["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> CHAPTER XXXVIII. CLOUD. But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done it\nsurely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. The\nimpulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen and\nunseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must be\ngiven. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In\nfire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and\nin blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through\nterror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins;\nlook upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in\nfriendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretches\nthe way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our\nbanner. For staff we have His promise, whose \"word is tried, whose way\nperfect:\" for present hope His providence, \"who gives the shield of\nsalvation, whose gentleness makes great;\" for final home His bosom, who\n\"dwells in the height of Heaven;\" for crowning prize a glory, exceeding\nand eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardness\nas good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant\nin the issue to come off more than conquerors: \"Art thou not from\neverlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!\" On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the\nlesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master. The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written\ncompositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them,\nneatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the\nProfessor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July,\nthe morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh\nbreeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in,\nseeming to whisper tidings. M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his\nbeing a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and,\ninstead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon\nus the cautious Madame Beck. She approached M. Paul's desk; she stood before it; she drew round her\nthe light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet\nfirm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, \"This morning there will\nbe no lesson of literature.\" The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes'\npause. \"It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall\nrequire at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for\nM. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks\nusefully. \"Your Professor, ladies,\" she went on, \"intends, if possible, duly to\ntake leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that\nceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent\nsummons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leave\nEurope for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself. Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this\nmorning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.\" She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and\npassed from the classe. A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believe some\npupils wept. Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing\nincreased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort of\ngrowing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, and\nthat surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of\nduty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in\nmy usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. I made the\nEnglish reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I\nremember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils who\nsobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an\nhysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them. I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that\ngasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited\npupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless necessity obliged\nand assisted me so to accost her, that she dared not carry on the\ndemonstration, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion. That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school\nwas over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when\nthey were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them\nbefore--pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse\nyielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that\npoignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever. I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have\nliked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the\nnight, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me\nill for the next day's ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course this\nnews fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied\nthe first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every\ntongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of\n\"Emanuel.\" He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with\nits commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange. They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude\nof their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About the\nthird day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then--that he\nwas bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck's face, and into\nher eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused her\nall over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what\nwas unperturbed and commonplace. \"This secession was an immense loss to her,\" she alleged. \"She did not\nknow how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to her\nkinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him? She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his\nduty.\" She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking\naudibly to Zelie St. Pierre. \"Why was it his duty?\" I could have asked her that. I had impulses to\ntake hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to\nstretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, \"Stop. Let us hear the\nconclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to go into\nbanishment?\" But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never\nlooked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the\nquestion. The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid\nus good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned\nwhether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he should\ndepart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in all\ntheir talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course\ncould see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should _she_\ncare whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom? The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that\nhis destination was \"Basseterre in Guadaloupe:\" the business which\ncalled him abroad related to a friend's interests, not his own: I\nthought as much. \"Basseterre in Guadaloupe.