prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XX.

THE CONCERT.

One morning, Mrs. Bretton, coming promptly into my room, desired me to
open my drawers and show her my dresses; which I did, without a word.

"That will do," said she, when she had turned them over. "You must have
a new one."

She went out. She returned presently with a dressmaker. She had me
measured. "I mean," said she, "to follow my own taste, and to have my
own way in this little matter."

Two days after came home--a pink dress!

"That is not for me," I said, hurriedly, feeling that I would almost as
soon clothe myself in the costume of a Chinese lady of rank.

"We shall see whether it is for you or not," rejoined my godmother,
adding with her resistless decision: "Mark my words. You will wear it
this very evening."

I thought I should not; I thought no human force should avail to put me
into it. A pink dress! I knew it not. It knew not me. I had not proved
it.

My godmother went on to decree that I was to go with her and Graham to
a concert that same night: which concert, she explained, was a grand
affair to be held in the large salle, or hall, of the principal musical
society. The most advanced of the pupils of the Conservatoire were to
perform: it was to be followed by a lottery "au benefice des pauvres;"
and to crown all, the King, Queen, and Prince of Labassecour were to be
present. Graham, in sending tickets, had enjoined attention to costume
as a compliment due to royalty: he also recommended punctual readiness
by seven o'clock.

About six, I was ushered upstairs. Without any force at all, I found
myself led and influenced by another's will, unconsulted, unpersuaded,
quietly overruled. In short, the pink dress went on, softened by some
drapery of black lace. I was pronounced to be en grande tenue, and
requested to look in the glass. I did so with some fear and trembling;
with more fear and trembling, I turned away. Seven o'clock struck; Dr.
Bretton was come; my godmother and I went down. _She_ was clad in brown
velvet; as I walked in her shadow, how I envied her those folds of
grave, dark majesty! Graham stood in the drawing-room doorway.

"I _do_ hope he will not think I have been decking myself out to draw
attention," was my uneasy aspiration.

"Here, Lucy, are some flowers," said he, giving me a bouquet. He took
no further notice of my dress than was conveyed in a kind smile and
satisfied nod, which calmed at once my sense of shame and fear of
ridicule. For the rest; the dress was made with extreme simplicity,
guiltless of flounce or furbelow; it was but the light fabric and
bright tint which scared me, and since Graham found in it nothing
absurd, my own eye consented soon to become reconciled.

I suppose people who go every night to places of public amusement, can
hardly enter into the fresh gala feeling with which an opera or a
concert is enjoyed by those for whom it is a rarity: I am not sure that
I expected great pleasure from the concert, having but a very vague
notion of its nature, but I liked the drive there well. The snug
comfort of the close carriage on a cold though fine night, the pleasure
of setting out with companions so cheerful and friendly, the sight of
the stars glinting fitfully through the trees as we rolled along the
avenue; then the freer burst of the night-sky when we issued forth to
the open chaussee, the passage through the city gates, the lights there
burning, the guards there posted, the pretence of inspection, to which
we there submitted, and which amused us so much--all these small
matters had for me, in their novelty, a peculiarly exhilarating charm.
How much of it lay in the atmosphere of friendship diffused about me, I
know not: Dr. John and his mother were both in their finest mood,
contending animatedly with each other the whole way, and as frankly
kind to me as if I had been of their kin.

Our way lay through some of the best streets of Villette, streets
brightly lit, and far more lively now than at high noon. How brilliant
seemed the shops! How glad, gay, and abundant flowed the tide of life
along the broad pavement! While I looked, the thought of the Rue
Fossette came across me--of the walled-in garden and school-house, and
of the dark, vast "classes," where, as at this very hour, it was my
wont to wander all solitary, gazing at the stars through the high,
blindless windows, and listening to the distant voice of the reader in
the refectory, monotonously exercised upon the "lecture pieuse." Thus
must I soon again listen and wander; and this shadow of the future
stole with timely sobriety across the radiant present.

By this time we had got into a current of carriages all tending in one
direction, and soon the front of a great illuminated building blazed
before us. Of what I should see within this building, I had, as before
intimated, but an imperfect idea; for no place of public entertainment
had it ever been my lot to enter yet.

We alighted under a portico where there was a great bustle and a great
crowd, but I do not distinctly remember further details, until I found
myself mounting a majestic staircase wide and easy of ascent, deeply
and softly carpeted with crimson, leading up to great doors closed
solemnly, and whose panels were also crimson-clothed.

I hardly noticed by what magic these doors were made to roll back--Dr.
John managed these points; roll back they did, however, and within was
disclosed a hall--grand, wide, and high, whose sweeping circular walls,
and domed hollow ceiling, seemed to me all dead gold (thus with nice
art was it stained), relieved by cornicing, fluting, and garlandry,
either bright, like gold burnished, or snow-white, like alabaster, or
white and gold mingled in wreaths of gilded leaves and spotless lilies:
wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions
placed, the sole colour employed was deep crimson. Pendent from the
dome, flamed a mass that dazzled me--a mass, I thought, of
rock-crystal, sparkling with facets, streaming with drops, ablaze with
stars, and gorgeously tinged with dews of gems dissolved, or fragments
of rainbows shivered. It was only the chandelier, reader, but for me it
seemed the work of eastern genii: I almost looked to see if a huge,
dark, cloudy hand--that of the Slave of the Lamp--were not hovering in
the lustrous and perfumed atmosphere of the cupola, guarding its
wondrous treasure.

We moved on--I was not at all conscious whither--but at some turn we
suddenly encountered another party approaching from the opposite
direction. I just now see that group, as it flashed--upon me for one
moment. A handsome middle-aged lady in dark velvet; a gentleman who
might be her son--the best face, the finest figure, I thought, I had
ever seen; a third person in a pink dress and black lace mantle.

I noted them all--the third person as well as the other two--and for
the fraction of a moment believed them all strangers, thus receiving an
impartial impression of their appearance. But the impression was hardly
felt and not fixed, before the consciousness that I faced a great
mirror, filling a compartment between two pillars, dispelled it: the
party was our own party. Thus for the first, and perhaps only time in
my life, I enjoyed the "giftie" of seeing myself as others see me. No
need to dwell on the result. It brought a jar of discord, a pang of
regret; it was not flattering, yet, after all, I ought to be thankful;
it might have been worse.

At last, we were seated in places commanding a good general view of
that vast and dazzling, but warm and cheerful hall. Already it was
filled, and filled with a splendid assemblage. I do not know that the
women were very beautiful, but their dresses were so perfect; and
foreigners, even such as are ungraceful in domestic privacy, seem to
posses the art of appearing graceful in public: however blunt and
boisterous those every-day and home movements connected with peignoir
and papillotes, there is a slide, a bend, a carriage of the head and
arms, a mien of the mouth and eyes, kept nicely in reserve for gala
use--always brought out with the grande toilette, and duly put on with
the "parure."

Some fine forms there were here and there, models of a peculiar style
of beauty; a style, I think, never seen in England; a solid, firm-set,
sculptural style. These shapes have no angles: a caryatid in marble is
almost as flexible; a Phidian goddess is not more perfect in a certain
still and stately sort. They have such features as the Dutch painters
give to their madonnas: low-country classic features, regular but
round, straight but stolid; and for their depth of expressionless calm,
of passionless peace, a polar snow-field could alone offer a type.
Women of this order need no ornament, and they seldom wear any; the
smooth hair, closely braided, supplies a sufficient contrast to the
smoother cheek and brow; the dress cannot be too simple; the rounded
arm and perfect neck require neither bracelet nor chain.

With one of these beauties I once had the honour and rapture to be
perfectly acquainted: the inert force of the deep, settled love she
bore herself, was wonderful; it could only be surpassed by her proud
impotency to care for any other living thing. Of blood, her cool veins
conducted no flow; placid lymph filled and almost obstructed her
arteries.

