrol, and my dreaded hunters were turned from the pursuit; but they had driven me beyond my reckoning: when I could collect my faculties, I no longer knew where I was; the staircase I must long since have passed. Puzzled, out of breath, all my pulses throbbing in inevitable agitation, I knew not where to turn. It was terrible to think of again encountering those bearded, sneering simpletons; yet the ground must be retraced, and the steps sought out.

       I came at last to an old and worn flight, and, taking it for granted that this must be the one indicated, I descended them. The street into which they led was indeed narrow, but it contained no inn. On I wandered. In a very quiet and comparatively clean and well-paved street, I saw a light burning over the door of a rather large house, loftier by a story than those round it. This might be the inn at last. I hastened on: my knees now trembled under me: I was getting quite exhausted.

       No inn was this. A brass-plate embellished the great porte-cochere: "Pensionnat de Demoiselles" was the inscription; and beneath, a name, "Madame Beck."

       I started. About a hundred thoughts volleyed through my mind in a moment. Yet I planned nothing, and considered nothing: I had not time. Providence said, "Stop here; this is your inn." Fate took me in her strong hand; mastered my will; directed my actions: I rang the door-bell.

       While I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the street-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted

       their shapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again. They opened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me.

       "May I see Madame Beck?" I inquired.

       I believe if I had spoken French she would not have admitted me; but, as I spoke English, she concluded I was a foreign teacher come on business connected with the pensionnat, and, even at that late hour, she let me in, without a word of reluctance, or a mo-ment of hesitation.

       The next moment I sat in a cold, glittering salon, with porcelain stove, unlit, and gilded ornaments, and polished floor. A pendule on the mantel-piece struck nine o'clock.

       A quarter of an hour passed. How fast beat every pulse in my frame! How I turned cold and hot by turns! I sat with my eyes fixed on the door--a great white folding-door, with gilt mouldings: I watched to see a leaf move and open. All had been quiet: not a mouse had stirred; the white doors were closed and motionless.

       "You ayre Engliss?" said a voice at my elbow. I almost bounded, so unexpected was the sound; so certain had I been of solitude. No ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect; merely a motherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a wrapping-

       gown, and a clean, trim nightcap.

       I said I was English, and immediately, without further prelude, we fell to a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck (for Madame Beck it was--she had entered by a little door behind me, and, being shod with the shoes of silence, I had heard neither her entrance nor approach)--Madame Beck had exhausted her command of insular speech when she said, "You ayre Engliss," and she now proceeded to work away volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understood me, but as I did not at all understand her--though we made together an awful clamour (anything like Madame's gift of utterance I had not hitherto heard

       or imagined)--we achieved little progress. She rang, ere long, for aid; which arrived in the shape of a "maitresse," who had been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed a perfect adept in the English language. A bluff little personage this maitresse was--Labassecourienne from top to toe: and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which

       she translated. I told her how I had left my own country, intent on extending my knowledge, and gaining my bread; how I was ready

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       to turn my hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrong or degrading; how I would be a child's-nurse, or a lady's-maid, and would not refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this; and, questioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear:

       "Il n'y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d'entreprises," said she: "sont-elles donc intrepides ces femmes la!"

       She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me--not pityingly, not with interest: never a gleam of sympathy, or a shade of compassion, crossed her countenance during the interview. I felt she was not one to be led an inch by her feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed, consulting her judgment and studying my narrative. A bell rang.

       "Voila pour la priere du soir!" said she, and rose. Through her interpreter, she desired me to depart now, and come back on the mor-row; but this did not suit me: I could not bear to return to the perils of darkness and the street. With energy, yet with a collected and controlled manner, I said, addressing herself personally, and not the maitresse: "Be assured, madame, that by instantly securing my services, your interests will be served and not injured: you will find me one who will wish to give, in her labour, a full equivalent for her wages; and if you hire me, it will be better that I should stay here this night: having no acquaintance in Villette, and not possessing the language of the country, how can I secure a lodging?"

       "It is true," said she; "but at least you can give a reference?" "None."

       She inquired after my luggage: I told her when it would arrive. She mused. At that moment a man's step was heard in the vestibule, hastily proceeding to the outer door. (I shall go on with this part of my tale as if I had understood all that passed; for though it was then scarce intelligible to me, I heard it translated afterwards).

       "Who goes out now?" demanded Madame Beck, listening to the tread.

       "M. Paul," replied the teacher. "He came this evening to give a reading to the first class." "The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him."

       The teacher ran to the salon door. M. Paul was summoned. He entered: a small, dark and spare man, in spectacles.

       "Mon cousin," began Madame, "I want your opinion. We know your skill in physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance." The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he

       meant to see through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him.

       "I read it," he pronounced. "Et qu'en dites vous?"

       "Mais--bien des choses," was the oracular answer. "Bad or good?"

       "Of each kind, without doubt," pursued the diviner. "May one trust her word?"

       "Are you negotiating a matter of importance?"