Authors: Charlotte Brontë
That evening I went to M. Vandenhuten's; but I had bent the bow
and adjusted the shaft in vain; the string broke. I rang the
bell at the great door (it was a large, handsome house in an
expensive part of the town); a manservant opened; I asked for M.
Vandenhuten; M. Vandenhuten and family were all out of town
—gone to Ostend—did not know when they would be back. I left
my card, and retraced my steps.
A WEEK is gone; LE JOUR DES NOCES arrived; the marriage was
solemnized at St. Jacques; Mdlle. Zoraide became Madame Pelet,
NEE Reuter; and, in about an hour after this transformation, "the
happy pair," as newspapers phrase it, were on their way to Paris;
where, according to previous arrangement, the honeymoon was to be
spent. The next day I quitted the pensionnat. Myself and my
chattels (some books and clothes) were soon transferred to a
modest lodging I had hired in a street not far off. In half an
hour my clothes were arranged in a commode, my books on a shelf,
and the "flitting" was effected. I should not have been unhappy
that day had not one pang tortured me—a longing to go to the Rue
Notre Dame aux Neiges, resisted, yet irritated by an inward
resolve to avoid that street till such time as the mist of doubt
should clear from my prospects.
It was a sweet September evening—very mild, very still; I had
nothing to do; at that hour I knew Frances would be equally
released from occupation; I thought she might possibly be wishing
for her master, I knew I wished for my pupil. Imagination began
with her low whispers, infusing into my soul the soft tale of
pleasures that might be.
"You will find her reading or writing," said she; "you can take
your seat at her side; you need not startle her peace by undue
excitement; you need not embarrass her manner by unusual action
or language. Be as you always are; look over what she has
written; listen while she reads; chide her, or quietly approve;
you know the effect of either system; you know her smile when
pleased, you you know the play of her looks when roused; you have
the secret of awakening that expression you will, and you can
choose amongst that pleasant variety. With you she will sit
silent as long as it suits you to talk alone; you can hold her
under a potent spell: intelligent as she is, eloquent as she can
be, you can seal her lips, and veil her bright countenance with
diffidence; yet, you know, she is not all monotonous mildness;
you have seen, with a sort of strange pleasure, revolt, scorn,
austerity, bitterness, lay energetic claim to a place in her
feelings and physiognomy; you know that few could rule her as you
do; you know she might break, but never bend under the hand of
Tyranny and Injustice, but Reason and Affection can guide her by
a sign. Try their influence now. Go—they are not passions;
you may handle them safely."
"I will NOT go was my answer to the sweet temptress. "A man is
master of himself to a certain point, but not beyond it. Could I
seek Frances to-night, could I sit with her alone in a quiet
room, and address her only in the language of Reason and
Affection?"
"No," was the brief, fervent reply of that Love which had
conquered and now controlled me.
Time seemed to stagnate; the sun would not go down; my watch
ticked, but I thought the hands were paralyzed.
"What a hot evening!" I cried, throwing open the lattice; for,
indeed, I had seldom felt so feverish. Hearing a step ascending
the common stair, I wondered whether the "locataire," now
mounting to his apartments, were as unsettled in mind and
condition as I was, or whether he lived in the calm of certain
resources, and in the freedom of unfettered feelings. What! was
he coming in person to solve the problem hardly proposed in
inaudible thought? He had actually knocked at the door—at MY
door; a smart, prompt rap; and, almost before I could invite him
in, he was over the threshold, and had closed the door behind
him.
"And how are you?" asked an indifferent, quiet voice, in the
English language; while my visitor, without any sort of bustle or
introduction, put his hat on the table, and his gloves into his
hat, and drawing the only armchair the room afforded a little
forward, seated himself tranquilly therein.
