AWEEKisgoneLEJOURDESNOCESarrivedthemarriagewassolemnizedatSt.JacquesMdlle.ZoraidebecameMadamePelet,NEEReuterand,inaboutanhourafterthistransformation,“thehappypair,”asnewspapersphraseit,wereontheirwaytoPariswhere,accordingtopreviousarrangement,thehoneymoonwastobespent.ThenextdayIquittedthepensionnat.Myselfandmychattels(somebooksandclothes)weresoontransferredtoamodestlodgingIhadhiredinastreetnotfaroff.Inhalfanhourmyclotheswerearrangedinacommode,mybooksonashelf,andthe“flitting”waseffected.Ishouldnothavebeenunhappythatdayhadnotonepangtorturedme—alongingtogototheRueNotreDameauxNeiges,resisted,yetirritatedbyaninwardresolvetoavoidthatstreettillsuchtimeasthemistofdoubtshouldclearfrommyprospects.
ItwasasweetSeptemberevening—verymild,verystillIhadnothingtodoatthathourIknewFranceswouldbeequallyreleasedfromoccupationIthoughtshemightpossiblybewishingforhermaster,IknewIwishedformypupil.Imaginationbeganwithherlowwhispers,infusingintomysoulthesofttaleofpleasuresthatmightbe.
“Youwillfindherreadingorwriting,”saidshe“youcantakeyourseatathersideyouneednotstartleherpeacebyundueexcitementyouneednotembarrasshermannerbyunusualactionorlanguage.Beasyoualwaysarelookoverwhatshehaswrittenlistenwhileshereadschideher,orquietlyapproveyouknowtheeffectofeithersystemyouknowhersmilewhenpleased,youknowtheplayofherlookswhenrousedyouhavethesecretofawakeningwhatexpressionyouwill,andyoucanchooseamongstthatpleasantvariety.Withyoushewillsitsilentaslongasitsuitsyoutotalkaloneyoucanholdherunderapotentspell:intelligentassheis,eloquentasshecanbe,youcansealherlips,andveilherbrightcountenancewithdiffidenceyet,youknow,sheisnotallmonotonousmildnessyouhaveseen,withasortofstrangepleasure,revolt,scorn,austerity,bitterness,layenergeticclaimtoaplaceinherfeelingsandphysiognomyyouknowthatfewcouldruleherasyoudoyouknowshemightbreak,butneverbendunderthehandofTyrannyandInjustice,butReasonandAffectioncanguideherbyasign.Trytheirinfluencenow.Go—theyarenotpassionsyoumayhandlethemsafely.”
“IwillNOTgowasmyanswertothesweettemptress.Amanismasterofhimselftoacertainpoint,butnotbeyondit.CouldIseekFrancesto-night,couldIsitwithheraloneinaquietroom,andaddressheronlyinthelanguageofReasonandAffection?”
“No,”wasthebrief,ferventreplyofthatLovewhichhadconqueredandnowcontrolledme.
Timeseemedtostagnatethesunwouldnotgodownmywatchticked,butIthoughtthehandswereparalyzed.
“Whatahotevening!”Icried,throwingopenthelatticefor,indeed,Ihadseldomfeltsofeverish.Hearingastepascendingth