Villette - Charlotte Brontë (best fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!” said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.

Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance; before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the whole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to read hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own counsel⁠—be his own secret’s sovereign. In the course of that day, proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was still mine only. It was not known⁠—it had not been noted⁠—that I held in peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by; curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering always round, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had called me, and I had obeyed him: “M. Paul wants Miss Lucy”⁠—“Miss Lucy is with M. Paul”⁠—such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody commented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame Beck read the riddle; none else resolved it. What I now suffered was called illness⁠—a headache: I accepted the baptism.

But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he was gone without a farewell⁠—this cruel conviction that fate and pursuing furies⁠—a woman’s envy and a priest’s bigotry⁠—would suffer me to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like the first⁠—untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an unalterable passion of silent desolation?

Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night⁠—she did not come near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe⁠—a more efficient agent for the purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra’s first words⁠—“Is your headache very bad tonight?” (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had a headache⁠—an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)⁠—her first words, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of reach. And soon, what followed⁠—plaints about her own headaches⁠—completed the business.

I went upstairs. Presently I was in my bed⁠—my miserable bed⁠—haunted with quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, when another emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I was consumed with thirst⁠—I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, but I tasted a drug.

“Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,” said Goton, as she received back the emptied cup.

Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a strong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night.

The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory hushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easy supremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did not ache⁠—he passed by the unquiet.

The drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or undercharged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead of stupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought⁠—to reverie peculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, their bugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination was roused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. With scorn she looked on Matter, her mate⁠—“Rise!” she said. “Sluggard! this night I will have my will; nor shalt thou prevail.”

“Look forth and view the night!” was her cry; and when I lifted the heavy blind from the casement close at hand⁠—with her own royal gesture, she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep and splendid.

To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits, the oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me to leave this den and follow her forth into dew, coolness, and glory.

She brought upon me a strange vision of Villette at midnight. Especially she showed the park, the summer-park, with its long alleys all silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin⁠—that basin I knew, and beside which I had often stood⁠—deep-set in the tree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy, rushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked, sentinelled: the place could not be entered.

Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, I mechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lying still⁠—excited from head to foot⁠—what could I do better than dress?

The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no admission to the park?

The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to the circumstance, a gap in the paling⁠—one stake broken down: I now saw this gap again in recollection⁠—saw it very plainly⁠—the narrow, irregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, planted orderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through that aperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I thought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at this hour the whole park would be mine⁠—the moonlight, midnight park!

How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quiet breathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I felt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what hindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its large white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct.

As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking hinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air could not be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the dormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a board