We are nearly done with Villette, and I will go ahead and say right now that it’s not Charlotte Bronte’s best work. And I am not just saying that because I’m mad that Lu Paul turned out to be such a dud! It’s also that Villette lacks both the focus and the craziness that make Jane Eyre such a treat. Luckily this was a short reading section, and I didn’t have that much time to get mad at Lucy.
“Not that much time,” however, does not equal “no time.” Lucy goes out to do some errands for M. Beck but not like, the kind of errands a servant would do. No indeed. Ladylike errands. She has a basket of fresh fruit to deliver, but because Lucy cannot be bothered about other people’s lives, she spends hours wandering around and doing errands before she goes deliver the fruit. Like I dunno, Lucy, maybe deliver fruit first, do errands after? So the fresh fruit stays fresh?
So Lucy gets stranded way out at this old lady’s house. While she’s chilling there, she meets the same priest who helped her out before, but she doesn’t recognize him. Lucy. Seriously? You recognized Dr. John after how many years? But you can’t be bothered remembering the face of the guy who was super nice to you in your time of need?
Anyway. Pere Silas tells her the story of a beautiful and virginal girl called Justine Marie who was forbidden to be with her lover, so she went straight into a convent and died of sadness. Her family thereafter fell upon hard times, and when her father died, and her mother and grandmother were left penniless, Justine Marie’s former lover swooped in and helped them out.
And that lover.
Was.
M. Paul!
Lucy is touched by this — I mean, as you would be. That’s actually really nice. She decides she’s not threatened by Justine Marie because she figures Justine Marie was probably insipid and terrible. I figure Justine Marie is the ghost nun and that there will be an insane supernatural showdown in the last few chapters. Except, like, that would be an outcome I would enjoy, and Charlotte Bronte has been pretty resistant to those so far in this book.
But here’s something Charlotte Bronte can never take away from me:
[M. Paul’s dog] was very tiny, and had the prettiest little innocent face, the silkiest long ears, the finest dark eyes in the world. I never saw her, but I thought of Paulina de Bassompierre: forgive the association, reader, it would occur.
Bahahahahahahah. Lucy, you’re a garbage friend.
Tune in next time for the disappointing conclusion to Lucy’s romance with M. Paul and probably NO GHOST NUN SHOWDOWNS AT ALL, even though that would be amazing.