To begin, I am a
Frenchman, a teacher of languages and a poor man;--necessarily a poor man, as
the great world would say, or I should not be a teacher of languages and my wife
a copyist of great pictures, selling her copies at small prices. In our own
eyes, it is true, we are not so poor--my Clelie and I. Looking back upon our
past we congratulate ourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time
when we were poorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover,
in London instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor, to
teach, to live apart, not even knowing each other--and in England! In England
we spent years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we were chilled by east
winds, and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove to conciliate the appalling
English; we were discouraged and desolate. But this, thank lebon Dieu! is past.
We are united; we have our little apartment--upon the fifth floor, it is true,
but still not hopelessly far from the Champs Elysees. Clelie paints her little
pictures, or copies those of some greater artist, and finds sale for them. She
is not a great artist herself, and is charmingly conscious of the fact.
"At fifteen,"
she says, "I regretted that I was not a genius; at five and twenty, I
rejoice that I made the discovery so early, and so gave myself time to become
grateful for the small gifts bestowed upon me. Why should I eat out my heart
with envy? Is it not possible that I might be a less clever woman than I am,
and a less lucky one?"
On my part I have my
pupils,--French pupils who take lessons in English, German, or Italian; English
or American pupils who generally learn French, and, upon the whole, I do not suffer
from lack of patrons.
It is my habit when
Clelie is at work upon a copy in one of the great galleries to accompany her to
the scene of her labor in the morning and call for her at noon, and, in
accordance with this habit, I made my way to the Louvre at midday upon one
occasion three years ago.
I found my wife busy at
her easel in the Grande Galerie, and when I approached her and laid my hand
upon her shoulder, as was my wont, she looked up with a smile and spoke to me
in a cautious undertone.
"I am glad,"
she said, "that you are not ten minutes later. Look at those extraordinary
people."
She still leaned back
in her chair and looked up at me, but made, at the same time, one of those
indescribable movements of the head which a clever woman can render so
significant.
This slight gesture
directed me at once to the extraordinary people to whom she referred.
"Are they not
truly wonderful?" she asked.
There were two of them,
evidently father and daughter, and they sat side by side upon a seat placed in
an archway, and regarded hopelessly one of the finest works in the gallery. The
father was a person undersized and elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as
if with years of rough out-door labor; the effect produced upon him by his
clothes was plainly one of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His
stiff hands refused to meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body
shrank from his garments; if he had not been pathetic, he would have been
ridiculous. But he was pathetic. It was evident that he was not so attired of
his own free will, that only a patient nature, inured by long custom to
discomfort, sustained him,--that he was in the gallery under protest,--that he
did not understand the paintings, and that they perplexed--overwhelmed him.
The daughter it is
almost impossible to describe, and yet I must attempt to describe her. She had
a slender and pretty figure; there were slight marks of the sun on her face
also, and, as in her father's case, the richness of her dress was set at
defiance by a strong element of incongruousness. She had black hair and gray
eyes, and she sat with folded hands staring at the picture before her in dumb
uninterestedness.
Clelie had taken up her
brush again, and was touching up her work here and there.
"They have been
here two hours," she said. "They are waiting for some one. At first
they tried to look about them as others did. They wandered from seat to seat,
and sat down, and looked as you see them doing now. What do you think of them?
To what nation should you ascribe them?"
"They are not
French," I answered. "And they are not English."
"If she was English,"
said Clelie, "the girl would be more conscious of herself, and of what we
might possibly be saying. She is only conscious that she is out of place and
miserable. She does not care for us at all. I have never seen Americans like
them before, but I am convinced that they are Americans."
She laid aside her
working materials and proceeded to draw on her gloves.
"We will go and
look at that `Tentation de St. Antoine' of Teniers," she said,"and we
may hear them speak. I confess I am devoured by an anxiety to hear them
speak."
Accordingly, a few
moments later an amiable young couple stood before "La Tentation,"
regarding it with absorbed and critical glances.
But the father and
daughter did not seem to see us. They looked disconsolately about them, or at
the picture before which they sat. Finally, however, we were rewarded by
hearing them speak to each other. The father addressed the young lady slowly
and deliberately, and with an accent which, but for my long residence in
England and familiarity with some forms of its patois, I should find it
impossible to transcribe.
"Esmeraldy,"
he said, "your ma's a long time a-comin'."
