Villette by Charlotte Brontë Contents I. BRETTON II. PAULINA III. THE PLAYMATES IV. MISS MARCHMONT V. TURNING A NEW LEAF VI. LONDON VII. VILLETTE VIII. MADAME BECK IX. ISIDORE X. DR. JOHN XI. THE PORTRESS’S CABINET XII. THE CASKET XIII. A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON XIV. THE FÊTE XV. THE LONG VACATION XVI. AULD LANG SYNE XVII. LA TERRASSE XVIII. WE QUARREL XIX. THE CLEOPATRA XX. THE CONCERT XXI. REACTION XXII. THE LETTER XXIII. VASHTI XXIV. M. DE BASSOMPIERRE XXV. THE LITTLE COUNTESS XXVI. A BURIAL XXVII. THE HÔTEL CRÉCY XXVIII. THE WATCHGUARD XXIX. MONSIEUR’S FÊTE XXX. M. PAUL XXXI. THE DRYAD XXXII. THE FIRST LETTER XXXIII. M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE XXXIV. MALEVOLA XXXV. FRATERNITY XXXVI. THE APPLE OF DISCORD XXXVII. SUNSHINE XXXVIII. CLOUD XXXIX. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE XL. THE HAPPY PAIR XLI. FAUBOURG CLOTILDE XLII. FINIS VILLETTE. CHAPTER I. BRETTON. My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Bretton. Her husband’s family had been residents there for generations, and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace—Bretton of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his neighbourhood, I know not. When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well I liked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The large peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide windows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street, where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide—so quiet was its atmosphere, so clean its pavement—these things pleased me well. One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of, and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton, who had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her husband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and handsome woman. She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall, well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the clearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pair of fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity that she had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes were blue—though, even in boyhood, very piercing—and the colour of his long hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sun shone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited the lines of his mother’s features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or the promise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what was better, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone and equality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.