Such a Juno as I have described sat full in our view--a sort of mark
for all eyes, and quite conscious that so she was, but proof to the
magnetic influence of gaze or glance: cold, rounded, blonde, and
beauteous as the white column, capitalled with gilding, which rose at
her side.

Observing that Dr. John's attention was much drawn towards her, I
entreated him in a low voice "for the love of heaven to shield well his
heart. You need not fall in love with _that_ lady," I said, "because, I
tell you beforehand, you might die at her feet, and she would not love
you again."

"Very well," said he, "and how do you know that the spectacle of her
grand insensibility might not with me be the strongest stimulus to
homage? The sting of desperation is, I think, a wonderful irritant to
my emotions: but" (shrugging his shoulders) "you know nothing about
these things; I'll address myself to my mother. Mamma, I'm in a
dangerous way."

"As if that interested me!" said Mrs. Bretton.

"Alas! the cruelty of my lot!" responded her son. "Never man had a more
unsentimental mother than mine: she never seems to think that such a
calamity can befall her as a daughter-in-law."

"If I don't, it is not for want of having that same calamity held over
my head: you have threatened me with it for the last ten years. 'Mamma,
I am going to be married soon!' was the cry before you were well out of
jackets."

"But, mother, one of these days it will be realized. All of a sudden,
when you think you are most secure, I shall go forth like Jacob or
Esau, or any other patriarch, and take me a wife: perhaps of these
which are of the daughters of the land."

"At your peril, John Graham! that is all."

"This mother of mine means me to be an old bachelor. What a jealous old
lady it is! But now just look at that splendid creature in the pale
blue satin dress, and hair of paler brown, with 'reflets satines' as
those of her robe. Would you not feel proud, mamma, if I were to bring
that goddess home some day, and introduce her to you as Mrs. Bretton,
junior?"

"You will bring no goddess to La Terrasse: that little chateau will not
contain two mistresses; especially if the second be of the height,
bulk, and circumference of that mighty doll in wood and wax, and kid
and satin."

"Mamma, she would fill your blue chair so admirably!"

"Fill my chair? I defy the foreign usurper! a rueful chair should it be
for her: but hush, John Graham! Hold your tongue, and use your eyes."

During the above skirmish, the hall, which, I had thought, seemed full
at the entrance, continued to admit party after party, until the
semicircle before the stage presented one dense mass of heads, sloping
from floor to ceiling. The stage, too, or rather the wide temporary
platform, larger than any stage, desert half an hour since, was now
overflowing with life; round two grand pianos, placed about the centre,
a white flock of young girls, the pupils of the Conservatoire, had
noiselessly poured. I had noticed their gathering, while Graham and his
mother were engaged in discussing the belle in blue satin, and had
watched with interest the process of arraying and marshalling them. Two
gentlemen, in each of whom I recognised an acquaintance, officered this
virgin troop. One, an artistic-looking man, bearded, and with long
hair, was a noted pianiste, and also the first music-teacher in
Villette; he attended twice a week at Madame Beck's pensionnat, to give
lessons to the few pupils whose parents were rich enough to allow their
daughters the privilege of his instructions; his name was M. Josef
Emanuel, and he was half-brother to M. Paul: which potent personage was
now visible in the person of the second gentleman.

M. Paul amused me; I smiled to myself as I watched him, he seemed so
thoroughly in his element--standing conspicuous in presence of a wide
and grand assemblage, arranging, restraining, over-aweing about one
hundred young ladies. He was, too, so perfectly in earnest--so
energetic, so intent, and, above all, so absolute: and yet what
business had he there? What had he to do with music or the
Conservatoire--he who could hardly distinguish one note from another? I
knew that it was his love of display and authority which had brought
him there--a love not offensive, only because so naive. It presently
became obvious that his brother, M. Josef, was as much under his
control as were the girls themselves. Never was such a little hawk of a
man as that M. Paul! Ere long, some noted singers and musicians dawned
upon the platform: as these stars rose, the comet-like professor set.
Insufferable to him were all notorieties and celebrities: where he
could not outshine, he fled.

And now all was prepared: but one compartment of the hall waited to be
filled--a compartment covered with crimson, like the grand staircase
and doors, furnished with stuffed and cushioned benches, ranged on each
side of two regal chairs, placed solemnly under a canopy.

A signal was given, the doors rolled back, the assembly stood up, the
orchestra burst out, and, to the welcome of a choral burst, enter the
King, the Queen, the Court of Labassecour.

Till then, I had never set eyes on living king or queen; it may
consequently be conjectured how I strained my powers of vision to take
in these specimens of European royalty. By whomsoever majesty is beheld
for the first time, there will always be experienced a vague surprise
bordering on disappointment, that the same does not appear seated, en
permanence, on a throne, bonneted with a crown, and furnished, as to
the hand, with a sceptre. Looking out for a king and queen, and seeing
only a middle-aged soldier and a rather young lady, I felt half
cheated, half pleased.

Well do I recall that King--a man of fifty, a little bowed, a little
grey: there was no face in all that assembly which resembled his. I had
never read, never been told anything of his nature or his habits; and
at first the strong hieroglyphics graven as with iron stylet on his
brow, round his eyes, beside his mouth, puzzled and baffled instinct.
Ere long, however, if I did not know, at least I felt, the meaning of
those characters written without hand. There sat a silent sufferer--a
nervous, melancholy man. Those eyes had looked on the visits of a
certain ghost--had long waited the comings and goings of that strangest
spectre, Hypochondria. Perhaps he saw her now on that stage, over
against him, amidst all that brilliant throng. Hypochondria has that
wont, to rise in the midst of thousands--dark as Doom, pale as Malady,
and well-nigh strong as Death. Her comrade and victim thinks to be
happy one moment--"Not so," says she; "I come." And she freezes the
blood in his heart, and beclouds the light in his eye.

Some might say it was the foreign crown pressing the King's brows which
bent them to that peculiar and painful fold; some might quote the
effects of early bereavement. Something there might be of both these;
but these are embittered by that darkest foe of
humanity--constitutional melancholy. The Queen, his wife, knew this: it
seemed to me, the reflection of her husband's grief lay, a subduing
shadow, on her own benignant face. A mild, thoughtful, graceful woman
that princess seemed; not beautiful, not at all like the women of solid
charms and marble feelings described a page or two since. Hers was a
somewhat slender shape; her features, though distinguished enough, were
too suggestive of reigning dynasties and royal lines to give
unqualified pleasure. The expression clothing that profile was
agreeable in the present instance; but you could not avoid connecting
it with remembered effigies, where similar lines appeared, under phase
ignoble; feeble, or sensual, or cunning, as the case might be. The
Queen's eye, however, was her own; and pity, goodness, sweet sympathy,
blessed it with divinest light. She moved no sovereign, but a
lady--kind, loving, elegant. Her little son, the Prince of Labassecour,
and young Duc de Dindonneau, accompanied her: he leaned on his mother's
knee; and, ever and anon, in the course of that evening, I saw her
observant of the monarch at her side, conscious of his beclouded
abstraction, and desirous to rouse him from it by drawing his attention
to their son. She often bent her head to listen to the boy's remarks,
and would then smilingly repeat them to his sire. The moody King
started, listened, smiled, but invariably relapsed as soon as his good
angel ceased speaking. Full mournful and significant was that
spectacle! Not the less so because, both for the aristocracy and the
honest bourgeoisie of Labassecour, its peculiarity seemed to be wholly
invisible: I could not discover that one soul present was either struck
or touched.

