Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was oernoon, when he ced 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 avehin sight of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, e Varens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a “grande passion.” This passion e 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’athlète” 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 ghat I installed her in an hotel; gave her a plete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, & short, I began the process of ruining myself in the received style, like any other spoony. I had not, it seems, the inality to chalk out a new road to shame aru, but trode the old track with stupid exaess not to deviate an inch from the beatere. I had—as I deserved to have—the fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when e 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 secrated so lately by her preseno,—I exaggerate; I hought there was any secrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a st of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to stifle with the fumes of servatory flowers and sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to open the window and step out on to the baly. It was moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and serehe baly 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 produg and lighting of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah inse 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 fits, and smoking alternately, watg meahe equipages that rolled along the fashioreets towards the neighb opera-house, when in a close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I reised the ‘voiture’ I had given e. 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 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 baly, 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 urred heel which had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head whiow passed uhe arched porte cochère of the hotel.
“You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love. You have both ses yet to experience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it. You think all existence lapses in as quiet
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