The time till the Christmas holidays was so short that my faith,
quickened as it had been by my last conversation with Alissa, never
for a moment wavered. As I had resolved, I wrote to her at length
every Sunday; during the rest of the week I kept apart from my
fellow-students, and frequented hardly anyone but Abel; I lived with
the thought of Alissa, and covered my favourite books with notes meant
for her eye, subordinating the interest I sought in them myself to the
interest which they might have for her. Her letters caused me some
uneasiness; and though she answered mine pretty regularly, her keenness
to keep up with me seemed, I thought, to come more from anxiety to
encourage my work than from her own spontaneous inclination; and it
even seemed to me that, while on my part reflections, discussions,
criticisms were only means towards expressing my thoughts, she, on the
contrary, took advantage of all these things to conceal hers. Sometimes
I wondered whether she were not actually taking pleasure in this as
in a kind of game. No matter! I was firmly resolved to complain of
nothing, and I let no trace of anxiety transpire in my letters.
* * * * *
Towards the end of December, then, Abel and I left for Le Havre.
I was to stay with Aunt Plantier. She was not in when I arrived, but I
had hardly time to settle into my room when a servant came to tell me
that she was waiting for me in the drawing-room.
She had no sooner finished enquiring after my health, my surroundings,
my studies, than, without more ado, she gave way to her affectionate
curiosity:
“You haven’t told me yet, my dear, whether you were pleased with your
stay at Fongueusemare? Were you able to advance matters at all?”
I had to put up with my aunt’s good-natured tactlessness, however
painful it might be to hear her speak so summarily of feelings for
which the purest and gentlest words would still have seemed too
brutal; yet her tone was so simple and so cordial that it would
have been senseless to take offence. Nevertheless, I could not help
objecting a little.
“Didn’t you say last spring that you thought an engagement would be
premature?”
“Yes, I know; one always says that to begin with,” she started off
again, seizing one of my hands, which she pressed with emotion between
both of hers. “Besides, on account of your studies and your military
service, you won’t be able to marry for several years, I know.
Moreover, personally I don’t approve of long engagements. They’re
trying for young girls, though sometimes it’s very touching to see ...
for that matter it’s not necessary to make the engagement public ...
only then one can give people to understand--oh! very discreetly--that
there’s no further need to be on the look-out; and besides, it
authorises your correspondence, your intimacy; and, moreover, if anyone
else came forward--and it might very well happen,” she insinuated with
a knowing smile, “one is able just to hint that ... no, it’s not worth
while. You know there’s been an offer for Juliette! She has attracted a
great deal of attention this winter. She’s still rather young, which
is what she answered; but the young man suggested waiting; he’s not
exactly a young man, either ... in short, he’s a very good match, a
very reliable person. Well! you’ll see him to-morrow; he’s going to be
at my Christmas Tree. You’ll tell me what you think of him.”
“I’m afraid, Aunt Félicie, that it’s labour lost on his part, and that
Juliette has someone else in her mind,” said I, making a great effort
not to mention Abel straight off.
“Hum?” said Aunt Félicie, enquiringly, and putting her head on one side
with an incredulous look. “You surprise me! Why should she not have
told me anything about it?”