\" I had little sleep about this time, but\nwhenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I was quickly\nroused with a start, while the words \"Basseterre,\" \"Guadaloupe,\" seemed\npronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before\nme, in zigzag characters of red or violet light. For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M.\nEmanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing\nhourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the\ntheological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived\naloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he\nhad spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, with\nmanner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown\nbetween us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had\ncommunicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it\nmore than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was\nover; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of\nunion and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection\nand deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond. What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on my\n\"intellect,\" no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for\nthe jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, were\nsubstituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender\nforbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he\nwould sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty\nbrought separation, he would leave with words like these, \"Il est doux,\nle repos! Il est precieux le calme bonheur!\" One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in\nmy alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant\nto arrest my attention. \"Bonne petite amie!\" said he, softly; \"douce consolatrice!\" But through\nhis touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought\nfound a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or\nbrother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity? His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his\ninterpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley\nbroke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful\nforms--a woman's and a priest's--Madame Beck and Pere Silas. The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it\nexpressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection\njust surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of\necclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ with unction. He looked on\nhis pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw\nnothing--nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand\nof the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping it\nclose and fast. Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had\nstruck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent\nrepetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me,\nwhich forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense,\nwith its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of\nexplanation--I remember, but I cannot describe its passage. The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak\nhis farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore. This alternative seemed to be present in the mind of not a living\ncreature in that school. All rose at the usual hour; all breakfasted as\nusual; all, without reference to, or apparent thought of their late\nProfessor, betook themselves with wonted phlegm to their ordinary\nduties. So oblivious was the house, so tame, so trained its proceedings, so\ninexpectant its aspect--I scarce knew how to breathe in an atmosphere\nthus stagnant, thus smothering. Would no one lend me a voice? Had no\none a wish, no one a word, no one a prayer to which I could say--Amen? I had seen them unanimous in demand for the merest trifle--a treat, a\nholiday, a lesson's remission; they could not, they _would_ not now\nband to besiege Madame Beck, and insist on a last interview with a\nMaster who had certainly been loved, at least by some--loved as _they_\ncould love--but, oh! what _is_ the love of the multitude? I knew where he lived: I knew where he was to be heard of, or\ncommunicated with; the distance was scarce a stone's-throw: had it been\nin the next room--unsummoned, I could make no use of my knowledge. To\nfollow, to seek out, to remind, to recall--for these things I had no\nfaculty. M. Emanuel might have passed within reach of my arm: had he passed\nsilent and unnoticing, silent and stirless should I have suffered him\nto go by. Morning wasted. Afternoon came, and I thought all was over. My heart\ntrembled in its place. My blood was troubled in its current. I was\nquite sick, and hardly knew how to keep at my post--or do my work. Yet\nthe little world round me plodded on indifferent; all seemed jocund,\nfree of care, or fear, or thought: the very pupils who, seven days\nsince, had wept hysterically at a startling piece of news, appeared\nquite to have forgotten the news, its import, and their emotion. A little before five o'clock, the hour of dismissal, Madame Beck sent\nfor me to her chamber, to read over and translate some English letter\nshe had received, and to write for her the answer. Before settling to\nthis work, I observed that she softly closed the two doors of her\nchamber; she even shut and fastened the casement, though it was a hot\nday, and free circulation of air was usually regarded by her as\nindispensable. Why this precaution? A keen suspicion, an almost fierce\ndistrust, suggested such question. Did she want to exclude sound? what\nsound? I listened as I had never listened before; I listened like the evening\nand winter-wolf, snuffing the snow, scenting prey, and hearing far off\nthe traveller's tramp. Yet I could both listen and write. About the\nmiddle of the letter I heard--what checked my pen--a tread in the\nvestibule. No door-bell had rung; Rosine--acting doubtless by\norders--had anticipated such reveillee. Madame saw me halt. She\ncoughed, made a bustle, spoke louder. The tread had passed on to the\nclasses. \"Proceed,\" said Madame; but my hand was fettered, my ear enchained, my\nthoughts were carried off captive. The classes formed another building; the hall parted them from the\ndwelling-house: despite distance and partition, I heard the sudden stir\nof numbers, a whole division rising at once. \"They are putting away work,\" said Madame. It was indeed the hour to put away work, but why that sudden hush--that\ninstant quell of the tumult? \"Wait, Madame--I will see what it is.