第107页
《简·爱(英文版)》章节:第107页,宠文网网友提供全文无弹窗免费在线阅读。!
'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, etc. 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 muffled 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