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 FragmentWelcome to consult...m till,
having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before
him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming—

“Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté;” then
rising, she added, “C’est comme cela que maman faisait, n’est-ce
pas, monsieur?”

“Pre-cise-ly!” was the answer; “and, ‘comme cela,’ she charmed
my English gold out of my British breeches’ pocket. I have been

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green, too, Miss Eyre,—ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint
freshens you now than once freshened me. My Spring is gone,
however, but it has left me that French floweret on my hands,
which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not valuing now the
root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort which
nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the
blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it
and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating
numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I’ll explain all
this some day. Good-night.”

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Chapter XV

Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was
one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adèle
in the grounds: and while she played with Pilot and her
shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long beech
avenue within sight of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-
dancer, Céline Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what
he called a “grande passion.” This passion Céline 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 Belvedere.

“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, &c. 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 Céline 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

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Jane Eyre 202

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 Céline. 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 muffed in a cloak—an
unnecessary encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so