VILLETTE. Шарлотта Бронте

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СКАЧАТЬ I waited, I would not reflect. I fixedly looked at the street-stones, where the door-lamp shone, and counted them and noted their shapes, and the glitter of wet on their angles. I rang again. They opened at last. A bonne in a smart cap stood before me.

      “May I see Madame Beck?” I inquired.

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

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

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

      “You ayre Engliss?” said a voice at my elbow. I almost bounded, so unexpected was the sound; so certain had I been of solitude.

      No ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect; merely a motherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a wrapping-gown, and a clean, trim nightcap.

      I said I was English, and immediately, without further prelude, we fell to a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck (for Madame Beck it was — she had entered by a little door behind me, and, being shod with the shoes of silence, I had heard neither her entrance nor approach) — Madame Beck had exhausted her command of insular speech when she said, “You ayre Engliss,” and she now proceeded to work away volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understood me, but as I did not at all understand her — though we made together an awful clamour (anything like Madame’s gift of utterance I had not hitherto heard or imagined) — we achieved little progress. She rang, ere long, for aid; which arrived in the shape of a “maîtresse,” who had been partly educated in an Irish convent, and was esteemed a perfect adept in the English language. A bluff little personage this maîtresse was — Labassecourienne from top to toe: and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told her a plain tale, which she translated. I told her how I had left my own country, intent on extending my knowledge, and gaining my bread; how I was ready to turn my hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrong or degrading; how I would be a child’s-nurse, or a lady’s-maid, and would not refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this; and, questioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear:

      “Il n’y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d’entreprises,” said she: “sont-elles donc intrépides ces femmes là!”

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

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

      “It is true,” said she; “but at least you can give a reference?”

      “None.”

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

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

      “M. Paul,” replied the teacher. “He came this evening to give a reading to the first class.”

      “The very man I should at this moment most wish to see. Call him.”

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

      “Mon cousin,” began Madame, “I want your opinion. We know your skill in physiognomy; use it now. Read that countenance.”

      The little man fixed on me his spectacles: A resolute compression of the lips, and gathering of the brow, seemed to say that he meant to see through me, and that a veil would be no veil for him.

      “I read it,” he pronounced.

      “Et qu’en dites vous?”

      “Mais — bien des choses,” was the oracular answer.

      “Bad or good?”

      “Of each kind, without doubt,” pursued the diviner.

      “May one trust her word?”

      “Are you negotiating a matter of importance?”

      “She wishes me to engage her as bonne or gouvernante; tells a tale full of integrity, but gives no reference.”

      “She is a stranger?”

      “An Englishwoman, as one may see.”

      “She speaks French?”

      “Not a word.”

      “She understands it?”

      “No.”

      “One may then speak plainly in her presence?”

      “Doubtless.”

      He gazed steadily. “Do you need her services?”

      “I could do with them. You know I am disgusted with Madame Svini.”

      Still he scrutinized. The judgment, when it at last came, was as indefinite as what had gone before it.

      “Engage her. If good predominates in that nature, the action will bring its own reward; if evil — eh bien! ma cousine, ce sera toujours une bonne oeuvre.” And with a bow and a “bon soir,” this vague arbiter of my destiny vanished.

      And Madame did engage me that very night — by God’s blessing I was spared the necessity of passing forth again into the lonesome, dreary, hostile street.

      Chapter VIII.

      Madame Beck.

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      Being delivered into the charge of the maîtresse, I was led through a long СКАЧАТЬ