Villette by Charlotte Brontë (free e reader .TXT) 📕

China⁠—knows you and all your concerns; and has his reasons for saying to you so-and-so, when you simply thought the communication sprang impromptu from the instant’s impulse: his plan in bringing it about that you shall come on such a day, to such a place, under such and such circumstances, when the whole arrangement seems to your crude apprehension the ordinance of chance, or the sequel of exigency. Madame Beck’s suddenly-recollected message and present, my artless embassy to the Place of the Magi, the old priest accidentally descending the steps and crossing the square, his interposition on my behalf with the bonne who would have sent me away, his reappearance on the staircase, my introduction to this room, the portrait, the narrative so affably volunteered⁠—all these little incidents, taken as they fell out, seemed each independent of its successor; a handful of loose beads: but threaded through by that quick-shot and crafty glance of a Jesuit-eye, they dropped pendent in a long string, like that rosary on the prie-dieu. Where lay the link of junction, where the little clasp of this monastic necklace? I saw or felt union, but could not yet find the spot, or detect the means of connection.

Perhaps the musing-fit into which I had by this time fallen, appeared somewhat suspicious in its abstraction; he gently interrupted: “Mademoiselle,” said he, “I trust you have not far to go through these inundated streets?”

“More than half a league.”

“You live⁠—?”

“In the Rue Fossette.”

“Not” (with animation), “not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?”

“The same.”

“Donc” (clapping his hands), “donc, vous devez connaître mon noble élève, mon Paul?”

“Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?”

“He and none other.”

A brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have become palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.

“Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?” I presently inquired. “Was he your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?”

“Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant: and moreover, (with a certain emphasis), he was and is the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in heaven⁠—Justine Marie.”

“And who, father, are you?” I continued; and though I accentuated the question, its utterance was well nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came.

“I, daughter, am Père Silas; that unworthy son of Holy Church whom you once honoured with a noble and touching confidence, showing me the core of a heart, and the inner shrine of a mind whereof, in solemn truth, I coveted the direction, in behalf of the only true faith. Nor have I for a day lost sight of you, nor for an hour failed to take in you a rooted interest. Passed under the discipline of Rome, moulded by her high training, inoculated with her salutary doctrines, inspired by the zeal she alone gives⁠—I realize what then might be your spiritual rank, your practical value; and I envy Heresy her prey.”

This struck me as a special state of things⁠—I half-realized myself in that condition also; passed under discipline, moulded, trained, inoculated, and so on. “Not so,” thought I, but I restrained deprecation, and sat quietly enough.

“I suppose M. Paul does not live here?” I resumed, pursuing a theme which I thought more to the purpose than any wild renegade dreams.

“No; he only comes occasionally to worship his beloved saint, to make his confession to me, and to pay his respects to her he calls his mother. His own lodging consists but of two rooms; he has no servant, and yet he will not suffer Madame Walravens to dispose of those splendid jewels with which you see her adorned, and in which she takes a puerile pride as the ornaments of her youth, and the last relics of her son the jeweller’s wealth.”

“How often,” murmured I to myself, “has this man, this M. Emanuel, seemed to me to lack magnanimity in trifles, yet how great he is in great things!”

I own I did not reckon amongst the proofs of his greatness, either the act of confession, or the saint-worship.

“How long is it since that lady died?” I inquired, looking at Justine Marie.

“Twenty years. She was somewhat older than M. Emanuel; he was then very young, for he is not much beyond forty.”

“Does he yet weep her?”

“His heart will weep her always: the essence of Emanuel’s nature is⁠—constancy.”

This was said with marked emphasis.

And now the sun broke out pallid and waterish; the rain yet fell, but there was no more tempest: that hot firmament had cloven and poured out its lightnings. A longer delay would scarce leave daylight for my return, so I rose, thanked the father for his hospitality and his tale, was benignantly answered by a pax vobiscum, which I made kindly welcome, because it seemed uttered with a true benevolence; but I liked less the mystic phrase accompanying it.

“Daughter, you shall be what you shall be!” an oracle that made me shrug my shoulders as soon as I had got outside the door. Few of us know what we are to come to certainly, but for all that had happened yet, I had good hopes of living and dying a sober-minded Protestant: there was a hollowness within, and a flourish around “Holy Church” which tempted me but moderately. I went on my way pondering many things. Whatever Romanism may be, there are good Romanists: this man, Emanuel, seemed of the best; touched with superstition, influenced by priestcraft, yet wondrous for fond faith, for pious devotion, for sacrifice of self, for charity unbounded. It remained to see how Rome, by her agents, handled such qualities; whether she cherished them for their own sake and for God’s, or put them out to usury and made booty of the interest.

By the time I reached home, it was sundown. Goton had kindly saved me a portion of dinner, which indeed I needed. She called me into the little cabinet to partake of it, and there Madame Beck soon made her appearance, bringing me a glass of