With the King and Queen had entered their court, comprising two or
three foreign ambassadors; and with them came the elite of the
foreigners then resident in Villette. These took possession of the
crimson benches; the ladies were seated; most of the men remained
standing: their sable rank, lining the background, looked like a dark
foil to the splendour displayed in front. Nor was this splendour
without varying light and shade and gradation: the middle distance was
filled with matrons in velvets and satins, in plumes and gems; the
benches in the foreground, to the Queen's right hand, seemed devoted
exclusively to young girls, the flower--perhaps, I should rather say,
the bud--of Villette aristocracy. Here were no jewels, no head-dresses,
no velvet pile or silken sheen purity, simplicity, and aerial grace
reigned in that virgin band. Young heads simply braided, and fair forms
(I was going to write _sylph_ forms, but that would have been quite
untrue: several of these "jeunes filles," who had not numbered more
than sixteen or seventeen years, boasted contours as robust and solid
as those of a stout Englishwoman of five-and-twenty)--fair forms robed
in white, or pale rose, or placid blue, suggested thoughts of heaven
and angels. I knew a couple, at least, of these "rose et blanche"
specimens of humanity. Here was a pair of Madame Beck's late
pupils--Mesdemoiselles Mathilde and Angelique: pupils who, during their
last year at school, ought to have been in the first class, but whose
brains never got them beyond the second division. In English, they had
been under my own charge, and hard work it was to get them to translate
rationally a page of _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Also during three months
I had one of them for my vis-a-vis at table, and the quantity of
household bread, butter, and stewed fruit, she would habitually consume
at "second dejeuner" was a real world's wonder--to be exceeded only by
the fact of her actually pocketing slices she could not eat. Here be
truths--wholesome truths, too.

I knew another of these seraphs--the prettiest, or, at any rate, the
least demure and hypocritical looking of the lot: she was seated by the
daughter of an English peer, also an honest, though haughty-looking
girl: both had entered in the suite of the British embassy. She (_i.e._
my acquaintance) had a slight, pliant figure, not at all like the forms
of the foreign damsels: her hair, too, was not close-braided, like a
shell or a skull-cap of satin; it looked _like_ hair, and waved from
her head, long, curled, and flowing. She chatted away volubly, and
seemed full of a light-headed sort of satisfaction with herself and her
position. I did not look at Dr. Bretton; but I knew that he, too, saw
Ginevra Fanshawe: he had become so quiet, he answered so briefly his
mother's remarks, he so often suppressed a sigh. Why should he sigh? He
had confessed a taste for the pursuit of love under difficulties; here
was full gratification for that taste. His lady-love beamed upon him
from a sphere above his own: he could not come near her; he was not
certain that he could win from her a look. I watched to see if she
would so far favour him. Our seat was not far from the crimson benches;
we must inevitably be seen thence, by eyes so quick and roving as Miss
Fanshawe's, and very soon those optics of hers were upon us: at least,
upon Dr. and Mrs. Bretton. I kept rather in the shade and out of sight,
not wishing to be immediately recognised: she looked quite steadily at
Dr. John, and then she raised a glass to examine his mother; a minute
or two afterwards she laughingly whispered her neighbour; upon the
performance commencing, her rambling attention was attracted to the
platform.

On the concert I need not dwell; the reader would not care to have my
impressions thereanent: and, indeed, it would not be worth while to
record them, as they were the impressions of an ignorance crasse. The
young ladies of the Conservatoire, being very much frightened, made
rather a tremulous exhibition on the two grand pianos. M. Josef Emanuel
stood by them while they played; but he had not the tact or influence
of his kinsman, who, under similar circumstances, would certainly have
_compelled_ pupils of his to demean themselves with heroism and
self-possession. M. Paul would have placed the hysteric debutantes
between two fires--terror of the audience, and terror of himself--and
would have inspired them with the courage of desperation, by making the
latter terror incomparably the greater: M. Josef could not do this.

Following the white muslin pianistes, came a fine, full-grown, sulky
lady in white satin. She sang. Her singing just affected me like the
tricks of a conjuror: I wondered how she did it--how she made her voice
run up and down, and cut such marvellous capers; but a simple Scotch
melody, played by a rude street minstrel, has often moved me more
deeply.

Afterwards stepped forth a gentleman, who, bending his body a good deal
in the direction of the King and Queen, and frequently approaching his
white-gloved hand to the region of his heart, vented a bitter outcry
against a certain "fausse Isabelle." I thought he seemed especially to
solicit the Queen's sympathy; but, unless I am egregiously mistaken,
her Majesty lent her attention rather with the calm of courtesy than
the earnestness of interest. This gentleman's state of mind was very
harrowing, and I was glad when he wound up his musical exposition of
the same.

Some rousing choruses struck me as the best part of the evening's
entertainment. There were present deputies from all the best provincial
choral societies; genuine, barrel-shaped, native Labassecouriens. These
worthies gave voice without mincing the matter their hearty exertions
had at least this good result--the ear drank thence a satisfying sense
of power.

Through the whole performance--timid instrumental duets, conceited
vocal solos, sonorous, brass-lunged choruses--my attention gave but one
eye and one ear to the stage, the other being permanently retained in
the service of Dr. Bretton: I could not forget him, nor cease to
question how he was feeling, what he was thinking, whether he was
amused or the contrary. At last he spoke.

"And how do you like it all, Lucy? You are very quiet," he said, in his
own cheerful tone.

"I am quiet," I said, "because I am so very, _very_ much interested:
not merely with the music, but with everything about me."

He then proceeded to make some further remarks, with so much equanimity
and composure that I began to think he had really not seen what I had
seen, and I whispered--"Miss Fanshawe is here: have you noticed her?"

"Oh, yes! and I observed that you noticed her too."

"Is she come with Mrs. Cholmondeley, do you think?"

"Mrs. Cholmondeley is there with a very grand party. Yes; Ginevra was
in _her_ train; and Mrs. Cholmondeley was in Lady ----'s train, who was
in the Queen's train. If this were not one of the compact little minor
European courts, whose very formalities are little more imposing than
familiarities, and whose gala grandeur is but homeliness in Sunday
array, it would sound all very fine."

"Ginevra saw you, I think?"

"So do I think so. I have had my eye on her several times since you
withdrew yours; and I have had the honour of witnessing a little
spectacle which you were spared."

I did not ask what; I waited voluntary information, which was presently
given.

"Miss Fanshawe," he said, "has a companion with her--a lady of rank. I
happen to know Lady Sara by sight; her noble mother has called me in
professionally. She is a proud girl, but not in the least insolent, and
I doubt whether Ginevra will have gained ground in her estimation by
making a butt of her neighbours."

"What neighbours?"

"Merely myself and my mother. As to me it is all very natural: nothing,
I suppose, can be fairer game than the young bourgeois doctor; but my
mother! I never saw her ridiculed before. Do you know, the curling lip,
and sarcastically levelled glass thus directed, gave me a most curious
sensation?"

"Think nothing of it, Dr. John: it is not worth while. If Ginevra were
in a giddy mood, as she is eminently to-night, she would make no
scruple of laughing at that mild, pensive Queen, or that melancholy
King. She is not actuated by malevolence, but sheer, heedless folly. To
a feather-brained school-girl nothing is sacred."

"But you forget: I have not been accustomed to look on Miss Fanshawe in
the light of a feather-brained school-girl. Was she not my
divinity--the angel of my career?"

"Hem! There was your mistake."

"To speak the honest truth, without any false rant or assumed romance,
there actually was a moment, six months ago, when I thought her divine.
Do you remember our conversation about the presents? I was not quite
open with you in discussing that subject: the warmth with which you
took it up amused me. By way of having the full benefit of your lights,
I allowed you to think me more in the dark than I really was. It was
that test of the presents which first proved Ginevra mortal. Still her
beauty retained its fascination: three days--three hours ago, I was
very much her slave. As she passed me to-night, triumphant in beauty,
my emotions did her homage; but for one luckless sneer, I should yet be
the humblest of her servants. She might have scoffed at _me_, and,
while wounding, she would not soon have alienated me: through myself,
she could not in ten years have done what, in a moment, she has done
through my mother."

He held his peace awhile. Never before had I seen so much fire, and so
little sunshine in Dr. John's blue eye as just now.

"Lucy," he recommenced, "look well at my mother, and say, without fear
or favour, in what light she now appears to you."

