And, instead of sending me in, she detained me to
take a few turns with her down the principal alley.
When at last we both re-entered, she leaned affably
on my shoulder by way of support in mounting the front-door
steps; at parting, her cheek was presented to my lips,
and “Bon soir, my bonne amie; dormez bien!”
was her kindly adieu for the night.
I caught myself smiling as I lay awake and thoughtful
on my couch— smiling at Madame. The
unction, the suavity of her behaviour offered, for
one who knew her, a sure token that suspicion of some
kind was busy in her brain. From some aperture
or summit of observation, through parted bough or
open window, she had doubtless caught a glimpse, remote
or near, deceptive or instructive, of that night’s
transactions. Finely accomplished as she was in
the art of surveillance, it was next to impossible
that a casket could be thrown into her garden, or
an interloper could cross her walks to seek it, without
that she, in shaken branch, passing shade, unwonted
footfall, or stilly murmur (and though Dr. John had
spoken very low in the few words he dropped me, yet
the hum of his man’s voice pervaded, I thought,
the whole conventual ground)—without, I
say, that she should have caught intimation of things
extraordinary transpiring on her premises. What
things, she might by no means see, or at that time
be able to discover; but a delicious little ravelled
plot lay tempting her to disentanglement; and in the
midst, folded round and round in cobwebs, had she
not secured “Meess Lucie” clumsily involved,
like the foolish fly she was?
CHAPTER XIII.
A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON.
I had occasion to smile—nay, to laugh,
at Madame again, within the space of four and twenty
hours after the little scene treated of in the last
chapter.
Villette owns a climate as variable, though not so
humid, as that of any English town. A night of
high wind followed upon that soft sunset, and all
the next day was one of dry storm—dark,
beclouded, yet rainless,—the streets were
dim with sand and dust, whirled from the boulevards.
I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted
me to spend the evening-time of study and recreation
where I had spent it yesterday. My alley, and,
indeed, all the walks and shrubs in the garden, had
acquired a new, but not a pleasant interest; their
seclusion was now become precarious; their calm—insecure.
That casement which rained billets, had vulgarized
the once dear nook it overlooked; and elsewhere, the
eyes of the flowers had gained vision, and the knots
in the tree-boles listened like secret ears. Some
plants there were, indeed, trodden down by Dr. John
in his search, and his hasty and heedless progress,
which I wished to prop up, water, and revive; some
footmarks, too, he had left on the beds: but these,
in spite of the strong wind, I found a moment’s
leisure to efface very early in the morning, ere common
eyes had discovered them. With a pensive sort
of content, I sat down to my desk and my German, while
the pupils settled to their evening lessons; and the
other teachers took up their needlework.