"Yes,"
answered the girl, with the same accent, and in a voice wholly listless and
melancholy, "she's a long time."
Clelie favored me with
one of her rapid side glances. The study of character is her grand passion, and
her special weakness is a fancy for the singular and incongruous. I have seen
her stand in silence, and regard with positive interest one of her former
patronesses who was overwhelming her with contumelious violence, seeming
entirely un-conscious of all else but that the woman was of a species novel to
her, and therefore worthy of delicate observation.
"It is as I
said," she whispered. "They are Americans, but of an order entirely
new."
Almost the next instant
she touched my arm.
"Here is the
mother!" she exclaimed. "She is coming this way. See!"
A woman advanced
rapidly toward our part of the gallery,--a small, angry woman, with an
ungraceful figure, and a keen brown eye. She began to speak aloud while still
several feet distant from the waiting couple.
"Come along,"
she said. "I've found a place at last, though I've been all the morning at
it,--and the woman who keeps the door speaks English."
"They call 'em,"
remarked the husband, meekly rising, "con-ser-ges. I wonder why."
The girl rose also,
still with her hopeless, abstracted air, and followed the mother, who led the
way to the door. Seeing her move forward, my wife uttered an admiring
exclamation.
"She is more
beautiful than I thought," she said. "She holds herself marvelously.
She moves with the freedom of some fine wild creature."
And, as the party
disappeared from view, her regret at losing them drew from her a sigh. She
discussed them with characteristic enthusiasm all the way home. She even
concocted a very probable little romance. One would always imagine so many
things concerning Americans. They were so extraordinary a people; they acquired
wealth by such peculiar means; their country was so immense; their resources
were so remarkable. These persons, for instance, were plainly persons of
wealth, and as plainly had risen from the people. The mother was not quite so
wholly untaught as the other two, but she was more objectionable.
"One can bear with
the large simplicity of utter ignorance," said my fairphilosopher.
"One frequently finds it gentle and unworldly, but the other is odious
because it is always aggressive and narrow."
She had taken a strong
feminine dislike to Madame la Mere.
"She makes her
family miserable," she said. "She drags them from place to place.
Possibly there is a lover,--more possibly than not. The girl's eyes wore a
peculiar look,--as if they searched for something far away."
She had scarcely
concluded her charming little harangue when we reached our destination; but, as
we passed through the entrance, she paused to speak to the curly-headed child
of the concierge whose mother held him by the hand.
"We shall have new
arrivals to-morrow," said the good woman, who was always ready for
friendly gossip. "The apartment upon the first floor," and she nodded
to me significantly, and with good- natured encouragement. "Perhaps you
may get pupils," she added. "They are Americans, and speak only English,
and there is a young lady, Madame says."
"Americans!"
exclaimed Clelie, with sudden interest.
"Americans,"
answered the concierge. "It was Madame who came. Mon Dieu! if was
wonderful! So rich and so--so-- --"filling up the blank by ashrug of deep
meaning.
"It cannot have been
long since they were--peasants," her voice dropping into a cautious
whisper.
"Why not our
friends of the Louvre?" said Clelie as we went on upstairs.
"Why not?" I
replied. "It is very possible."
The next day there
arrived at the house numberless trunks of large dimensions,superintended by the
small angry woman and a maid. An hour later came a carriage, from whose door
emerged the young lady and her father. Both looked pale and fagged; both were
led upstairs in the midst of voluble comments and commands by the mother; and
both, entering the apartment, seemed swallowed up by it, as we saw and heard
nothing further of them. Clelie was indignant.
"It is plain that
the mother overwhelms them," she said. "A girl of that age should
speak and be interested in any novelty. This one would be if she were not
wretched. And the poor little husband ----!"
"My dear," I
remarked, "you are a feminine Bayard. You engage yourself with such ardor
in everybody's wrongs."
When I returned from my
afternoon's work a few days later, I found Clelie again excited. She had been
summoned to the first floor by Madame.
"I went into the
room," said Clelie, "and found the mother and daughter together.
Mademoiselle, who stood by the fire, had evidently been weeping. Madame was in
an abrupt and angry mood. She wasted no words. `I want you to give her
lessons,' she said, making an ungraceful gesture in the direction of her
daughter. `What do you charge a lesson?' And on my telling her, she engaged me
at once. `It's a great deal, but I guess I can pay as well as other people,'
she remarked."