\" And I put down my pen and left her. Left her? No: she would not be\nleft: powerless to detain me, she rose and followed, close as my\nshadow. I turned on the last step of the stair. \"Are you coming, too?\" I asked. \"Yes,\" said she; meeting my glance with a peculiar aspect--a look,\nclouded, yet resolute. We proceeded then, not together, but she walked in my steps. He was come. Entering the first classe, I saw him. There, once more\nappeared the form most familiar. I doubt not they had tried to keep him\naway, but he was come. The girls stood in a semicircle; he was passing round, giving his\nfarewells, pressing each hand, touching with his lips each cheek. This\nlast ceremony, foreign custom permitted at such a parting--so solemn,\nto last so long. I felt it hard that Madame Beck should dog me thus; following and\nwatching me close; my neck and shoulder shrunk in fever under her\nbreath; I became terribly goaded. He was approaching; the semicircle was almost travelled round; he came\nto the last pupil; he turned. But Madame was before me; she had stepped\nout suddenly; she seemed to magnify her proportions and amplify her\ndrapery; she eclipsed me; I was hid. She knew my weakness and\ndeficiency; she could calculate the degree of moral paralysis--the\ntotal default of self-assertion--with which, in a crisis, I could be\nstruck. She hastened to her kinsman, she broke upon him volubly, she\nmastered his attention, she hurried him to the door--the glass-door\nopening on the garden.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I think he looked round; could I but have caught\nhis eye, courage, I think, would have rushed in to aid feeling, and\nthere would have been a charge, and, perhaps, a rescue; but already the\nroom was all confusion, the semicircle broken into groups, my figure\nwas lost among thirty more conspicuous. Madame had her will; yes, she\ngot him away, and he had not seen me; he thought me absent. Five\no'clock struck, the loud dismissal-bell rang, the school separated, the\nroom emptied. There seems, to my memory, an entire darkness and distraction in some\ncertain minutes I then passed alone--a grief inexpressible over a loss\nunendurable. _What_ should I do; oh! _what_ should I do; when all my\nlife's hope was thus torn by the roots out of my riven, outraged heart? What I _should_ have done, I know not, when a little child--the least\nchild in the school--broke with its simplicity and its unconsciousness\ninto the raging yet silent centre of that inward conflict. \"Mademoiselle,\" lisped the treble voice, \"I am to give you that. M.\nPaul said I was to seek you all over the house, from the grenier to the\ncellar, and when I found you, to give you that.\" And the child delivered a note; the little dove dropped on my knee, its\nolive leaf plucked off. I found neither address nor name, only these\nwords:--\n\n\"It was not my intention to take leave of you when I said good-by to\nthe rest, but I hoped to see you in classe. I was disappointed. The\ninterview is deferred. Be ready for me. Ere I sail, I must see you at\nleisure, and speak with you at length. Be ready; my moments are\nnumbered, and, just now, monopolized; besides, I have a private\nbusiness on hand which I will not share with any, nor communicate--even\nto you.--PAUL.\" \"Be ready?\" Then it must be this evening: was he not to go on the\nmorrow? Yes; of that point I was certain. I had seen the date of his\nvessel's departure advertised. Oh! _I_ would be ready, but could that\nlonged-for meeting really be achieved? the time was so short, the\nschemers seemed so watchful, so active, so hostile; the way of access\nappeared strait as a gully, deep as a chasm--Apollyon straddled across\nit, breathing flames. Could my Greatheart overcome? Could my guide\nreach me? Who might tell? Yet I began to take some courage, some comfort; it\nseemed to me that I felt a pulse of his heart beating yet true to the\nwhole throb of mine. I waited my champion. Apollyon came trailing his Hell behind him. I\nthink if Eternity held torment, its form would not be fiery rack, nor\nits nature despair. I think that on a certain day amongst those days\nwhich never dawned, and will not set, an angel entered Hades--stood,\nshone, smiled, delivered a prophecy of conditional pardon, kindled a\ndoubtful hope of bliss to come, not now, but at a day and hour unlooked\nfor, revealed in his own glory and grandeur the height and compass of\nhis promise: spoke thus--then towering, became a star, and vanished\ninto his own Heaven. His legacy was suspense--a worse boon than despair. All that evening I waited, trusting in the dove-sent olive-leaf, yet in\nthe midst of my trust, terribly fearing. My fear pressed heavy. Cold\nand peculiar, I knew it for the partner of a rarely-belied\npresentiment. The first hours seemed long and slow; in spirit I clung\nto the flying skirts of the last. They passed like drift cloud--like\nthe wrack scudding before a storm. They passed. All the long, hot summer day burned away like a Yule-log;\nthe crimson of its close perished; I was left bent among the cool blue\nshades, over the pale and ashen gleams of its night. Prayers were over; it was bed-time; my co-inmates were all retired. I\nstill remained in the gloomy first classe, forgetting, or at least\ndisregarding, rules I had never forgotten or disregarded before. How long I paced that classe I cannot tell; I must have been afoot many\nhours; mechanically had I moved aside benches and desks, and had made\nfor myself a path down its length. There I walked, and there, when\ncertain that the whole household were abed, and quite out of\nhearing--there, I at last wept. Reliant on Night, confiding in\nSolitude, I kept my tears sealed, my sobs chained, no longer; they\nheaved my heart; they tore their way. In this house, what grief could\nbe sacred? Soon after eleven o'clock--a very late hour in the Rue Fossette--the\ndoor unclosed, quietly but not stealthily; a lamp's flame invaded the\nmoonlight; Madame Beck entered, with the same composed air, as if\ncoming on an ordinary occasion, at an ordinary season. Instead of at\nonce addressing me, she went to her desk, took her keys, and seemed to\nseek something: she loitered over this feigned search long, too long. She was calm, too calm; my mood scarce endured the pretence; driven\nbeyond common range, two hours since I had left behind me wonted\nrespects and fears. Led by a touch, and ruled by a word, under usual\ncircumstances, no yoke could now be borne--no curb obeyed. \"It is more than time for retirement,\" said Madame; \"the rule of the\nhouse has already been transgressed too long.