As that street-door closed, a sudden amazement at
my own perverse proceeding struck like a blow upon
me. I felt from the first it was me he wanted—me
he was seeking—and had not I wanted him
too? What, then, had carried me away? What
had rapt me beyond his reach? He had something
to tell: he was going to tell me that something:
my ear strained its nerve to hear it, and I had made
the confidence impossible. Yearning to listen
and console, while I thought audience and solace beyond
hope’s reach—no sooner did opportunity
suddenly and fully arrive, than I evaded it as I would
have evaded the levelled shaft of mortality.
Well, my insane inconsistency had its reward.
Instead of the comfort, the certain satisfaction,
I might have won—could I but have put choking
panic down, and stood firm two minutes—here
was dead blank, dark doubt, and drear suspense.
I took my wages to my pillow, and passed the night
counting them.
MALEVOLA.
Madame Beck called me on Thursday afternoon, and asked
whether I had any occupation to hinder me from going
into town and executing some little commissions for
her at the shops.
Being disengaged, and placing myself at her service,
I was presently furnished with a list of the wools,
silks, embroidering thread, etcetera, wanted in the
pupils’ work, and having equipped myself in a
manner suiting the threatening aspect of a cloudy and
sultry day, I was just drawing the spring-bolt of
the street-door, in act to issue forth, when Madame’s
voice again summoned me to the salle-a-manger.
“Pardon, Meess Lucie!” cried she, in the
seeming haste of an impromptu thought, “I have
just recollected one more errand for you, if your
good-nature will not deem itself over-burdened?”
Of course I “confounded myself” in asseverations
to the contrary; and Madame, running into the little
salon, brought thence a pretty basket, filled with
fine hothouse fruit, rosy, perfect, and tempting, reposing
amongst the dark green, wax-like leaves, and pale yellow
stars of, I know not what, exotic plant.
“There,” she said, “it is not heavy,
and will not shame your neat toilette, as if it were
a household, servant-like detail. Do me the favour
to leave this little basket at the house of Madame
Walravens, with my felicitations on her fete.
She lives down in the old town, Numero 3, Rue des
Mages. I fear you will find the walk rather long,
but you have the whole afternoon before you, and do
not hurry; if you are not back in time for dinner,
I will order a portion to be saved, or Goton, with
whom you are a favourite, will have pleasure in tossing
up some trifle, for your especial benefit. You
shall not be forgotten, ma bonne Meess. And oh!
please!” (calling me back once more) “be
sure to insist on seeing Madame Walravens herself,
and giving the basket into her own hands, in order
that there may be no mistake, for she is rather a
punctilious personage. Adieu! Au revoir!”