A few of the lessons
were given downstairs, and then Clelie preferred a request to Madame.
"If you will
permit Mademoiselle to come to my room, you will confer a favor upon me,"
she said.
Fortunately, her
request was granted, and so I used afterward to come home and find Mademoiselle
Esmeralda in our little salon at work disconsolately and tremulously. She found
it difficult to hold her pencil in the correct manner, and one morning she let
it drop, and burst into tears.
"Don't you see I
shall never do it!" she answered, miserably. "Don't you see
Icouldn't, even if my heart was in it, and it aint at all!"
She held out her little
hands piteously for Clelie to look at. They were well enough shaped, and would
have been pretty if they had not been robbed of their youthful suppleness by
labor.
"I've been used to
work," she said, "rough work all my life, and my hands aint like
yours."
"But you must not
be discouraged, Mademoiselle," said Clelie gently. "Time----"
"Time,"
interposed the girl, with a frightened look in her pretty gray eyes.
"That's what I can't bear to think of--the time that's to come."
This was the first of
many outbursts of confidence. Afterward she related to Clelie, with the greatest
naivete, the whole history of the family affairs.
They had been the
possessors of some barren mountain lands in North Carolina, and her description
of their former life was wonderful indeed to the ears of the Parisian. She
herself had been brought up with marvelous simplicity and hardihood, barely
learning to read and write, and in absolute ignorance of society. A year ago
iron had been discovered upon their property, and the result had been wealth
and misery for father and daughter. The mother, who had some vague fancies of
the attractions of the great outside world, was ambitious and restless.
Monsieur, who was a mild and accommodating person, could only give way before
her stronger will.
"She always had
her way with us," said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, scratching nervously upon
the paper before her with her pencil, at this part of the relation. "We
did not want to leave home, neither me nor father, and father said more than I
ever heard him say before at one time. `Mother,' says he, `let me an' Esmeraldy
stay at home, an' you go an' enjoy your tower. You've had more schoolin', an'
you'll be more at home than we should. You're useder to city ways, havin' lived
in `Lizabethville.' But it only vexed her. People in town had been talking to
her about traveling and letting me learn things, and she'd set her mind on
it."
She was very simple and
unsophisticated. To the memory of her former truly singular life she clung with
unshaken fidelity. She recurred to it constantly. The novelty and luxury of her
new existence seemed to have no attractions for her. One thing even my Clelie
found incomprehensible, while she fancied she understood the rest--she did not
appear to be moved to pleasure even by our beloved Paris.
"It is a true
maladie du pays," Clelie remarked to me. "And that is not all."
Nor was it all. One day
the whole truth was told amid a flood of tears.
"I--I was going to
be married," cried the poor child. "I was to have been mar-ried the
week the ore was found. I was--all ready, and mother--mother shut right down on
us."
Clelie glanced at me in
amazed questioning.
"It is a kind of
argot which belongs only to Americans," I answered in an undertone.
"The alliance was broken off."
"Ciel!"
exclaimed my Clelie between her small shut teeth. "The woman is a fiend!"
She was wholly absorbed
in her study of this unworldly and untaught nature. She was full of sympathy
for its trials and tenderness, and for its pain. Even the girl's peculiarities
of speech were full of interest to her. She made serious and intelligent efforts
to understand them, as if she studied a new language.
"It is not common
argot," she said. `It has its subtleties. One continually finds somewhere
an original idea-- sometimes even a bonmot, which startles one by its
pointedness. As you say, however, it belongs only to the Americans and their
remarkable country. A French mind can only arrive at its climaxes through a
grave and occasionally tedious research, which would weary most persons, but
which, however, does not weary me."
The confidence of Mademoiselle
Esmeralda was easily won. She became attached to us both, and particularly to
Clelie. When her mother was absent or occupied, she stole upstairs to our
apartment and spent with us the moments of leisure chance afforded her. She
liked our rooms, she told my wife, because they were small, and our society
because we were "clever," which we discovered afterward meant
"amiable." But she was always pale and out of spirits. She would sit
before our fire silent and abstracted.
"You must not mind
if I don't talk," she would say. "I can't; and it seems to help me to
get to sit and think about things. Mother wont let me do it down-stairs."
