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We cross the Square obliquely and at No. 6, Victor Hugo's old house, find a delightful little museum of portraits, busts, casts, illustrations of his works in various mediums, and personal and intimate objects belonging to the poet. It was at this house that in 1847 the two greatest novelists of their age met.
Memories of the departed greeted Cally upon the threshold, and thereafter; only they were not poignant now. Hugo's face kept rising mistily beside the so different visage of the man he had instinctively disliked, his ancient hoodoo.... This was to be a meeting like none other Cally had ever had with the stranger in her house, a happy meeting, troubled by no shadow.
Something was wrong: some dark intention must be in Hugo's mind, or he would not have planned so carefully to keep the household out of Mrs. Luttrell's room. She remembered that she had seen a light in a bed-room near Hugo's own the room where Stevens usually slept. Should she rouse him and ask for his assistance?
There was an unusual meaning in Sir Hugo's look, and a subdued emotion in his voice, as he said "No, Dan, no. Sit down. I have something to say." Deronda obeyed, not without presentiment. It was extremely rare for Sir Hugo to show so much serious feeling. "Not to grieve me, my boy, no. At least, if there is nothing in it that will grieve you too much.
You rascal Hugo, you nefer tell nodding to your ole friend Stefan, but he know all de same. But vhen I got to go I couldn't say nodding. I leaf de paper on de table here an' I tank how happy he is vhen he come home an' find it. You poor leetle leddy!" The man was mistaken, most honestly so, for no idea of love had ever entered Hugo's head, and none had come to Madge.
So much I may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads!" And then Mr. Colquhoun launched out upon the story of Mrs. But at the close of the narrative, the lawyer remembered Hugo's opening question. "And how did you come to know anything about it?" he said. Hugo's answer was ready.
"He said that after that story was published in the press about Hugo's damning patriotism and hurrahing for the Browns it was fearfully exaggerated his old father and mother shut themselves up in the house and would not show their faces for shame. But his sweetheart, however much her parents stormed, refused to renounce him.
"In Victor Hugo's dramas," he remarked, "there are some fine lines and noble passages, but the characters are always Victor Hugo in a mask: they are never real personages. It is always the author who speaks never a new individuality. As to the classic dramatists of France, they are intolerable.
All present, down to the least important farmer's daughter, knew that they were to see "young Grandcourt," Sir Hugo's nephew, the presumptive heir and future baronet, now visiting the Abbey with his bride after an absence of many years; any coolness between uncle and nephew having, it is understood, given way to a friendly warmth.
Two people, however, took Hugo's attitude of profound dejection in the way he expected and liked it to be taken. These were Mr. Withells and Hannah. Mr. Withells did not bear Jan a grudge because of her momentary lapse from good manners.
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