"Can't you speak?" he inquired in a few moments, in a tone whose
nonchalance seemed to intimate that it was much the same thing
whether I answered or not. The fact is, I found it desirable to
have recourse to my good friends "les besicles;" not exactly to
ascertain the identity of my visitor—for I already knew him,
confound his impudence! but to see how he looked—to get a clear
notion of his mien and countenance. I wiped the glasses very
deliberately, and put them on quite as deliberately; adjusting
them so as not to hurt the bridge of my nose or get entangled in
my short tufts of dun hair. I was sitting in the window-seat,
with my back to the light, and I had him VIS-A-VIS; a position he
would much rather have had reversed; for, at any time, he
preferred scrutinizing to being scrutinized. Yes, it was HE, and
no mistake, with his six feet of length arranged in a sitting
attitude; with his dark travelling surtout with its velvet
collar, his gray pantaloons, his black stock, and his face, the
most original one Nature ever modelled, yet the least obtrusively
so; not one feature that could be termed marked or odd, yet the
effect of the whole unique. There is no use in attempting to
describe what is indescribable. Being in no hurry to address
him, I sat and stared at my ease.
"Oh, that's your game—is it?" said he at last. "Well, we'll see
which is soonest tired." And he slowly drew out a fine
cigar-case, picked one to his taste, lit it, took a book from the
shelf convenient to his hand, then leaning back, proceeded to
smoke and read as tranquilly as if he had been in his own room,
in Grove-street, X—shire, England. I knew he was capable of
continuing in that attitude till midnight, if he conceived the
whim, so I rose, and taking the book from his hand, I said,—
"You did not ask for it, and you shall not have it."
"It is silly and dull," he observed, "so I have not lost much;"
then the spell being broken, he went on. "I thought you lived at
Pelet's; I went there this afternoon. expecting to be starved to
death by sitting in a boarding-school drawing-room, and they told
me you were gone, had departed this morning; you had left your
address behind you though, which I wondered at; it was a more
practical and sensible precaution than I should have imagined you
capable of. Why did you leave?"
"Because M. Pelet has just married the lady whom you and Mr.
Brown assigned to me as my wife."
"Oh, indeed!" replied Hunsden with a short laugh; "so you've lost
both your wife and your place?"
"Precisely so."
I saw him give a quick, covert glance all round my room; he
marked its narrow limits, its scanty furniture: in an instant he
had comprehended the state of matters—had absolved me from the
crime of prosperity. A curious effect this discovery wrought in
his strange mind; I am morally certain that if he had found me
installed in a handsome parlour, lounging on a soft couch, with a
pretty, wealthy wife at my side, he would have hated me; a brief,
cold, haughty visit, would in such a case have been the extreme
limit of his civilities, and never would he have come near me
more, so long as the tide of fortune bore me smoothly on its
surface; but the painted furniture, the bare walls, the cheerless
solitude of my room relaxed his rigid pride, and I know not what
softening change had taken place both in his voice and look ere
he spoke again.
"You have got another place?"
"No."
"You are in the way of getting one?"
"No."
"That is bad; have you applied to Brown?"
"No, indeed."
"You had better; he often has it in his power to give useful
information in such matters."
"He served me once very well; I have no claim on him, and am not
in the humour to bother him again."
"Oh, if you're bashful, and dread being intrusive, you need only
commission me. I shall see him to-night; I can put in a word."
"I beg you will not, Mr. Hunsden; I am in your debt already; you
did me an important service when I was at X—; got me out of a
den where I was dying: that service I have never repaid, and at
present I decline positively adding another item to the account."
"If the wind sits that way, I'm satisfied. I thought my
unexampled generosity in turning you out of that accursed
counting-house would be duly appreciated some day: 'Cast your
bread on the waters, and it shall be found after many days,' say
the Scriptures. Yes, that's right, lad—make much of me—I'm a
nonpareil: there's nothing like me in the common herd. In the
meantime, to put all humbug aside and talk sense for a few
moments, you would be greatly the better of a situation, and what
is more, you are a fool if you refuse to take one from any hand
that offers it."
"Very well, Mr. Hunsden; now you have settled that point, talk of
something else. What news from X—?"
"I have not settled that point, or at least there is another to
settle before we get to X—. Is this Miss Zenobie" (Zoraide,
interposed I)—"well, Zoraide—is she really married to Pelet?"