\" Madame met no answer: I did not check my walk; when she came in my way,\nI put her out of it. \"Let me persuade you to calm, Meess; let me lead you to your chamber,\"\nsaid she, trying to speak softly. \"No!\" I said; \"neither you nor another shall persuade or lead me.\" \"Your bed shall be warmed. Goton is sitting up still. She shall make\nyou comfortable: she shall give you a sedative.\" \"Madame,\" I broke out, \"you are a sensualist. Under all your serenity,\nyour peace, and your decorum, you are an undenied sensualist. Make your\nown bed warm and soft; take sedatives and meats, and drinks spiced and\nsweet, as much as you will. If you have any sorrow or\ndisappointment--and, perhaps, you have--nay, I _know_ you have--seek\nyour own palliatives, in your own chosen resources. Leave me, however. _Leave me_, I say!\" \"I must send another to watch you, Meess: I must send Goton.\" \"I forbid it. Let me alone. Keep your hand off me, and my life, and my\ntroubles. Oh, Madame! in _your_ hand there is both chill and poison. You envenom and you paralyze.\" \"What have I done, Meess? You must not marry Paul. He cannot marry.\" \"Dog in the manger!\" I said: for I knew she secretly wanted him, and\nhad always wanted him. She called him \"insupportable:\" she railed at\nhim for a \"devot:\" she did not love, but she wanted to marry, that she\nmight bind him to her interest. Deep into some of Madame's secrets I\nhad entered--I know not how: by an intuition or an inspiration which\ncame to me--I know not whence. In the course of living with her too, I\nhad slowly learned, that, unless with an inferior, she must ever be a\nrival. She was _my_ rival, heart and soul, though secretly, under the\nsmoothest bearing, and utterly unknown to all save her and myself. Two minutes I stood over Madame, feeling that the whole woman was in my\npower, because in some moods, such as the present--in some stimulated\nstates of perception, like that of this instant--her habitual disguise,\nher mask and her domino, were to me a mere network reticulated with\nholes; and I saw underneath a being heartless, self-indulgent, and\nignoble. She quietly retreated from me: meek and self-possessed, though\nvery uneasy, she said, \"If I would not be persuaded to take rest, she\nmust reluctantly leave me.\" Which she did incontinent, perhaps even\nmore glad to get away, than I was to see her vanish. This was the sole flash-eliciting, truth-extorting, rencontre which\never occurred between me and Madame Beck: this short night-scene was\nnever repeated. It did not one whit change her manner to me. I do not\nknow that she revenged it.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I do not know that she hated me the worse\nfor my fell candour. I think she bucklered herself with the secret\nphilosophy of her strong mind, and resolved to forget what it irked her\nto remember. I know that to the end of our mutual lives there occurred\nno repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage. That night passed: all nights--even the starless night before\ndissolution--must wear away. About six o'clock, the hour which called\nup the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its\ncold, fresh well-water. Entering by the carre, a piece of mirror-glass,\nset in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed: my\ncheeks and lips were sodden white, my eyes were glassy, and my eyelids\nswollen and purple. On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me--my heart\nseemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously\ncertain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why\nand for whom I despaired. \"Isabelle,\" the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached\nme. Would she, too, mock me! \"Que vous etes pale! Vous etes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!\" said\nshe, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful\nstupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the\nkeenest intelligence. Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance:\nbefore the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the\nwhole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to\nread hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own\ncounsel--be his own secret's sovereign. In the course of that day,\nproof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was\nunguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was\nstill mine only. It was not known--it had not been noted--that I held\nin peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by;\ncuriosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering always\nround, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live\nin a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and\ngone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had\ncalled me, and I had obeyed him: \"M. Paul wants Miss Lucy\"--\"Miss Lucy\nis with M. Paul\"--such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody\ncommented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame\nBeck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was\ncalled illness--a headache: I accepted the baptism. But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he\nwas gone without a farewell--this cruel conviction that fate and\npursuing furies--a woman's envy and a priest's bigotry--would suffer me\nto see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like\nthe first--untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an\nunalterable passion of silent desolation? Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night--she did not\ncome near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe--a more efficient agent for the\npurpose she could not have employed. Ginevra's first words--\"Is your\nheadache very bad to-night?\" (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had\na headache--an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in\nthe face, and insanely restless in the foot)--her first words, I say,\ninspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of\nreach. And soon, what followed--plaints about her own\nheadaches--completed the business. I went up-stairs. Presently I was in my bed--my miserable bed--haunted\nwith quick scorpions. I had not been laid down five minutes, when\nanother emissary arrived: Goton came, bringing me something to drink. I\nwas consumed with thirst--I drank eagerly; the beverage was sweet, but\nI tasted a drug. \"Madame says it will make you sleep, chou-chou,\" said Goton, as she\nreceived back the emptied cup. Ah! the sedative had been administered. In fact, they had given me a\nstrong opiate. I was to be held quiet for one night. The household came to bed, the night-light was lit, the dormitory\nhushed. Sleep soon reigned: over those pillows, sleep won an easy\nsupremacy: contented sovereign over heads and hearts which did not\nache--he passed by the unquiet. The drug wrought. I know not whether Madame had overcharged or\nunder-charged the dose; its result was not that she intended. Instead\nof stupor, came excitement. I became alive to new thought--to reverie\npeculiar in colouring. A gathering call ran among the faculties, their\nbugles sang, their trumpets rang an untimely summons. Imagination was\nroused from her rest, and she came forth impetuous and venturous. With\nscorn she looked on Matter, her mate--\"Rise!