"As she always does--an English, middle-class gentlewoman; well, though
gravely dressed, habitually independent of pretence, constitutionally
composed and cheerful."

"So she seems to me--bless her! The merry may laugh _with_ mamma, but
the weak only will laugh _at_ her. She shall not be ridiculed, with my
consent, at least; nor without my--my scorn--my antipathy--my--"

He stopped: and it was time--for he was getting excited--more it seemed
than the occasion warranted. I did not then know that he had witnessed
double cause for dissatisfaction with Miss Fanshawe. The glow of his
complexion, the expansion of his nostril, the bold curve which disdain
gave his well-cut under lip, showed him in a new and striking phase.
Yet the rare passion of the constitutionally suave and serene, is not a
pleasant spectacle; nor did I like the sort of vindictive thrill which
passed through his strong young frame.

"Do I frighten you, Lucy?" he asked.

"I cannot tell why you are so very angry."

"For this reason," he muttered in my ear. "Ginevra is neither a pure
angel, nor a pure-minded woman."

"Nonsense! you exaggerate: she has no great harm in her."

"Too much for me. _I_ can see where _you_ are blind. Now dismiss the
subject. Let me amuse myself by teasing mamma: I will assert that she
is flagging. Mamma, pray rouse yourself."

"John, I will certainly rouse you if you are not better conducted. Will
you and Lucy be silent, that I may hear the singing?"

They were then thundering in a chorus, under cover of which all the
previous dialogue had taken place.

"_You_ hear the singing, mamma! Now, I will wager my studs, which are
genuine, against your paste brooch--"

"My paste brooch, Graham? Profane boy! you know that it is a stone of
value."

"Oh! that is one of your superstitions: you were cheated in the
business."

"I am cheated in fewer things than you imagine. How do you happen to be
acquainted with young ladies of the court, John? I have observed two of
them pay you no small attention during the last half-hour."

"I wish you would not observe them."

"Why not? Because one of them satirically levels her eyeglass at me?
She is a pretty, silly girl: but are you apprehensive that her titter
will discomfit the old lady?"

"The sensible, admirable old lady! Mother, you are better to me than
ten wives yet."

"Don't be demonstrative, John, or I shall faint, and you will have to
carry me out; and if that burden were laid upon you, you would reverse
your last speech, and exclaim, 'Mother, ten wives could hardly be worse
to me than you are!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

The concert over, the Lottery "au benefice des pauvres" came next: the
interval between was one of general relaxation, and the pleasantest
imaginable stir and commotion. The white flock was cleared from the
platform; a busy throng of gentlemen crowded it instead, making
arrangements for the drawing; and amongst these--the busiest of
all--re-appeared that certain well-known form, not tall but active,
alive with the energy and movement of three tall men. How M. Paul did
work! How he issued directions, and, at the same time, set his own
shoulder to the wheel! Half-a-dozen assistants were at his beck to
remove the pianos, &c.; no matter, he must add to their strength his
own. The redundancy of his alertness was half-vexing, half-ludicrous:
in my mind I both disapproved and derided most of this fuss. Yet, in
the midst of prejudice and annoyance, I could not, while watching,
avoid perceiving a certain not disagreeable naivete in all he did and
said; nor could I be blind to certain vigorous characteristics of his
physiognomy, rendered conspicuous now by the contrast with a throng of
tamer faces: the deep, intent keenness of his eye, the power of his
forehead, pale, broad, and full--the mobility of his most flexible
mouth. He lacked the calm of force, but its movement and its fire he
signally possessed.

Meantime the whole hall was in a stir; most people rose and remained
standing, for a change; some walked about, all talked and laughed. The
crimson compartment presented a peculiarly animated scene. The long
cloud of gentlemen, breaking into fragments, mixed with the rainbow
line of ladies; two or three officer-like men approached the King and
conversed with him. The Queen, leaving her chair, glided along the rank
of young ladies, who all stood up as she passed; and to each in turn I
saw her vouchsafe some token of kindness--a gracious word, look or
smile. To the two pretty English girls, Lady Sara and Ginevra Fanshawe,
she addressed several sentences; as she left them, both, and especially
the latter, seemed to glow all over with gratification. They were
afterwards accosted by several ladies, and a little circle of gentlemen
gathered round them; amongst these--the nearest to Ginevra--stood the
Count de Hamal.

"This room is stiflingly hot," said Dr. Bretton, rising with sudden
impatience. "Lucy--mother--will you come a moment to the fresh air?"

"Go with him, Lucy," said Mrs. Bretton. "I would rather keep my seat."

Willingly would I have kept mine also, but Graham's desire must take
precedence of my own; I accompanied him.

We found the night-air keen; or at least I did: he did not seem to feel
it; but it was very still, and the star-sown sky spread cloudless. I
was wrapped in a fur shawl. We took some turns on the pavement; in
passing under a lamp, Graham encountered my eye.

"You look pensive, Lucy: is it on my account?"

"I was only fearing that you were grieved."

"Not at all: so be of good cheer--as I am. Whenever I die, Lucy, my
persuasion is that it will not be of heart-complaint. I may be stung, I
may seem to droop for a time, but no pain or malady of sentiment has
yet gone through my whole system. You have always seen me cheerful at
home?"

"Generally."

"I am glad she laughed at my mother. I would not give the old lady for
a dozen beauties. That sneer did me all the good in the world. Thank
you, Miss Fanshawe!" And he lifted his hat from his waved locks, and
made a mock reverence.

"Yes," he said, "I thank her. She has made me feel that nine parts in
ten of my heart have always been sound as a bell, and the tenth bled
from a mere puncture: a lancet-prick that will heal in a trice."

"You are angry just now, heated and indignant; you will think and feel
differently to-morrow."

"_I_ heated and indignant! You don't know me. On the contrary, the heat
is gone: I am as cool as the night--which, by the way, may be too cool
for you. We will go back."

"Dr. John, this is a sudden change."

"Not it: or if it be, there are good reasons for it--two good reasons:
I have told you one. But now let us re-enter."

We did not easily regain our seats; the lottery was begun, and all was
excited confusion; crowds blocked the sort of corridor along which we
had to pass: it was necessary to pause for a time. Happening to glance
round--indeed I half fancied I heard my name pronounced--I saw quite
near, the ubiquitous, the inevitable M. Paul. He was looking at me
gravely and intently: at me, or rather at my pink dress--sardonic
comment on which gleamed in his eye. Now it was his habit to indulge in
strictures on the dress, both of the teachers and pupils, at Madame
Beck's--a habit which the former, at least, held to be an offensive
impertinence: as yet I had not suffered from it--my sombre daily attire
not being calculated to attract notice. I was in no mood to permit any
new encroachment to-night: rather than accept his banter, I would
ignore his presence, and accordingly steadily turned my face to the
sleeve of Dr. John's coat; finding in that same black sleeve a prospect
more redolent of pleasure and comfort, more genial, more friendly, I
thought, than was offered by the dark little Professor's unlovely
visage. Dr. John seemed unconsciously to sanction the preference by
looking down and saying in his kind voice, "Ay, keep close to my side,
Lucy: these crowding burghers are no respecters of persons."

I could not, however, be true to myself. Yielding to some influence,
mesmeric or otherwise--an influence unwelcome, displeasing, but
effective--I again glanced round to see if M. Paul was gone. No, there
he stood on the same spot, looking still, but with a changed eye; he
had penetrated my thought, and read my wish to shun him. The mocking
but not ill-humoured gaze was turned to a swarthy frown, and when I
bowed, with a view to conciliation, I got only the stiffest and
sternest of nods in return.

"Whom have you made angry, Lucy?" whispered Dr. Bretton, smiling. "Who
is that savage-looking friend of yours?"

"One of the professors at Madame Beck's: a very cross little man."

"He looks mighty cross just now: what have you done to him? What is it
all about? Ah, Lucy, Lucy! tell me the meaning of this."

