CHAPTER VII. VILLETTE.

yappealandhalf-doubtofthewisdomofinterference. “DoaskhimIwoulddoasmuchforyou,”saidI. Idon’tknowwhetherhesmiled,buthesaidinagentlemanlytone—thatistosay,atonenothardnorterrifying,—“Whatsortoftrunkwasyours?” Idescribedit,includinginmydescriptionthegreenribbon.Andforthwithhetooktheconductorunderhand,andIfelt,throughallthestormofFrenchwhichfollowed,thatherakedhimforeandaft.Presentlyhereturnedtome. “Thefellowavershewasoverloaded,andconfessesthatheremovedyourtrunkafteryousawitputon,andhasleftitbehindatBoue-Marinewithotherparcelshehaspromised,however,toforwarditto-morrowthedayafter,therefore,youwillfinditsafeatthisbureau.” “Thankyou,”saidI:butmyheartsank. MeantimewhatshouldIdo?PerhapsthisEnglishgentlemansawthefailureofcourageinmyfaceheinquiredkindly,“Haveyouanyfriendsinthiscity?” “No,andIdon’tknowwheretogo.” Therewasalittlepause,inthecourseofwhich,asheturnedmorefullytothelightofalampabovehim,Isawthathewasayoung,distinguished,andhandsomemanhemightbealord,foranythingIknew:naturehadmadehimgoodenoughforaprince,Ithought.Hisfacewasverypleasanthelookedhighbutnotarrogant,manlybutnotoverbearing.Iwasturningaway,inthedeepconsciousnessofallabsenceofclaimtolookforfurtherhelpfromsuchaoneashe. “Wasallyourmoneyinyourtrunk?”heasked,stoppingme. HowthankfulwasItobeabletoanswerwithtruth—“No.Ihaveenoughinmypurse”(forIhadneartwentyfrancs)“tokeepmeataquietinntillthedayafterto-morrowbutIamquiteastrangerinVillette,anddon’tknowthestreetsandtheinns.” “Icangiveyoutheaddressofsuchaninnasyouwant,”saidhe“anditisnotfaroff:withmydirectionyouwilleasilyfindit.” Hetorealeaffromhispocket-book,wroteafewwordsandgaveittome.Ididthinkhimkindandastodistrustinghim,orhisadvice,orhisaddress,IshouldalmostassoonhavethoughtofdistrustingtheBible.Therewasgoodnessinhiscountenance,andhonourinhisbrighteyes. “YourshortestwaywillbetofollowtheBoulevardandcrossthepark,”hecontinued“butitistoolateandtoodarkforawomantogothroughtheparkaloneIwillstepwithyouthusfar.” Hemovedon,andIfollowedhim,throughthedarknessandthesmallsoakingrain.TheBoulevardwasalldeserted,itspathmiry,thewaterdrippingfromitstreestheparkwasblackasmidnight.Inthedoublegloomoftreesandfog,IcouldnotseemyguideIcouldonlyfollowhistread.NottheleastfearhadI:IbelieveIwouldhavefollowedthatfranktread,throughcontinualnight,totheworld’send. “Now,”saidhe,whentheparkwastraversed,“youwillgoalongthisbroadstreettillyoucometostepstwolampswillshowyouwheretheyare:thesestepsyouwilldescend:anarrowerstreetliesbelowfollowingthat,atthebottomyouwillfindyourinn.TheyspeakEnglishthere,soyourdifficultiesarenowprettywellover.Good-night.” “Good-night,sir,”saidI:“acceptmysincerestthanks.”Andweparted. Theremembranceofhiscountenance,whichIamsureworealightnotunbenignanttothefriendless—thesoundinmyearofhisvoice,whichspokeanaturechivalrictotheneedyandfeeble,aswellastheyouthfulandfair—wereasortofcordialtomelongafter.HewasatrueyoungEnglishgentleman. OnIwent,hurryingfastthroughamagnificentstreetandsquare,withthegrandesthousesround,andamidstthemthehugeoutlineofmorethanoneoverbearingpilewhichmightbepalaceorchurch—Icouldnottell.JustasIpassedaportico,twomustachioedmencamesuddenlyfrombehindthepillarstheyweresmokingcigars:theirdressimpliedpretensionstotherankofgentlemen