Chapter 15 Mr. Rochester did, on a future occasion,

explain it. It was one afternoon when he chanced to meet me, and Adele in the grounds, and

while she played with pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long beach

avenue, within sight of her. He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera dancer,

Celine Verens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a grand passion. This passion

Celine had professed to return with even superior order. He thought himself her idol, ugly

as he was. He believed, as he said, that she preferred him to the elegance of the Apollo

Belvedere. And Miss Er, so much was I flattered by this preference of the Gallic self for

her British gnome, that I installed her in a hotel, gave her a complete establishment of

servants, the carriage, cashmere's diamonds, etc. In short, I began the process of ruining myself

in the received style, like any other Spoonie. I had not, it seems, the originality to chalk out a

new road to shame and destruction, but trod the old track with stupid exactness, not to deviate

an inch from the beaten center. 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 of strolling through Paris, so I sat down in her Budoir, 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 pastile perfume she had left, a scent of

musk and amber, than an odor 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 onto the balcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides and very still and serene.

The balcony was furnished with a chair too. I sat down and took out a cigar. I will take one now,

if you will excuse me. Here, in Souda-Paul's, filled by the producing and lighting of a cigar,

...