"No mystery, I assure you. M. Emanuel is very exigeant, and because I
looked at your coat-sleeve, instead of curtseying and dipping to him,
he thinks I have failed in respect."

"The little--" began Dr. John: I know not what more he would have
added, for at that moment I was nearly thrown down amongst the feet of
the crowd. M. Paul had rudely pushed past, and was elbowing his way
with such utter disregard to the convenience and security of all
around, that a very uncomfortable pressure was the consequence.

"I think he is what he himself would call 'mechant,'" said Dr. Bretton.
I thought so, too.

Slowly and with difficulty we made our way along the passage, and at
last regained our seats. The drawing of the lottery lasted nearly an
hour; it was an animating and amusing scene; and as we each held
tickets, we shared in the alternations of hope and fear raised by each
turn of the wheel. Two little girls, of five and six years old, drew
the numbers: and the prizes were duly proclaimed from the platform.
These prizes were numerous, though of small value. It so fell out that
Dr. John and I each gained one: mine was a cigar-case, his a lady's
head-dress--a most airy sort of blue and silver turban, with a streamer
of plumage on one side, like a snowy cloud. He was excessively anxious
to make an exchange; but I could not be brought to hear reason, and to
this day I keep my cigar-case: it serves, when I look at it, to remind
me of old times, and one happy evening.

Dr. John, for his part, held his turban at arm's length between his
finger and thumb, and looked at it with a mixture of reverence and
embarrassment highly provocative of laughter. The contemplation over,
he was about coolly to deposit the delicate fabric on the ground
between his feet; he seemed to have no shadow of an idea of the
treatment or stowage it ought to receive: if his mother had not come to
the rescue, I think he would finally have crushed it under his arm like
an opera-hat; she restored it to the band-box whence it had issued.

Graham was quite cheerful all the evening, and his cheerfulness seemed
natural and unforced. His demeanour, his look, is not easily described;
there was something in it peculiar, and, in its way, original. I read
in it no common mastery of the passions, and a fund of deep and healthy
strength which, without any exhausting effort, bore down Disappointment
and extracted her fang. His manner, now, reminded me of qualities I had
noticed in him when professionally engaged amongst the poor, the
guilty, and the suffering, in the Basse-Ville: he looked at once
determined, enduring, and sweet-tempered. Who could help liking him?
_He_ betrayed no weakness which harassed all your feelings with
considerations as to how its faltering must be propped; from _him_
broke no irritability which startled calm and quenched mirth; _his_
lips let fall no caustic that burned to the bone; _his_ eye shot no
morose shafts that went cold, and rusty, and venomed through your
heart: beside him was rest and refuge--around him, fostering sunshine.

And yet he had neither forgiven nor forgotten Miss Fanshawe. Once
angered, I doubt if Dr. Bretton were to be soon propitiated--once
alienated, whether he were ever to be reclaimed. He looked at her more
than once; not stealthily or humbly, but with a movement of hardy, open
observation. De Hamal was now a fixture beside her; Mrs. Cholmondeley
sat near, and they and she were wholly absorbed in the discourse,
mirth, and excitement, with which the crimson seats were as much astir
as any plebeian part of the hall. In the course of some apparently
animated discussion, Ginevra once or twice lifted her hand and arm; a
handsome bracelet gleamed upon the latter. I saw that its gleam
flickered in Dr. John's eye--quickening therein a derisive, ireful
sparkle; he laughed:----

"I think," he said, "I will lay my turban on my wonted altar of
offerings; there, at any rate, it would be certain to find favour: no
grisette has a more facile faculty of acceptance. Strange! for after
all, I know she is a girl of family."

"But you don't know her education, Dr. John," said I. "Tossed about all
her life from one foreign school to another, she may justly proffer the
plea of ignorance in extenuation of most of her faults. And then, from
what she says, I believe her father and mother were brought up much as
she has been brought up."

"I always understood she had no fortune; and once I had pleasure in the
thought," said he.

"She tells me," I answered, "that they are poor at home; she always
speaks quite candidly on such points: you never find her lying, as
these foreigners will often lie. Her parents have a large family: they
occupy such a station and possess such connections as, in their
opinion, demand display; stringent necessity of circumstances and
inherent thoughtlessness of disposition combined, have engendered
reckless unscrupulousness as to how they obtain the means of sustaining
a good appearance. This is the state of things, and the only state of
things, she has seen from childhood upwards."

"I believe it--and I thought to mould her to something better: but,
Lucy, to speak the plain truth, I have felt a new thing to-night, in
looking at her and de Hamal. I felt it before noticing the impertinence
directed at my mother. I saw a look interchanged between them
immediately after their entrance, which threw a most unwelcome light on
my mind."

"How do you mean? You have been long aware of the flirtation they keep
up?"

"Ay, flirtation! That might be an innocent girlish wile to lure on the
true lover; but what I refer to was not flirtation: it was a look
marking mutual and secret understanding--it was neither girlish nor
innocent. No woman, were she as beautiful as Aphrodite, who could give
or receive such a glance, shall ever be sought in marriage by me: I
would rather wed a paysanne in a short petticoat and high cap--and be
sure that she was honest."

I could not help smiling. I felt sure he now exaggerated the case:
Ginevra, I was certain, was honest enough, with all her giddiness. I
told him so. He shook his head, and said he would not be the man to
trust her with his honour.

"The only thing," said I, "with which you may safely trust her. She
would unscrupulously damage a husband's purse and property, recklessly
try his patience and temper: I don't think she would breathe, or let
another breathe, on his honour."

"You are becoming her advocate," said he. "Do you wish me to resume my
old chains?"

"No: I am glad to see you free, and trust that free you will long
remain. Yet be, at the same time, just."

"I am so: just as Rhadamanthus, Lucy. When once I am thoroughly
estranged, I cannot help being severe. But look! the King and Queen are
rising. I like that Queen: she has a sweet countenance. Mamma, too, is
excessively tired; we shall never get the old lady home if we stay
longer."

"I tired, John?" cried Mrs. Bretton, looking at least as animated and
as wide-awake as her son. "I would undertake to sit you out yet: leave
us both here till morning, and we should see which would look the most
jaded by sunrise."

"I should not like to try the experiment; for, in truth, mamma, you are
the most unfading of evergreens and the freshest of matrons. It must
then be on the plea of your son's delicate nerves and fragile
constitution that I found a petition for our speedy adjournment."

"Indolent young man! You wish you were in bed, no doubt; and I suppose
you must be humoured. There is Lucy, too, looking quite done up. For
shame, Lucy! At your age, a week of evenings-out would not have made me
a shade paler. Come away, both of you; and you may laugh at the old
lady as much as you please, but, for my part, I shall take charge of
the bandbox and turban."

Which she did accordingly. I offered to relieve her, but was shaken off
with kindly contempt: my godmother opined that I had enough to do to
take care of myself. Not standing on ceremony now, in the midst of the
gay "confusion worse confounded" succeeding to the King and Queen's
departure, Mrs. Bretton preceded us, and promptly made us a lane
through the crowd. Graham followed, apostrophizing his mother as the
most flourishing grisette it had ever been his good fortune to see
charged with carriage of a bandbox; he also desired me to mark her
affection for the sky-blue turban, and announced his conviction that
she intended one day to wear it.

The night was now very cold and very dark, but with little delay we
found the carriage. Soon we were packed in it, as warm and as snug as
at a fire-side; and the drive home was, I think, still pleasanter than
the drive to the concert. Pleasant it was, even though the
coachman--having spent in the shop of a "marchand de vin" a portion of
the time we passed at the concert--drove us along the dark and solitary
chaussee far past the turn leading down to La Terrasse; we, who were
occupied in talking and laughing, not noticing the aberration till, at
last, Mrs. Bretton intimated that, though she had always thought the
chateau a retired spot, she did not know it was situated at the world's
end, as she declared seemed now to be the case, for she believed we had
been an hour and a half en route, and had not yet taken the turn down
the avenue.