\" she said. \"Sluggard! this\nnight I will have _my_ will; nor shalt thou prevail.\" \"Look forth and view the night!\" was her cry; and when I lifted the\nheavy blind from the casement close at hand--with her own royal\ngesture, she showed me a moon supreme, in an element deep and splendid. To my gasping senses she made the glimmering gloom, the narrow limits,\nthe oppressive heat of the dormitory, intolerable. She lured me to\nleave 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\nall silent, lone and safe; among these lay a huge stone basin--that\nbasin I knew, and beside which I had often stood--deep-set in the\ntree-shadows, brimming with cool water, clear, with a green, leafy,\nrushy bed. What of all this? The park-gates were shut up, locked,\nsentinelled: the place could not be entered. Could it not? A point worth considering; and while revolving it, I\nmechanically dressed. Utterly incapable of sleeping or lying\nstill--excited from head to foot--what could I do better than dress? The gates were locked, soldiers set before them: was there, then, no\nadmission to the park? The other day, in walking past, I had seen, without then attending to\nthe circumstance, a gap in the paling--one stake broken down: I now saw\nthis gap again in recollection--saw it very plainly--the narrow,\nirregular aperture visible between the stems of the lindens, planted\norderly as a colonnade. A man could not have made his way through that\naperture, nor could a stout woman, perhaps not Madame Beck; but I\nthought I might: I fancied I should like to try, and once within, at\nthis hour the whole park would be mine--the moonlight, midnight park! How soundly the dormitory slept! What deep slumbers! What quiet\nbreathing! How very still the whole large house! What was the time? I\nfelt restless to know. There stood a clock in the classe below: what\nhindered me from venturing down to consult it? By such a moon, its\nlarge white face and jet black figures must be vividly distinct. As for hindrance to this step, there offered not so much as a creaking\nhinge or a clicking latch. On these hot July nights, close air could\nnot be tolerated, and the chamber-door stood wide open. Will the\ndormitory-planks sustain my tread untraitorous? Yes. I know wherever a\nboard is loose, and will avoid it. The oak staircase creaks somewhat as\nI descend, but not much:--I am in the carre. The great classe-doors are close shut: they are bolted. On the other\nhand, the entrance to the corridor stands open. The classes seem to my\nthought, great dreary jails, buried far back beyond thoroughfares, and\nfor me, filled with spectral and intolerable Memories, laid miserable\namongst their straw and their manacles. The corridor offers a cheerful\nvista, leading to the high vestibule which opens direct upon the street. Hush!--the clock strikes. Ghostly deep as is the stillness of this\nconvent, it is only eleven. While my ear follows to silence the hum of\nthe last stroke, I catch faintly from the built-out capital, a sound\nlike bells or like a band--a sound where sweetness, where victory,\nwhere mourning blend.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-08 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Oh, to approach this music nearer, to listen to\nit alone by the rushy basin! Let me go--oh, let me go! What hinders,\nwhat does not aid freedom? There, in the corridor, hangs my garden-costume, my large hat, my\nshawl. There is no lock on the huge, heavy, porte-cochere; there is no\nkey to seek: it fastens with a sort of spring-bolt, not to be opened\nfrom the outside, but which, from within, may be noiselessly withdrawn. Can I manage it? It yields to my hand, yields with propitious facility. I wonder as that portal seems almost spontaneously to unclose--I wonder\nas I cross the threshold and step on the paved street, wonder at the\nstrange ease with which this prison has been forced. It seems as if I\nhad been pioneered invisibly, as if some dissolving force had gone\nbefore me: for myself, I have scarce made an effort. Quiet Rue Fossette! I find on this pavement that wanderer-wooing summer\nnight of which I mused; I see its moon over me; I feel its dew in the\nair. But here I cannot stay; I am still too near old haunts: so close\nunder the dungeon, I can hear the prisoners moan. This solemn peace is\nnot what I seek, it is not what I can bear: to me the face of that sky\nbears the aspect of a world's death. The park also will be calm--I\nknow, a mortal serenity prevails everywhere--yet let me seek the park. I took a route well known, and went up towards the palatial and royal\nHaute-Ville; thence the music I had heard certainly floated; it was\nhushed now, but it might re-waken. I went on: neither band nor bell\nmusic came to meet me; another sound replaced it, a sound like a strong\ntide, a great flow, deepening as I proceeded. Light broke, movement\ngathered, chimes pealed--to what was I coming? Entering on the level of\na Grande Place, I found myself, with the suddenness of magic, plunged\namidst a gay, living, joyous crowd. Villette is one blaze, one broad illumination; the whole world seems\nabroad; moonlight and heaven are banished: the town, by her own\nflambeaux, beholds her own splendour--gay dresses, grand equipages,\nfine horses and gallant riders throng the bright streets. I see even\nscores of masks. It is a strange scene, stranger than dreams. But where\nis the park?