We became also familiar
with the father. One day I met him upon the staircase,and to my amazement he
stopped as if he wished to address me. I raised my hat and bade him
good-morning. On his part he drew forth a large handkerchief and began to rub
the palms of his hands with awkward timidity.
"How-dy?" he
said.
I confess that at the
moment I was covered with confusion. I who was a teacher of English and
flattered myself that I wrote and spoke it fluently, did not understand.
Immediately, however, it flashed across my mind that the word was a species of
salutation. (Which I finally discovered to be the case.) I bowed again and
thanked him, hazarding the reply that my health was excellent, and an inquiry
as to the state of Madame's. He rubbed his hands still more nervously, and
answered me in the slow and deliberate manner I had observed at the Louvre.
"Thank ye,"
he said, "she's doin' tol'able well, is mother--as well as common. And
she's a-enjoyin' herself, too. I wish we was all----"
But there he checked
himself and glanced hastily about him. Then he began again,--
"Esmeraldy,"
he said,--"Esmeraldy thinks a heap on you. She takes a sight of comfort
out of Mis' Des---- I can't call your name, but I mean your wife."
"Madame
Desmarres," I replied, "is rejoiced indeed to have won the friendship
of Mademoiselle."
"Yes," he
proceeded, "she takes a sight of comfort in you ans all. An' she needs
comfort, does Esmeraldy."
There ensued a slight
pause which somewhat embarrassed me, for at every pause he regarded me with an
air of meek and hesitant appeal.
"She's a little
down-sperrited is Esmeraldy," he said. "An'," adding this suddenly
in a subdued and fearful tone, "so am I."
Having said this he
seemed to feel that he had overstepped a barrier. He seized the lapel of my
coat and held me prisoner, pouring forth his confessions with a faith in my
interest by which I was at once amazed and touched.
"You see it's this
way," he said,--" it's this way, Mister. We're home folks, me an'
Esmeraldy, an' we're a long way from home, an' it sorter seems like we didn't
get no useder to it than we was at first. We're not like mother. Mother she was
raised in a town,--she was raised in 'Lizabethville,--an' she allers took to
town ways; but me an'Esmeraldy, we was raised in the mountains, right under the
shadder of old Bald, an' town goes hard with us. Seems like we're allers a
thinkin' of North Callina. An' mother she gits outed, which is likely. She says
we'd ought to fit ourselves fur our higher spear, an' I dessay we'd ought,--
but you see it goes sorter hard with us. An' Esmeraldy she has her trouble an'
I can't help a sympathizin' with her, fur young folks will be young folks; an'
I was young folks once myself. Once- -once I sot a heap o' store by mother. So
you see how it is."
"It is very sad,
Monsieur," I answered with gravity. Singular as it may appear, this was
not so laughable to me as it might seem. It was so apparent that he did not
anticipate ridicule. And my Clelie's interest in these people also rendered
them sacred in my eyes.
"Yes," he
returned, "that's so; an' sometimes it's wuss than you'd think--when
mother's outed. An' that's why I'm glad as Mis' Dimar an' Esmeraldy is such
friends."
It struck me at this
moment that he had some request to make of me. He grasped the lapel of my coat
somewhat more tightly as if requiring additional support, and finally bent
forward and addressed me with caution, "Do you think as Mis' Dimar would
mind it ef now an' then I has to step in fur Esmeraldy, an' set a little--just
in a kinder neigh-borin' way. Esmeraldy, she says you're so sosherble. And I
haint been sosherble with no one fur- -fur a right smart spell. And it seems
like I kinder hanker arter it. You've no idea, Mister, how lonesome a man can
git when he hankers to be sosherble an' haint no one to be sosherble with.
Mother, she says, `Go out on the Champs Elizy and promenard,' and I've done it;
but some ways it don't reach the spot. I don't seem to get sosherble with no
one I've spoke to-- may be through us speakin' different languages, an' not
comin' to a understandin'. I've tried it loud an' I've tried it low an'
encouragen', but someways we never seemed to get on. An' ef Mis' Dimar wouldn't
take no exceptions at mea-droppin' in, I feel as ef I should be sorter
uplifted--if she'd only allow it once a week or even fewer."
"Monsieur," I
replied with warmth, "I beg you will consider oursalon at your disposal,
not once a week but at all times, and Madame Desmarres would certainly join me
in the invitation if she were upon the spot."
He released the lapel
of my coat and grasped my hand, shaking it with fervor.
