VILLETTE. Шарлотта Бронте

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “You need not be sulky with me,” she began, “in the idea that I am running somebody, papa or M. de Bassompierre, deeply into debt. I assure you nothing remains unpaid for, but the few dresses I have lately had: all the rest is settled.”

      “There,” I thought, “lies the mystery; considering that they were not given you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own means are limited to a few shillings, of which I know you to be excessively careful.”

      “Ecoutez!” she went on, drawing near and speaking in her most confidential and coaxing tone; for my “sulkiness” was inconvenient to her: she liked me to be in a talking and listening mood, even if I only talked to chide and listened to rail. “Ecoutez, chère grogneuse! I will tell you all how and about it; and you will then see, not only how right the whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the first place, I must go out. Papa himself said that he wished me to see something of the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs. Cholmondeley, that, though I was a sweet creature enough, I had rather a bread-and-butter-eating, schoolgirl air; of which it was his special desire that I should get rid, by an introduction to society here, before I make my regular début in England. Well, then, if I go out, I must dress. Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and will give nothing more; it would be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for all the things I need: that you can’t deny — that agrees with your own preachments. Well, but SOMEBODY who heard me (quite by chance, I assure you) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances, and what straits I was put to for an ornament or two — somebody, far from grudging one a present, was quite delighted at the idea of being permitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a blanc-bec he looked when he first spoke of it: how he hesitated and blushed, and positively trembled from fear of a repulse.”

      “That will do, Miss Fanshawe. I suppose I am to understand that M. Isidore is the benefactor: that it is from him you have accepted that costly parure; that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves?”

      “You express yourself so disagreeably,” said she, “one hardly knows how to answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore the pleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offer of a trifle.”

      “It comes to the same thing…. Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth, I don’t very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doing very wrong — seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certain that you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle have given their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?”

      “Mais pas du tout!” (she always had recourse to French when about to say something specially heartless and perverse). “Je suis sa reine, mais il n’est pas mon roi.”

      “Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry.

      There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by the

      good nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference.

      You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow.”

      “No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is….”

      And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.

      “Yes!” I said, “try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To me it seems in a great mess — chaotic as a rag-bag.”

      “It is something in this fashion,” she cried out ere long: “the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can’t help, in his presence, rather trying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense, — for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my ease with you, old lady — you, you dear crosspatch — who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, and fickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you and I have agreed to be a part of my character.”

      “This is all very well,” I said, making a strenuous effort to preserve that gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by this whimsical candour, “but it does not alter that wretched business of the presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and send them back.”

      “Indeed, I won’t,” said she, stoutly.

      “Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that by accepting his presents you give him to understand he will one day receive an equivalent, in your regard…”

      “But he won’t,” she interrupted: “he has his equivalent now, in the pleasure of seeing me wear them — quite enough for him: he is only bourgeois.”

      This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of the temporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. She rattled on:

      “My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fettering myself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I saw Isidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed he would be content with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and part and flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! I find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and thoughtful. Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnés ne sont pas à mon goût. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beaux fats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et les plaisirs! A bas les grandes passions et les sévères vertus!”

      She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.

      “J’aime mon beau Colonel,” she went on: “je n’aimerai jamais son rival.

      Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!”

      I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment should be relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing.

      Chapter X.

      Dr John.

       Table of Contents

      Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing with all the world, and tender to no part of it. Her own children drew her into no deviation from the even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitous about her family, vigilant for their interests and physical well-being; but she never seemed to know the wish to take her little children upon her lap, to press their rosy lips with her own, to gather them in a genial embrace, to shower on them softly the benignant caress, the loving word.

      I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden, viewing the little bees afar off, as they walked in a distant alley with Trinette, their bonne; in her mien spoke care and prudence. I know she often pondered anxiously what she called “leur avenir;” but if the youngest, a puny and delicate but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from its nurse, and toddling down the walk, came all eager and laughing and panting to clasp her knee, Madame would just calmly put out one hand, so as to prevent inconvenient concussion from the child’s sudden onset: “Prends garde, mon enfant!” she would say unmoved, patiently permit it to stand near her a few moments, and then, without smile or kiss, or endearing syllable, rise and СКАЧАТЬ