The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance, remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph, curious to see how much it could swallow—whether it was possible it could feed to satiety—whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart and moderate its vainglorious exultation.
Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtsying with mock respect, she said,—
“I would not be you for a kingdom.”
The remark was too naïve to rouse anger. I merely said,—
“Very good.”
“And what would you give to be me?” she inquired.
“Not a bad sixpence, strange as it may sound,” I replied. “You are but a poor creature.”
“You don’t think so in your heart.”
“No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place. I only occasionally turn you over in my brain.”
“Well, but,” said she, in an expostulatory tone, “just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I and how miserable are you.”
“Go on. I listen.”
“In the first place, I am the daughter of a gentleman of family; and though my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle. Then, I am just eighteen—the finest age possible. I have had a Continental education, and though I can’t spell, I have abundant accomplishments. I am pretty; you can’t deny that. I may have as many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking the hearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of them just now which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turn red and pale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other and languishing ones at me. There is me—happy me. Now for you, poor soul!
“I suppose you are nobody’s daughter, since you took care of little children when you first came to Villette. You have no relations; you can’t call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractive accomplishments, no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what they are; you can’t even talk on the subject. You sit dumb when the other teachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, and never will be; you don’t know the feeling. And so much the better, for though you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will you ever break. Isn’t it all true?”
“A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There must be good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly. That snake, Zélie St. Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe, hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not give to purchase you, body and soul.”
“Just because I am not clever, and that is all you think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness.”
“On the contrary, I consider you are clever, in your way—very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts—that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don’t quite enter. Pray, on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?”
She approached her lips to my ear. “Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are both here,” she whispered.