"Now, that's
clever, that is," he said. "An' its friendly, an' I'm obligated to
ye."
Since he appeared to
have nothing further to say we went down- stairs together. At the door we
parted.
"I'm
a-goin'," he remarked, "to the Champs Elizy to promenard. Where are
you a-goin'?"
To the Boulevard
Haussmann, Monsieur, to give a lesson," I returned. "I will wish you
good-morning."
"Good-mornin',"
he answered. "Bong"--reflecting deeply for a moment--"Bong jore.
I'm a tryin' to learn it, you see, with a view to bein' more sosherbler. Bong
jore." And thus took his departure.
After this we saw him
frequently. In fact it became his habit to follow Mademoiselle Esmeralda in all
her visits to our apartment. A few minutes after her arrival we usually heard a
timid knock upon the outer door, which proved to emanate from Mon-sieur, who
always entered with a laborious "Bong jore," and always slipped
deprecatingly into the least comfortable chair near the fire, hurriedly
concealing his hat beneath it.
In him also my Clelie
became much interested. On my own part I could not cease to admire the fine
feeling and delicate tact she continually exhibited in her manner toward him.
In time he even appeared to lose something of his first embarrassment and
discomfort, though he was always inclined to a reverent silence in her
presence.
"He don't say
much, don't father," said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, with tears in her pretty
eyes. "He's like me, but you don't know what comfort he's taking when he
sits and listens and stirs his chocolate round and round without drinking it.
He doesn't drink it because he aint used to it; but he likes to have it when we
do, because he says it makes him feel sosherble. He's trying to learn to drink
it too--he practices every day a little at a time. He was powerful afraid at
first that you'd take exceptions to him doing nothing but stir it round; but I
told him I knew you wouldn't for you wasn't that kind."
"I find him,"
said Clelie to me, "inexpressibly mournful,--even though he excites one to
smiles upon all occasions. Is it not mournful that his very suffering should be
absurd. Mon Dieu! he does not wear his clothes--he bears them about with
him--he simply carries them."
It was about this time
that Mademoiselle Esmeralda was rendered doubly unhappy. Since their residence
in Paris Madame had been industriously occupied in making efforts to enter
society. She had struggled violently and indefatigably. She was at once
persistent and ambitious. She had used every means that lay in her power, and,
most of all, she had used her money. Naturally, she had found people upon the
outskirts of good circles who would accept her with her money. Consequently,
she had obtained acquaintances of a class, and was bold enough to employ them
as stepping-stones. At all events, she began to receive invitations, and to
discover opportunities to pay visits, and to take her daughter with her.
Accordingly, Mademoiselle Esmeralda was placed upon exhibition. She was dressed
by experienced artistes. She was forced from her seclusion, and obliged to
drive and call, and promenade.
Her condition was
pitiable. While all this was torture to her experience and timidity, her fear
of her mother rendered her wholly submissive. Each day brought with it some new
trial. She was admired for many reasons,--by some for her wealth, of which all
had heard rumors; by others for her freshness and beauty. The silence and
sensitiveness which arose from shyness, and her ignorance of all social rules,
were called naivete and modesty, and people who abhorred her mother, not
unfrequently were charmed with her, and consequently Madame found her also an
instrument of some consequence.
In her determination to
overcome all obstacles, Madame even condescended to apply to my wife, whose
influence over Mademoiselle she was clever enough not to undervalue.
"I want you to
talk to Mademoiselle," she said. "She thinks a great deal of you, and
I want you to give her some good advice. You know what society is, and you know
that she ought to be proud of her advantages, and not make a fool of herself.
Many a girl would be glad enough of what she has before her. She's got money,
and she's got chances, and I don't begrudge her anything. She can spend all she
likes on clothes and things, and I'll take her anywhere if she'll behave
herself. They wear me out--her and her father. It's her father that's ruined
her, and her living as she's done. Her father never knew anything, and he's made
a pet of her, and got her into his way of thinking. It's ridiculous how little
ambition they have, and she might marry as well as any girl. There's a marquis
that's quite in love with her at this moment, and she's as afraid of him as
death, and cries if I even mention him, though he's a nice enough man, if he is
a bit elderly. Now, I want you to reason with her."
This Clelie told me
afterward.