Then Graham looked out, and perceiving only dim-spread fields, with
unfamiliar rows of pollards and limes ranged along their else invisible
sunk-fences, began to conjecture how matters were, and calling a halt
and descending, he mounted the box and took the reins himself. Thanks
to him, we arrived safe at home about an hour and a half beyond our
time.

Martha had not forgotten us; a cheerful fire was burning, and a neat
supper spread in the dining-room: we were glad of both. The winter dawn
was actually breaking before we gained our chambers. I took off my pink
dress and lace mantle with happier feelings than I had experienced in
putting them on. Not all, perhaps, who had shone brightly arrayed at
that concert could say the same; for not all had been satisfied with
friendship--with its calm comfort and modest hope.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Chapter XX's "Concert" is a royalty-attended gala musical event, presided over by M. Paul's half-brother, M. Josef Emanuel. M. Josef is the premier music teacher in Villette, and various professional artists and the best pupils from the Conservatoire will perform. For this event Dr. John has procured tickets for himself, Mrs. Bretton, and Lucy. The morning of the concert, Mrs. Bretton surveys Lucy's clothing and determines that she does not have a nice enough dress to wear to such a grand event. Against Lucy's better judgment, Mrs. Bretton has the seamstress make for Lucy a new pink dress, relieved only by a drapery of black lace. Though the style of dress is modest and plain, the pink color worries Lucy that she is being too showy. But Mrs. Bretton will not be persuaded otherwise, and Lucy wears it to the concert. The event is a dazzling affair, replete with chandeliers, satin-clothed ladies, and crimson cloth and carpets. The hall is great and filled with light, and the elite of Labassecourian society is there. As a peripheral part of the royal court, Ginevra Fanshawe is placed next to the daughter of an English peer, Lady Sara. Ginevra, looking pretty and virginal, surveys the crowd and notes Dr. John and Mrs. Bretton. She makes a face through her eyeglass at Mrs. Bretton and then curls her lip in disdain at her. Dr. John notes this, having noted earlier a shared look of "understanding" between Ginevra and the Count De Hamal. Since Dr. John will not have a young woman for his wife who has any sort of understanding with another man, and as Ginevra obviously looks down on the respectable middle-class Mrs. Bretton, Dr. John has decided that Ginevra is not worthy of him. He tells Lucy this, and while she defends Ginevra as only a giddy schoolgirl who is necessarily warped by the slapdash education her family has given her, they agree that Ginevra really is not worthy of Dr. John's affection. Lucy is glad that Dr. John is free of this attachment, but she cautions him not to be overly severe on the young Ginevra. Later, he significantly tells Lucy that he will not look for love in adversity any longer, but will only love when love is returned to him. M. Paul is there with his half-brother, marshalling the female performers of the Conservatoire. Lucy happens near him in the crowd, and he notes the color of her new dress, she thinks, with disapproval. Not wanting another scene or lecture from M. Paul resembling the one in the museum, she turns her face into Dr. John's sleeve, hoping to avoid him. M. Paul sees this and is obviously hurt or offended that she has not curtseyed or stopped to talk to him. Dr. John sees that M. Paul is angry and asks Lucy why this is so. She explains that M. Paul thinks that she is not showing him proper respect, and Dr. John scoffs at this idea. M. Paul pushes by them in the crowd, and the three do not speak to each other. Dr. John tells his mother in an oblique way that he has given up on the object of his affection, and he and his mother tease each other a bit about him preferring his mother to a wife. The three go home after a happy night


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XXI.

REACTION.

Yet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. I almost
numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have
retarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them: they
were already gone while I yet feared their departure.

"Lucy will not leave us to-day," said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at
breakfast; "she knows we can procure a second respite."

"I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word," said I. "I
long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette
again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed
and corded."

It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said
he would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day,
and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words.
Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could
have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave
them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: that
is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell.
On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.

It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck's
door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had
rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a
night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at
this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very
shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while,
with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at
which I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had
briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that
rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to
do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept
there.

Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just
that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their
departure--consequently, Rosine was on the alert.

"Don't come in," said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the
well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that "the water
stood in my eyes," for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly
shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal--to relieve--when,
physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his
power.

"Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true
friends. We will not forget you."

"Nor will I forget you, Dr. John."

My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go,
but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his
generous impulses.

"Lucy,"--stepping after me--"shall you feel very solitary here?"

"At first I shall."

"Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I'll tell
you what I'll do. I'll write--just any cheerful nonsense that comes
into my head--shall I?"

"Good, gallant heart!" thought I to myself; but I shook my head,
smiling, and said, "Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task.
_You_ write to _me_!--you'll not have time."

"Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!"

He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen--the pang
was experienced.

Allowing myself no time to think or feel--swallowing tears as if they
had been wine--I passed to Madame's sitting-room to pay the necessary
visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly
well-acted cordiality--was even demonstrative, though brief, in her
welcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-a-manger I
proceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now
assembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I
think, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.

"And will Graham really write?" I questioned, as I sank tired on the
edge of the bed.

Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long,
dim chamber, whispered sedately--"He may write once. So kind is his
nature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it
_cannot_ be continued--it _may_ not be repeated. Great were that folly
which should build on such a promise--insane that credulity which
should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one
draught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons."

I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered
me, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear
with the chill blue lips of eld.

"If," muttered she, "if he _should_ write, what then? Do you meditate
pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope
no delight of heart--no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to
feeling--give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly
exchange: foster no genial intercommunion...."

"But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide," I pleaded.

"No," said she, "I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You
converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of
inferiority--no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury
stamp your language...."

"But," I again broke in, "where the bodily presence is weak and the
speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written
language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can
achieve?"

Reason only answered, "At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer
its influence to animate any writing of yours!"

"But if I feel, may I _never_ express?"

"_Never!_" declared Reason.

I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never--never--oh, hard word! This
hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she
could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and
broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of
bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to
despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to
defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to
Imagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine Hope.
We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible
revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me
she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has
chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should
have died of her ill-usage her stint, her chill, her barren board, her
icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who
holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by
night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed
bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing
more for me--harshly denied my right to ask better things.... Then,
looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of
which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent.
A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended with quiet
flight to the waste--bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of
eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot
fade--fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure
from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this
good angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst
gleaning angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh
hour of a heavenly day; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable
fears which weep away life itself--kindly given rest to deadly
weariness--generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair.
Divine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to
other than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on
mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun--altars
dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build,
nor lips consecrate: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy
worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome--a
temple whose floors are space--rites whose mysteries transpire in
presence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds!

Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of
martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity
unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!

This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and
she came with comfort: "Sleep," she said. "Sleep, sweetly--I gild thy
dreams!"

She kept her word, and watched me through a night's rest; but at dawn
Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was
dashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at
intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the
middle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom
mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking
snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant's gripe. How quickly I
dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold
water in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like other
dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.

Ere long the bell rang its _reveillee_ to the whole school. Being
dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit
and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with
the nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but the
beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry
blight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when
I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of
comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.

Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep
argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her
decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for
itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all
weak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying
through the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith--a
watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe
while they illumine--hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the
longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps,
never to be, reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to
be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.

By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound
itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its
throbbings, and made me fit for the day's work. I lifted my head.

As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall
beneath the refectory and the carre, and thus sufficing to heat both
apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a
window, looking also into the carre; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a
brow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of those
two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had
not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them
now.

This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion,
where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was
at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male
spy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted
hour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other
professor would have dared to cross the carre before the class-bell
rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some
book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to
consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It
was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side
of him: he had seen me through the little window--he now opened the
refectory door, and there he stood.

"Mademoiselle, vous etes triste."

"Monsieur, j'en ai bien le droit."

"Vous etes malade de coeur et d'humeur," he pursued. "You are at once
mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are
hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak
you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while
watching you?"

"Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for
conversation is very scant and brief at this hour--excuse----"

"I excuse everything," he interrupted; "my mood is so meek, neither
rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a
young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of
fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in."

Unwarrantable accost!--rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a
teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen
him vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should
find no gratification; I sat silent.

"You look," said he, "like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet
poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust."

"Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to
whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its
own delicious quality--sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a
pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life."

"Yet," said he, "you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I
had the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I
would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it."

I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly
displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, in
my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.

"Come," said he, more softly, "tell me the truth--you grieve at being
parted from friends--is it not so?"

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial
curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench
about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently,
in attempts to draw me into conversation--attempts necessarily
unavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I entreated to be let
alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my
arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while
longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his
retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.

I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared
at that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite as
jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat
opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling
gleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be
shaken. Miss Fanshawe's travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with
her mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as
apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don't know
that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of
careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided
with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;
enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her
bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.

"I am glad you are come back, Timon," said she. Timon was one of her
dozen names for me. "You don't know how often I have wanted you in this
dismal hole."

"Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something
for me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps." I never gave Ginevra a
minute's or a farthing's credit for disinterestedness.

"Crabbed and crusty as ever!" said she. "I expected as much: it would
not be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope
you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you
disposed to barter?"

"Take your own way."

This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did
not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong
or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite,
like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls,
which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance
was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave
half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others
used to covet the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give
me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught;
hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don't know why I
chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if
two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes
happened--for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and
halted for refreshment at a farm--I always contrived that she should be
my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion's share, whether
of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however,
and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were never
alienated.

After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit
and read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the
nine-o'clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of
externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on
that bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.

I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle," said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and
having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew
on tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, "Que mademoiselle est
appliquee!"

Appliquee, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but
I was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing.
Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck
herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to
warn me not to study too much, lest "the blood should all go to my
head." Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that
"Meess Lucie" was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel,
who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had
obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used
to take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over
their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this
penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in
reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose
style or sentiment the writer's individual nature was plainly stamped;
flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and
meritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned,
God had limited its powers and, its action--thankful, I trust, for the
gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly
eager after higher culture.

The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap,
in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who
this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with
wholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of my
co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment.
When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German
would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous
Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the
playground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the "Pas de Geant," or
to join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called "Un, deux,
trois," were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little
attentions had ceased some time ago--ceased, too, without my finding it
necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had
now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one
quarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made
no scruple of--at times--catching me as I was crossing the carre,
whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the
mental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra
Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon "my learned leisure." She carried
a huge music-book under her arm.

"Go to your practising," said I to her at once: "away with you to the
little salon!"

"Not till I have had a talk with you, chere amie. I know where you have
been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to
the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the
concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is
your tailleuse?"

"Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!--a fiddlestick!
Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don't want your company."

"But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little
reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manoeuvre
with our gifted compatriote--the learned 'ourse Britannique.' And so,
Ourson, you know Isidore?"

"I know John Bretton."

"Oh, hush!" (putting her fingers in her ears) "you crack my tympanums
with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell
me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my
behaviour the other night? Wasn't I cruel?"

"Do you think I noticed you?"

"It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to
watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady--my
future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude
in quizzing her."

"Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don't make
yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive _your_ sneer."

"She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me
what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up."

"He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal."

"Did he?" she cried with delight. "He noticed that? How charming! I
thought he would be mad with jealousy.

"Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to
give you up?"

"Oh! you know he _can't_ do that: but wasn't he mad?"

"Quite mad," I assented; "as mad as a March hare."

"Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?"

"How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy
us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us,
fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong,
somehow, and we lost our way."

"You don't say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe--"

"I assure you it is fact--and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would _not_
stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ ride outside."

"And afterwards?"

"Afterwards--when he _did_ reach home--the scene transcends
description."

"Oh, but describe it--you know it is such fun!"

"Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but" (with stern gravity) "you know the
proverb--'What is sport to one may be death to another.'"

"Go on, there's a darling Timon."

"Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart."

"I have--such an immensity, you don't know!"

"Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton
rejecting his supper in the first instance--the chicken, the sweetbread
prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then----but
it is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it
to say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy,
had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that
night."

"He wouldn't lie still?"

"He wouldn't lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in,
but the thing was to keep them tucked in."

"And what did he say?"

"Say! Can't you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra,
anathematizing that demon, de Hamal--raving about golden locks, blue
eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?"

"No, did he? He saw the bracelet?"

"Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the
first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has
encircled your arm. Ginevra" (rising, and changing my tone), "come, we
will have an end of this. Go away to your practising."

And I opened the door.

"But you have not told me all."

"You had better not wait until I _do_ tell you all. Such extra
communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!"

"Cross thing!" said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe
was my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of
quittance from me.

Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her
than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between
the reality and my description--to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive
home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with
Christian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I
felt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.

       *       *       *       *       *

A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of
school, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of
custom. One afternoon, in crossing the carre, on my way to the first
classe, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of "style and
literature," I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows,
Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante.
She always "stood at ease;" one of her hands rested in her
apron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter,
whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately
studied the seal.

A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in
its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last
night. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I
should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that
white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No;
I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from
Disappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp
of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the
Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him.
Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the
class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps,
exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carre, I should
be sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to
enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst
the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his
vehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow,
prophetic of choler.

As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of
flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted
midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back
to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look--such a look as might
have licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant--a look
of scowling distrust.

"Voila! pour vous," said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, and
placing on my desk a letter--the very letter I had seen in Rosine's
hand--the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop's-eye
of vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the
retina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my
hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom
from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering
habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.

I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I
held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, at
least, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial,
satisfying. And here was the direction, "Miss Lucy Snowe," in a clean,
clear, equal, decided hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly
dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of
initials, "J. G. B." I experienced a happy feeling--a glad emotion
which went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins. For
once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy:
not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy
chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot
live; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which,
indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and
preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely
loathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildly
praying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and
essence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither
sweet hail nor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscious
honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter,
nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh,
healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch
demanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of his
last breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had
vouchsafed it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, "Thank you, thank
you, Monsieur!"

Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and
strode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though
he had good points.

Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once
and with haste, as if Esau's shaft flew every day?

I knew better. The cover with its address--the seal, with its three
clear letters--was bounty and abundance for the present. I stole from
the room, I procured the key of the great dormitory, which was kept
locked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and trembling
lest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer,
unlocked a box, and took out a case, and--having feasted my eyes with
one more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shame
and delight, to my lips--I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair
and inviolate, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box
and drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class,
feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange,
sweet insanity! And this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet
read: did not yet know the number of its lines.

When I re-entered the schoolroom, behold M. Paul raging like a
pestilence! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to
suit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he was
raving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as I
appeared, he fell on me.

"Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess to teach them the
conduct befitting ladies?--and did I permit and, he doubted not,
encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, to
mince and mash it between their teeth, as if they had some base cause
to be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty? He knew
better. It was a vile pseudo sentiment--the offspring or the forerunner
of evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing, this mincing
and grimacing, this, grinding of a noble tongue, this general
affectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the first
class, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petites
maitresses, and confine himself to teaching the ABC to the babies of
the third division."

What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he would
allow me to be silent. The storm recommenced.

"Every answer to his queries was then refused? It seemed to be
considered in _that_ place--that conceited boudoir of a first classe,
with its pretentious book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish of
flower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreign
surveillante, forsooth!--it seemed to be the fashion to think _there_
that the Professor of Literature was not worthy of a reply! These were
new ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from 'la Grande
Bretagne:' they savoured of island insolence and arrogance."

Lull the second--the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep a
tear for the rebukes of any other master, now all melting like
snow-statues before the intemperate heat of M. Emanuel: I not yet much
shaken, sitting down, and venturing to resume my work.