"I tell you yes—and if you don't believe me, go and ask the cure
of St. Jacques."
"And your heart is broken?"
"I am not aware that it is; it feels all right—beats as usual."
"Then your feelings are less superfine than I took them to be;
you must be a coarse, callous character, to bear such a thwack
without staggering under it."
"Staggering under it? What the deuce is there to stagger under
in the circumstance of a Belgian schoolmistress marrying a
French schoolmaster? The progeny will doubtless be a strange
hybrid race; but that's their Look out—not mine."
"He indulges in scurrilous jests, and the bride was his affianced
one!"
"Who said so?"
"Brown."
I'll tell you what, Hunsden—Brown is an old gossip."
"He is; but in the meantime, if his gossip be founded on less
than fact—if you took no particular interest in Miss Zoraide
—why, O youthful pedagogue! did you leave your place in
consequence of her becoming Madame Pelet?"
"Because—" I felt my face grow a little hot; "because—in
short, Mr. Hunsden, I decline answering any more questions," and
I plunged my hands deep in my breeches pocket.
Hunsden triumphed: his eyes—his laugh announced victory.
"What the deuce are you laughing at, Mr. Hunsden?"
"At your exemplary composure. Well, lad, I'll not bore you; I
see how it is: Zoraide has jilted you—married some one richer,
as any sensible woman would have done if she had had the chance."
I made no reply—I let him think so, not feeling inclined to
enter into an explanation of the real state of things, and as
little to forge a false account; but it was not easy to blind
Hunsden; my very silence, instead of convincing him that he had
hit the truth, seemed to render him doubtful about it; he went
on:—
"I suppose the affair has been conducted as such affairs always
are amongst rational people: you offered her your youth and your
talents-such as they are—in exchange for her position and money:
I don't suppose you took appearance, or what is called LOVE, into
the account—for I understand she is older than you, and Brown
says, rather sensible-looking than beautiful. She, having then
no chance of making a better bargain, was at first inclined to
come to terms with you, but Pelet—the head or a flourishing
school—stepped in with a higher bid; she accepted, and he has
got her: a correct transaction—perfectly so—business-like and
legitimate. And now we'll talk of something else."
"Do," said I, very glad to dismiss the topic, and especially glad
to have baffled the sagacity of my cross-questioner—if, indeed,
I had baffled it; for though his words now led away from the
dangerous point, his eyes, keen and watchful, seemed still
preoccupied with the former idea.
"You want to hear news from X—? And what interest can you
have in X—? You left no friends there, for you made none.
Nobody ever asks after you—neither man nor woman; and if I
mention your name in company, the men look as if I had spoken of
Prester John; and the women sneer covertly. Our X— belles
must have disliked you. How did you excite their displeasure?"
"I don't know. I seldom spoke to them—they were nothing to me.
I considered them only as something to be glanced at from a
distance; their dresses and faces were often pleasing enough to
the eye: but I could not understand their conversation, nor even
read their countenances. When I caught snatches of what they
said, I could never make much of it; and the play of their lips
and eyes did not help me at all."
"That was your fault, not theirs. There are sensible, as well as
handsome women in X—; women it is worth any man's while to
talk to, and with whom I can talk with pleasure: but you had and
have no pleasant address; there is nothing in you to induce a
woman to be affable. I have remarked you sitting near the door
in a room full of company, bent on hearing, not on speaking; on
observing, not on entertaining; looking frigidly shy at the
commencement of a party, confusingly vigilant about the middle,
and insultingly weary towards the end. Is that the way, do you
think, ever to communicate pleasure or excite interest? No; and
if you are generally unpopular, it is because you deserve to be
so."
"Content!" I ejaculated.
"No, you are not content; you see beauty always turning its back
on you; you are mortified and then you sneer. I verily believe
all that is desirable on earth—wealth, reputation, love—will
for ever to you be the ripe grapes on the high trellis: you'll
look up at them; they will tantalize in you the lust of the eye;
but they are out of reach: you have not the address to fetch a
ladder, and you'll go away calling them sour."