"And upon going
away," she ended, "she turned round toward me, setting her face into
an indescribable expression of hardness and obstinacy. `I want her to
understand,'she said, `that she's cut off forever from anything that's happened
before. There's the Atlantic Ocean and many a mile of land between her and
North Carolina, and so she may as well give that up.'"
Two or three days after
this Mademoiselle came to our apartment in great grief. She had left Madame in
a violent ill- temper. They had received invitations to a ball at which they
were to meet the marquis. Madame had been elated, and the discovery of Mademoiselle's
misery and trepidation had roused her indignation. There had been a painful
scene, and Mademoiselle had been overwhelmed as usual.
She knelt before the
fire and wept despairingly.
"I'd rather die
than go," she said. "I can't stand it. I can't get used to it. The
light, and the noise, and the talk, hurts me, and I don't know what I am doing.
And people stare at me, and I make mistakes, and I'm not fit for
it--and--and--I'd rather be dead fifty thousand times than let that man come
near me. I hate him, and I'm afraid of him, and I wish I was dead."
At this juncture came
the timid summons upon the door, and the father entered with a disturbed and
subdued air. He did not conceal his hat, but held it in his hands, and turned
it round and round in an agitated manner as he seated himself beside his
daughter.
"Esmeraldy,"
he said, "don't you take it so hard, honey. Mother, she's kinder outed,
an' she's not at herself rightly. Don't you never mind. Mother she means well,
but--but she's got a sorter curious way of showin' it. She's got a high
sperrit, an' we'd ought to 'low fur it, and not take it so much to heart. Mis'
Dimar here knows how high-sperrited people is sometimes, I dessay,--an' mother
she's got a powerful high sperrit."
But the poor child only
wept more hopelessly. It was not only the cruelty of her mother which oppressed
her, it was the wound she bore in her heart.
Clelie's eyes filled
with tears as she regarded her.
The father was also
more broken in spirit than he wished it to appear. His weather-beaten face
assumed an expression of deep melancholy which at last betrayed itself in an
evidently inadvertent speech.
"I wish--I
wish," he faltered. "Lord! I'd give a heap to see Wash now. I'd give
a heap to see him, Esmeraldy."
It was as if the words
were the last straw. The girl turned toward him and flung herself upon his
breast with a passionate cry.
"Oh, father!"
she sobbed, "we sha'n't never see him again-- never--never! nor the
mountains, nor the people that cared for us. We've lost it all, and we can't
get it back,--and we haven't a soul that's near to us,--and we're all
alone,--you and me, father, and Wash. Wash, he thinks we don't care."
I must confess to a
momentary spasm of alarm, her grief was so wild and overwhelming. One hand was
flung about her father's neck, and the other pressed itself against her side,
as if her heart was breaking.
Clelie bent down and
lifted her up, consoling her tenderly.
"Mademoiselle,"
she said, "do not despair. Le Bon Dieu will surely have pity."
The father drew forth
the large linen handkerchief, and, unfolding it slowly, applied it to his eyes.
"Yes,
Esmeraldy," he said; "don't let us give out,--at least don't you give
out. It doesn't matter fur me, Esmeraldy, because, you see, I must hold on to
mother, as I swore not to go back on; but you're young an' likely, Esmeraldy,
an' don't you give out yet, fur the Lord's sake."
But she did not cease
weeping until she had wholly fatigued herself, and by this time there arrived a
message from Madame, who required her presence down- stairs. Monsieur was
somewhat alarmed, and rose precipitately, but Mademoiselle was too full of
despair to admit of fear.
"It's only the
dress-maker," she said. "You can stay where you are, father, and she
wont guess we've been together, and it'll be better for us both."
And accordingly she
obeyed the summons alone.
Great were the
preparations made by Madame for the entertainment. My wife,to whom she
displayed the costumes and jewels she had purchased, was aroused to an admiration
truly feminine.
She had had the
discretion to trust to the taste of the artistes, and had restrained them in
nothing. Consequently, all that was to be desired in the appearance of
Mademoiselle Esmeralda upon the eventful evening was happiness. With her
mother's permission, she came to our room to display herself, Monsieur
following her with an air of awe and admiration commingled. Her costume was
rich and exquisite, and her beauty beyond criticism; but as she stood in the
center of our little salon to be looked at,she presented an appearance to move
one's heart. The pretty young face which had by this time lost its slight
traces of the sun had also lost some of its bloom; the slight figure was not so
round nor so erect as it had been, and moved with less of spirit and
girlishness.