--I ought to be near it. In the midst of this glare the\npark must be shadowy and calm--_there_, at least, are neither torches,\nlamps, nor crowd? I was asking this question when an open carriage passed me filled with\nknown faces. Through the deep throng it could pass but slowly; the\nspirited horses fretted in their curbed ardour. I saw the occupants of\nthat carriage well: me they could not see, or, at least, not know,\nfolded close in my large shawl, screened with my straw hat (in that\nmotley crowd no dress was noticeably strange). I saw the Count de\nBassompierre; I saw my godmother, handsomely apparelled, comely and\ncheerful; I saw, too, Paulina Mary, compassed with the triple halo of\nher beauty, her youth, and her happiness. In looking on her countenance\nof joy, and eyes of festal light, one scarce remembered to note the\ngala elegance of what she wore; I know only that the drapery floating\nabout her was all white and light and bridal; seated opposite to her I\nsaw Graham Bretton; it was in looking up at him her aspect had caught\nits lustre--the light repeated in _her_ eyes beamed first out of his. It gave me strange pleasure to follow these friends viewlessly, and I\n_did_ follow them, as I thought, to the park. I watched them alight\n(carriages were inadmissible) amidst new and unanticipated splendours. Lo! the iron gateway, between the stone columns, was spanned by a\nflaming arch built of massed stars; and, following them cautiously\nbeneath that arch, where were they, and where was I? In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled\nwith coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and\ngolden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but\nof strangest architectural wealth--of altar and of temple, of pyramid,\nobelisk, and sphinx: incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of\nEgypt teemed throughout the park of Villette. No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine--the key of the\nmystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled--no matter that I quickly\nrecognised the material of these solemn fragments--the timber, the\npaint, and the pasteboard--these inevitable discoveries failed to quite\ndestroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter\nthat I now seized the explanation of the whole great fete--a fete of\nwhich the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened\nat dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight. In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate\nof Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights and\nliberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if\nnot wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets--a bustle--a\nrunning to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,\nsome calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a\nlittle of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old\nBasse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,\nholding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a\ncertain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the\nsaid patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory--the morning\nbeing given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening\ndevoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I\nnow saw. While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column--while\nfathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of\nwhich was couched a sphinx--I lost sight of the party which, from the\nmiddle of the great square, I had followed--or, rather, they vanished\nlike a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed a\ndream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement\nfloating, every voice echo-like--half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina\nand her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had really\nseen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far less\nregret them as protectors amidst the night. That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the\npeasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the\ndecent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My\nstraw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long\ncalico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the\nprecaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary\nribbon--and then I felt safe as if masked. Safe I passed down the avenues--safe I mixed with the crowd where it\nwas deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I\ntook a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air--the swell of\nsound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or\nHope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now--I scorned Despair. My vague aim, as I went, was to find the stone-basin, with its clear\ndepth and green lining: of that coolness and verdure I thought, with\nthe passionate thirst of unconscious fever. Amidst the glare, and\nhurry, and throng, and noise, I still secretly and chiefly longed to\ncome on that circular mirror of crystal, and surprise the moon glassing\ntherein her pearly front. I knew my route, yet it seemed as if I was hindered from pursuing it\ndirect: now a sight, and now a sound, called me aside, luring me down\nthis alley and down that. Already I saw the thick-planted trees which\nframed this tremulous and rippled glass, when, choiring out of a glade\nto the right, broke such a sound as I thought might be heard if Heaven\nwere to open--such a sound, perhaps, as _was_ heard above the plain of\nBethlehem, on the night of glad tidings.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-08, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The song, the sweet music, rose afar, but rushing swiftly on\nfast-strengthening pinions--there swept through these shades so full a\nstorm of harmonies that, had no tree been near against which to lean, I\nthink I must have dropped. Voices were there, it seemed to me,\nunnumbered; instruments varied and countless--bugle, horn, and trumpet\nI knew. The effect was as a sea breaking into song with all its waves. The swaying tide swept this way, and then it fell back, and I followed\nits retreat. It led me towards a Byzantine building--a sort of kiosk\nnear the park's centre. Round about stood crowded thousands, gathered\nto a grand concert in the open air. What I had heard was, I think, a\nwild Jaeger chorus; the night, the space, the scene, and my own mood,\nhad but enhanced the sounds and their impression. Here were assembled ladies, looking by this light most beautiful: some\nof their dresses were gauzy, and some had the sheen of satin, the\nflowers and the blond trembled, and the veils waved about their\ndecorated bonnets, as that host-like chorus, with its greatly-gathering\nsound, sundered the air above them. Most of these ladies occupied the\nlittle light park-chairs, and behind and beside them stood guardian\ngentlemen. The outer ranks of the crowd were made up of citizens,\nplebeians and police. In this outer rank I took my place. I rather liked to find myself the\nsilent, unknown, consequently unaccosted neighbour of the short\npetticoat and the sabot; and only the distant gazer at the silk robe,\nthe velvet mantle, and the plumed chapeau. Amidst so much life and joy,\ntoo, it suited me to be alone--quite alone. Having neither wish nor\npower to force my way through a mass so close-packed, my station was on\nthe farthest confines, where, indeed, I might hear, but could see\nlittle. \"Mademoiselle is not well placed,\" said a voice at my elbow. Who dared\naccost _me_, a being in a mood so