Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one

afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds: and

while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk

up and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.

He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer,

Celine Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a

"grande passion." This passion Celine had professed to return with

even superior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was:

he believed, as he said, that she preferred his "taille d'athlete"

to the elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.

"And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of the

Gallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her in an

hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage,

cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I began the process

of ruining myself in the received style, like any other spoony. I

had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out a new road to shame

and destruction, but trode the old track with stupid exactness not

to deviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had--as I deserved to

have--the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening

when Celine did not expect me, I found her out; but it was a warm

night, and I was tired with strolling through Paris, so I sat down

in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air consecrated so lately by

her presence. No,--I exaggerate; I never thought there was any

consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille

perfume she had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an odour of

sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of

conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself

to open the window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight

and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony was

furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out a cigar,--I

will take one now, if you will excuse me."

Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting of a

cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah

incense on the freezing and sunless air, he went on "I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was croquant--

(overlook the barbarism)--croquant chocolate comfits, and smoking

alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled along the

fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house, when in an

elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses,

and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the

'voiture' I had given Celine. She was returning: of course my

heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant upon.

The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door; my flame

(that is the very word for an opera inamorata) alighted: though

muffed in a cloak--an unnecessary encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so

warm a June evening--I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen

peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she skipped from the

carriage-step. Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur 'Mon

ange'--in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of

love alone--when a figure jumped from the carriage after her;

cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the

pavement, and that was a hatted head which now passed under the

arched porte cochere of the hotel.




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