It appeared that
Monsieur observed this also, for he stood apart regarding her with evident
depression, and occasionally used his handkerchief with a violence that was
evidently meant to conceal some secret emotion.
"You're not so
peart as you was, Esmeraldy," he remarked, tremulously; "not as peart
by a right smart, and what with that, and what with your fixin's, Wash--I mean
the home-folks," hastily --"they'd hardly know ye."
He followed her
down-stairs mournfully when she took her departure, and Clelie and myself being
left alone interested ourselves in various speculations concerning them, as was
our habit.
"This Monsieur
Wash," remarked Clelie, "is clearly the lover. Poor child! how
passionately she regrets him,--and thousands of miles lie between
them--thousands of miles!"
It was not long after
this that, on my way down-stairs to make a trifling purchase, I met with
something approaching an adventure. It so chanced that, as I descended the
staircase of the second floor, the door of the first floor apartment was thrown
open, and from it issued Mademoiselle Esmeralda and her mother on their way to
their waiting carriage. My interest in the appearance of Mademoiselle in her
white robes and sparkling jewels so absorbed me that I inadvertently brushed
against a figure which stood in the shadow regarding them also. Turning at once
to apologize, I found myself confronting a young man,--tall, powerful, but with
a sad and haggard face, and attired in a strange and homely dress which had a
foreign look.
"Monsieur!" I
exclaimed, "a thousand pardons. I was so unlucky as not to see you."
But he did not seem to
hear. He remained silent, gazing fixedly at the ladies until they had
disappeared, and then, on my addressing him again, he awakened, as it were,
with a start.
"It doesn't
matter," he answered, in a heavy bewildered voice and in English, and
turning back made his way slowly up the stairs.
But even the utterance
of this brief sentence had betrayed to my practiced ear a peculiar accent--an
accent which, strange to say, bore a likeness to that of our friends
down-stairs, and which caused me to stop a moment at the lodge of theconcierge,
and ask her a question or so.
"Have we a new
occupant upon the fifth floor?" I inquired."A person who speaks
English?"
She answered me with a
dubious expression.
You must mean the
strange young man upon the sixth," she said. "He is a new one and
speaks English. Indeed, he does not speak anything else, or even understand a
word. Mon Dieu! the trials one encounters with such persons,--endeavoring to
comprehend, poor creatures, and failing always,--and this one is worse than the
rest and looks more wretched--as if he had not a friend in the world."
"What is his
name?" I asked.
"How can one remember
their names?--it is worse than impossible. This one is frightful. But he has no
letters, thank Heaven. If there should arrive one with an impossible name upon
it, I should take it to him and run the risk."
Naturally, Clelie, to
whom I related the incident, was much interested. But it was some time before
either of us saw the hero of it again, though both of us confessed to having
been upon the watch for him. The conciergecould only tell us that he lived a
secluded life --rarely leaving his room in the day-time, and seeming to be very
poor.
"He does not work
and eats next to nothing," she said. "Late at night he occasionally
carries up a loaf, and once he treated himself to a cup of bouillon from the
restaurant at the corner--but it was only once, poor young man. He is at least
very gentle and well-conducted."
So it was not to be
wondered at that we did not see him. Clelie mentioned him to her young friend,
but Mademoiselle's interest in him was only faint and ephemeral. She had not
the spirit to rouse herself to any strong emotion.
"I dare say he's
an American," she said.
There are plenty of
Americans in Paris, but none of them seem a bit nearer to me than if they were
French. They are all rich and fine, and they all like the life here better than
the life at home. This is the first poor one I have heard of."
Each day brought fresh
unhappiness to her. Madame was inexorable. She spent a fortune upon toilette
for her, and insisted upon dragging her from place to place, and wearying her
with gayeties from which her sad young heart shrank. Each afternoon their
equipage was to be seen upon the Champs Elysees, and each evening it stood
before the door waiting to bear them to some place of festivity.
Mademoiselle's bete
noir, the marquis, who was a debilitated roue in search of a fortune, attached
himself to them upon all occasions.
"Bah!" said
Clelie with contempt, "she amazes one by her imbecility--this woman.
Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar sharpness would teach her that his
objectis to use her as a tool, and that having gained Mademoiselle's fortune,
he will treat them with brutality and derision."