little social? I turned, rather to\nrepel than to reply. I saw a man--a burgher--an entire stranger, as I\ndeemed him for one moment, but the next, recognised in him a certain\ntradesman--a bookseller, whose shop furnished the Rue Fossette with its\nbooks and stationery; a man notorious in our pensionnat for the\nexcessive brittleness of his temper, and frequent snappishness of his\nmanner, even to us, his principal customers: but whom, for my solitary\nself, I had ever been disposed to like, and had always found civil,\nsometimes kind; once, in aiding me about some troublesome little\nexchange of foreign money, he had done me a service. He was an\nintelligent man; under his asperity, he was a good-hearted man; the\nthought had sometimes crossed me, that a part of his nature bore\naffinity to a part of M. Emanuel's (whom he knew well, and whom I had\noften seen sitting on Miret's counter, turning over the current month's\npublications); and it was in this affinity I read the explanation of\nthat conciliatory feeling with which I instinctively regarded him. Strange to say, this man knew me under my straw-hat and closely-folded\nshawl; and, though I deprecated the effort, he insisted on making a way\nfor me through the crowd, and finding me a better situation. He carried\nhis disinterested civility further; and, from some quarter, procured me\na chair. Once and again, I have found that the most cross-grained are\nby no means the worst of mankind; nor the humblest in station, the\nleast polished in feeling. This man, in his courtesy, seemed to find\nnothing strange in my being here alone; only a reason for extending to\nme, as far as he could, a retiring, yet efficient attention. Having\nsecured me a place and a seat, he withdrew without asking a question,\nwithout obtruding a remark, without adding a superfluous word. No\nwonder that Professor Emanuel liked to take his cigar and his lounge,\nand to read his feuilleton in M. Miret's shop--the two must have suited. I had not been seated five minutes, ere I became aware that chance and\nmy worthy burgher friend had brought me once more within view of a\nfamiliar and domestic group. Right before me sat the Brettons and de\nBassompierres. Within reach of my hand--had I chosen to extend it--sat\na figure like a fairy-queen, whose array, lilies and their leaves\nseemed to have suggested; whatever was not spotless white, being\nforest-green. My godmother, too, sat so near, that, had I leaned\nforward, my breath might have stirred the ribbon of her bonnet. They\nwere too near; having been just recognised by a comparative stranger, I\nfelt uneasy at this close vicinage of intimate acquaintance. It made me quite start when Mrs. Bretton, turning to Mr. Home, and\nspeaking out of a kind impulse of memory, said,--\"I wonder what my\nsteady little Lucy would say to all this if she were here? I wish we\nhad brought her, she would have enjoyed it much.\" \"So she would, so she would, in her grave sensible fashion; it is a\npity but we had asked her,\" rejoined the kind gentleman; and added, \"I\nlike to see her so quietly pleased; so little moved, yet so content.\" Dear were they both to me, dear are they to this day in their\nremembered benevolence. Little knew they the rack of pain which had\ndriven Lucy almost into fever, and brought her out, guideless and\nreckless, urged and drugged to the brink of frenzy. I had half a mind\nto bend over the elders' shoulders, and answer their goodness with the\nthanks of my eyes. M. de Bassompierre did not well know _me_, but I\nknew _him_, and honoured and admired his nature, with all its plain\nsincerity, its warm affection, and unconscious enthusiasm. Possibly I\nmight have spoken, but just then Graham turned; he turned with one of\nhis stately firm movements, so different from those, of a\nsharp-tempered under-sized man: there was behind him a throng, a\nhundred ranks deep; there were thousands to meet his eye and divide its\nscrutiny--why then did he concentrate all on me--oppressing me with the\nwhole force of that full, blue, steadfast orb? Why, if he _would_ look,\ndid not one glance satisfy him? why did he turn on his chair, rest his\nelbow on its back, and study me leisurely? He could not see my face, I\nheld it down; surely, he _could_ not recognise me: I stooped, I turned,\nI _would_ not be known. He rose, by some means he contrived to\napproach, in two minutes he would have had my secret: my identity would\nhave been grasped between his, never tyrannous, but always powerful\nhands. There was but one way to evade or to check him. I implied, by a\nsort of supplicatory gesture, that it was my prayer to be let alone;\nafter that, had he persisted, he would perhaps have seen the spectacle\nof Lucy incensed: not all that was grand, or good, or kind in him (and\nLucy felt the full amount) should have kept her quite tame, or\nabsolutely inoffensive and shadowlike. He looked, but he desisted. He\nshook his handsome head, but he was mute. He resumed his seat, nor did\nhe again turn or disturb me by a glance, except indeed for one single\ninstant, when a look, rather solicitous than curious, stole my\nway--speaking what somehow stilled my heart like \"the south-wind\nquieting the earth.\" Graham's thoughts of me were not entirely those of\na frozen indifference, after all. I believe in that goodly mansion, his\nheart, he kept one little place under the sky-lights where Lucy might\nhave entertainment, if she chose to call. It was not so handsome as the\nchambers where he lodged his male friends; it was not like the hall\nwhere he accommodated his philanthropy, or the library where he\ntreasured his science, still less did it resemble the pavilion where\nhis marriage feast was splendidly spread; yet, gradually, by long and\nequal kindness, he proved to me that he kept one little closet, over\nthe door of which was written \"Lucy's Room.\" I kept a place for him,\ntoo--a place of which I never took the measure, either by rule or\ncompass: I think it was like the tent of Peri-Banou. All my life long I\ncarried it folded in the hollow of my hand yet, released from that hold\nand constriction, I know not but its innate capacity for expanse might\nhave magnified it into a tabernacle for a host.