“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 wine.
“Well,” began she, chuckling, “and
what sort of a reception did Madame Walravens give
you? Elle est drole, n’est-ce pas?”
I told her what had passed, delivering verbatim the
courteous message with which I had been charged.
“Oh la singuliere petite bossue!” laughed
she. “Et figurez-vous qu’elle me
deteste, parcequ’elle me croit amoureuse de mon
cousin Paul; ce petit devot qui n’ose pas bouger,
a moins que son confesseur ne lui donne la permission!
Au reste” (she went on), “if he wanted
to marry ever so much—soit moi, soit une
autre—he could not do it; he has too large
a family already on his hands: Mere Walravens,
Pere Silas, Dame Agnes, and a whole troop of nameless
paupers. There never was a man like him for laying
on himself burdens greater than he can bear, voluntarily
incurring needless responsibilities. Besides,
he harbours a romantic idea about some pale-faced
Marie Justine— personnage assez niaise
a ce que je pense” (such was Madame’s
irreverent remark), “who has been an angel in
heaven, or elsewhere, this score of years, and to
whom he means to go, free from all earthly ties, pure
comme un lis, a ce qu’il dit. Oh, you would
laugh could you but know half M. Emanuel’s crotchets
and eccentricities! But I hinder you from taking
refreshment, ma bonne Meess, which you must need; eat
your supper, drink your wine, oubliez les anges, les
bossues, et surtout, les Professeurs—et
bon soir!”
CHAPTER XXXV
FRATERNITY.
“Oubliez les Professeurs.” So said
Madame Beck. Madame Beck was a wise woman, but
she should not have uttered those words. To do
so was a mistake. That night she should have
left me calm—not excited, indifferent,
not interested, isolated in my own estimation and that
of others—not connected, even in idea,
with this second person whom I was to forget.