Something--either in my continued silence or in the movement of my
hand, stitching--transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary of
patience; he actually sprang from his estrade. The stove stood near my
desk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its
hinges, the fuel was made to fly.

"Est-ce que vous avez l'intention de m'insulter?" said he to me, in a
low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging
the fire.

It was time to soothe him a little if possible.

"Mais, Monsieur," said I, "I would not insult you for the world. I
remember too well that you once said we should be friends."

I did not intend my voice to falter, but it did: more, I think, through
the agitation of late delight than in any spasm of present fear. Still
there certainly was something in M. Paul's anger--a kind of passion of
emotion--that specially tended to draw tears. I was not unhappy, nor
much afraid, yet I wept.

"Allons, allons!" said he presently, looking round and seeing the
deluge universal. "Decidedly I am a monster and a ruffian. I have only
one pocket-handkerchief," he added, "but if I had twenty, I would offer
you each one. Your teacher shall be your representative. Here, Miss
Lucy."

And he took forth and held out to me a clean silk handkerchief. Now a
person who did not know M. Paul, who was unused to him and his
impulses, would naturally have bungled at this offer--declined
accepting the same--et cetera. But I too plainly felt this would never
do: the slightest hesitation would have been fatal to the incipient
treaty of peace. I rose and met the handkerchief half-way, received it
with decorum, wiped therewith my eyes, and, resuming my seat, and
retaining the flag of truce in my hand and on my lap, took especial
care during the remainder of the lesson to touch neither needle nor
thimble, scissors nor muslin. Many a jealous glance did M. Paul cast at
these implements; he hated them mortally, considering sewing a source
of distraction from the attention due to himself. A very eloquent
lesson he gave, and very kind and friendly was he to the close. Ere he
had done, the clouds were dispersed and the sun shining out--tears were
exchanged for smiles.

In quitting the room he paused once more at my desk.

"And your letter?" said he, this time not quite fiercely.

"I have not yet read it, Monsieur."

"Ah! it is too good to read at once; you save it, as, when I was a boy,
I used to save a peach whose bloom was very ripe?"

The guess came so near the truth, I could not prevent a suddenly-rising
warmth in my face from revealing as much.

"You promise yourself a pleasant moment," said he, "in reading that
letter; you will open it when alone--n'est-ce pas? Ah! a smile answers.
Well, well! one should not be too harsh; 'la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps.'"

"Monsieur, Monsieur!" I cried, or rather whispered after him, as he
turned to go, "do not leave me under a mistake. This is merely a
friend's letter. Without reading it, I can vouch for that."

"Je concois, je concois: on sait ce que c'est qu'un ami. Bonjour,
Mademoiselle!"

"But, Monsieur, here is your handkerchief."

"Keep it, keep it, till the letter is read, then bring it me; I shall
read the billet's tenor in your eyes."

When he was gone, the pupils having already poured out of the
schoolroom into the berceau, and thence into the garden and court to
take their customary recreation before the five-o'clock dinner, I stood
a moment thinking, and absently twisting the handkerchief round my arm.
For some reason--gladdened, I think, by a sudden return of the golden
glimmer of childhood, roused by an unwonted renewal of its buoyancy,
made merry by the liberty of the closing hour, and, above all, solaced
at heart by the joyous consciousness of that treasure in the case, box,
drawer up-stairs,--I fell to playing with the handkerchief as if it
were a ball, casting it into the air and catching it--as it fell. The
game was stopped by another hand than mine--a hand emerging from a
paletot-sleeve and stretched over my shoulder; it caught the
extemporised plaything and bore it away with these sullen words:

"Je vois bien que vous vous moquez de moi et de mes effets."

Really that little man was dreadful: a mere sprite of caprice and,
ubiquity: one never knew either his whim or his whereabout.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Chapter XXI concerns the time after Lucy returns back to Madame Beck's. She is sad to leave the Brettons, and they are sad to see her leave, trying to delay her departure. They leave each other on very good terms, and Dr. Bretton promises that he will write and that his mother will come to visit. Lucy, awake in the dormitory that night, wrestles with her conscience and with what she calls the personification of Reason, which counsels her not to put too much hope or happiness in the receipt of this letter. She thinks that if Dr. John does write, he will only do so in a cursory manner, and only once, and she must be stern with herself and come to be happy only with that. She has a long discussion with herself concerning how Reason has given her only coldness and unhappiness in her life, which is all she should expect, while Feeling has always been her succor and has given her a respite from the unremitting dreariness that Reason says her life will be. This rather florid passage shows Lucy's philosophic cast of mind as well as her desire to quell all emotions in her that might cause disappointment in the future, including her innocent hopes. Lucy is downcast the next day, and M. Paul sees her in the refectory alone. He comes in and tries to tell her to steel herself to her life and take her "bitters" daily, not to succumb to the "sweet poison" of vain hopes. Lucy resents his sermonizing and, weeping, begs him to leave. Lucy is reunited with Ginevra, and she tells her a patently false story of Dr. John's distress at her turning her nose up at Mrs. Bretton and her attention to Count De Hamal. Lucy distorts the truth so much that Ginevra, in her vanity, believes that Dr. John was in a perfect fit of jealousy and rage at seeing Ginevra, wearing the bracelet he gave to her, flirting with De Hamal. In reality, Dr. John was perfectly self-possessed and only mildly regretful upon learning Ginevra's true nature. One day Lucy is to have charge of a class while M. Paul is to lecture, and he intercepts a letter for Lucy from Dr. John. M. Paul gives it to Lucy in front of the entire class, and, knowing whom it is from, she rushes upstairs and locks it in her case unread. She comes back to class and sees M. Paul storming at the girls--he then turns his fury on Lucy. She sits quietly and eventually begins to silently weep. She tells him she has no wish to insult him. He softens and gives her a clean silk handkerchief by way of apology. He finishes teaching the class, and after the girls are gone he mentions the letter. She says it is only from a friend, but he says he knows what friend that is. Lucy tries to return M. Paul's handkerchief, and he says she should keep until the letter is read; he will determine the tenor of the letter by the state of the handkerchief. When Lucy thinks she is alone, she has a moment of happiness, and she tosses the handkerchief around like a toy or a ball. M. Paul has been watching this, however, and he reaches over her shoulder and catches his handkerchief back, saying that she has been making fun of him with his possession. Lucy thinks that M. Paul, while making good points, is not a good little man. Lucy gets a chance to read "The Letter" in chapter XXII. She creeps up to the unused attic with a candle. Lucy, who for so long has been used to privation, disregard, and hostility is now so incredibly overjoyed by the contents of the kind, good-natured letter that she claims to feel more happiness in that moment than any queen in a palace. As she reads, a figure dressed in white and black, resembling a nun, comes toward her out of the shadows. Lucy is terrified and rushes out of the attic. She rushes to Madame's sitting room, where a small company of people are assembled, including Dr. John. The nearly hysterical Lucy tells them that something is in the grenier , and they all go up to investigate. At first they claim that the objects there look to have been disturbed, and someone certainly must have been there, but Madame tells Lucy later that she now fancies that things were much the same as always. Lucy has left her letter from Dr. John there, and she searches madly for it--but Dr. John has secretly pocketed it. They go downstairs, and John takes Lucy into a small room to help comfort her. She continues to weep bitterly at the loss of her letter. Dr. John, acting somewhat strangely, sees this and finally gives it back to her. He teases her that it is worth nothing, and the reader begins to think that he has an inkling of Lucy's unsaid love for him and that he is doing his best to quash it. He tells her that possibly her vision of the nun came from her own depression. He tells her to cultivate happiness. Lucy, sensibly though not aloud, observes that happiness is not a potato. She finds it peculiarly patronizing when people tell her to cultivate happiness, for she has had so little cause for happiness in her life and cultivation of it has been impossible. Dr. John swears to tell no one what she saw, and he urges Lucy never to mention it again in specific terms, for fear that she will be considered hysterical