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Forbearing as he was to-night, I could not stay in this proximity; this\ndangerous place and seat must be given up: I watched my opportunity,\nrose, and stole away. He might think, he might even believe that Lucy\nwas contained within that shawl, and sheltered under that hat; he never\ncould be certain, for he did not see my face. Surely the spirit of restlessness was by this time appeased? Had I not\nhad enough of adventure? Did I not begin to flag, quail, and wish for\nsafety under a roof? Not so. I still loathed my bed in the school\ndormitory more than words can express: I clung to whatever could\ndistract thought. Somehow I felt, too, that the night's drama was but\nbegun, that the prologue was scarce spoken: throughout this woody and\nturfy theatre reigned a shadow of mystery; actors and incidents\nunlooked-for, waited behind the scenes: I thought so foreboding told me\nas much. Straying at random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was\nbrought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering\nsingly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it a\nmore scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and\nsomewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to\nsoothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here\nhad chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late\nas was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it\nhad not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng. Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem,\nlifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a\nseat--a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to\none, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this\nsite standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a\nlady, holding by the hand a little girl. When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round\non her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flinging herself\nfrom side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse\nmovements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character\nfearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the\nchild's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the\nwhite bonnet--the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb\nof a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Desiree Beck--and\nDesiree Beck it was--she, or an imp in her likeness. I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole\nwould have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one\ndegree, ere it reached its climax. On whose hand could the amiable Desiree swing thus selfishly, whose\nglove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with\nimpunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample\ninsolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother? And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet--there,\nfresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant--there stood Madame Beck. Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Desiree in her\ncrib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the\njust, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue\nFossette. Most certainly also they did not picture \"Meess Lucie\"\notherwise engaged; and here we all three were taking our \"ebats\" in the\nfete-blazing park at midnight! The fact was, Madame was only acting according to her quite justifiable\nwont. I remembered now I had heard it said among the teachers--though\nwithout at the time particularly noticing the gossip--that often, when\nwe thought Madame in her chamber, sleeping, she was gone, full-dressed,\nto take her pleasure at operas, or plays, or balls. Madame had no sort\nof taste for a monastic life, and took care--largely, though\ndiscreetly--to season her existence with a relish of the world. Half a dozen gentlemen of her friends stood about her. Amongst these, I\nwas not slow to recognise two or three. There was her brother, M.\nVictor Kint; there was another person, moustached and with long hair--a\ncalm, taciturn man, but whose traits bore a stamp and a semblance I\ncould not mark unmoved. Amidst reserve and phlegm, amidst contrasts of\ncharacter and of countenance, something there still was which recalled\na face--mobile, fervent, feeling--a face changeable, now clouded, and\nnow alight--a face from my world taken away, for my eyes lost, but\nwhere my best spring-hours of life had alternated in shadow and in\nglow; that face, where I had often seen movements so near the signs of\ngenius--that why there did not shine fully out the undoubted fire, the\nthing, the spirit, and the secret itself--I could never tell. Yes--this\nJosef Emanuel--this man of peace--reminded me of his ardent brother. Besides Messieurs Victor and Josef, I knew another of this party. This\nthird person stood behind and in the shade, his attitude too was\nstooping, yet his dress and bald white head made him the most\nconspicuous figure of the group. He was an ecclesiastic: he was Pere\nSilas. Do not fancy, reader, that there was any inconsistency in the\npriest's presence at this fete. This was not considered a show of\nVanity Fair, but a commemoration of patriotic sacrifice. The Church\npatronised it, even with ostentation. There were troops of priests in\nthe park that night. Pere Silas stooped over the seat with its single occupant, the rustic\nbench and that which sat upon it: a strange mass it was--bearing no\nshape, yet magnificent. You saw, indeed, the outline of a face, and\nfeatures, but these were so cadaverous and so strangely placed, you\ncould almost have fancied a head severed from its trunk, and flung at\nrandom on a pile of rich merchandise. The distant lamp-rays glanced on\nclear pendants, on broad rings; neither the chasteness of moonlight,\nnor the distance of the torches, could quite subdue the gorgeous dyes\nof the drapery. Hail, Madame Walravens! I think you looked more\nwitch-like than ever. And presently the good lady proved that she was\nindeed no corpse or ghost, but a harsh and hardy old woman; for, upon\nsome aggravation in the clamorous petition of Desiree Beck to her\nmother, to go to the kiosk and take sweetmeats, the hunchback suddenly\nfetched her a resounding rap with her gold-knobbed cane. There, then, were Madame Walravens, Madame Beck, Pere Silas--the whole\nconjuration, the secret junta. The sight of them thus assembled did me\ngood. I cannot say that I felt weak before them, or abashed, or\ndismayed. They outnumbered me, and I was worsted and under their feet;\nbut, as yet, I was not dead.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-10", "answer": "Lucy, M. Paul, Madame Beck, Silas, Beck, Ginevra Fanshawe, Goton, Brettons, de Bassompierres, Mrs. Bretton, M. de Bassompierre, Dr. John, Polly, Desiree, Pere Silas, Madame Walravens, M. Miret, Villette, Haute-Ville, classroom, garden fence, sunhat, shawl, sedative, letter translation, small school dream, religious understanding, interrupted proposal, friendship, abandonment, mysterious business, fiery passage, sensualist accusation, school advantage, fete night, carriage, music, public space, energized state, disguise, secret junta, conspiracy, shadows, sincere friendship, affection shift, solitude, entertainment, hand-holding, note from M. Paul, waiting up all night"}]