But she did not seem to
see--possibly she fancied that having obtained him for a son-in-law, she would
be bold and clever enough to outwit and control him. Consequently, he was
encouraged and fawned upon, and Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large-
eyed, and wore continually an expression of secret terror.
Only in her visits to
our fifth floor did she dare to give way to her grief, and truly at such times
both my Clelie and I were greatly affected. Upon one occasion indeed she filled
us both with alarm.
"Do you know what
I shall do?" she said, stopping suddenly in the midst of her weeping.
"I'll bear it as long as I can, and then I'll put an end to it.
There's--there's always the Seine left, and I've laid awake and thought of it
many a night. Father and me saw a man taken out of it one day, and the people
said he was a Tyrolean and drowned himself because he was so poor and
lonely--and--and so far from home."
Upon the very morning
she made this speech I saw again our friend of the sixth floor. In going
down-stairs I came upon him, sitting upon one of the steps as if exhausted, and
when he turned his face upward, its pallor and haggardness startled me. His
tall form was wasted, his eyes were hollow, the peculiarities I had before
observed were doubly marked--he was even emaciated.
"Monsieur," I
said in English, "you appear indisposed. You have been ill. Allow me to
assist you to your room."
"No, thank
you," he answered. "It's only weakness. I--I sorter give out. Don't
trouble yourself. I shall get over it directly."
Something in his face
which was a very young and well-looking one, forced me to leave him in silence,
merely bowing as I did so. I felt instinctively that to remain would be to give
him additional pain.
As I passed the room of
the concierge, however, the excellent woman beckoned to me to approach her.
"Did you see the
young man?" she inquired rather anxiously. "He has shown himself this
morning for the first time in three days. There is something wrong. It is my
impression that he suffers want--that he is starving himself to death!"
Her rosy countenance
absolutely paled as she uttered these last words, retreating a pace from me,
and touching my arm with her fore-finger.
"He has carried up
even less bread than usual during the last few weeks," she added "and
there has been no bouillon whatever. A young man cannot live only on dry bread,
and too little of that. He will perish; and apart from the inhumanity of the
thing, it will be unpleasant for the other locataires."
I wasted no time in
returning to Clelie, having indeed some hope that I might find the poor fellow
still occupying his former position upon the staircase. But in this I met with
disappointment: he was gone and I could only relate to my wife what I had
heard, and trust to her discretion. As I had expected, she was deeply moved.
"It is terrible,"
she said. "And it is also a delicate and difficult matter to manage. But
what can one do? There is only one thing--I who am a woman, and have suffered
privation myself, may venture."
Accordingly, she took
her departure for the floor above. I heard her light summons upon the door of
one of the rooms, but heard no reply. At last, however, the door was opened
gently, and with a hesitance that led me to imagine that it was Clelie herself
who had pushed it open, and immediately afterward I was sure that she uttered
an alarmed exclamation. I stepped out upon the landing and called to her in a
subdued tone--
"Clelie," I
said, "did I hear you speak?"
"Yes," she
returned from within the room. "Come at once, and bring with you some
brandy."
In the shortest possible
time I had joined her in the room, which was bare, cold and unfurnished--a mere
garret, in fact, containing nothing but a miserable bedstead. Upon the floor
near the window knelt Clelie, supporting with her knee and arm the figure of
the young man she had come to visit.
"Quick with the
brandy," she exclaimed. "This may be a faint, but it looks like
death." She had found the door partially open, and receiving no answer to
her knock, had pushed it farther ajar and caught a glimpse of the fallen figure,
and hurried to its assistance.
To be as brief as
possible,--we both remained at the young man's side during the whole of the
night. As the concierge had said, he was perishing from inanition, and the
physician we called in assured us that only the most constant attention would
save his life.
"Monsieur,"
Clelie explained to him upon the first occasion upon which heopened his eyes.
"You are ill and alone, and we wish to befriend you." And he was too
weak to require from her anything more definite.
Physically he was a
person to admire. In health his muscular power must have been immense. He
possessed the frame of a young giant, and yet there was in his face alook of
innocence and inexperience amazing even when one recollected his youth.
"It is the
look," said Clelie, regarding him attentively,--"the look one sees in
the faces of Monsieur and his daughter down- stairs; the look of a person who
has lived a simple life, and who knows absolutely nothing of the world."
It is possible that
this may have prepared the reader for thedenoument which followed; but singular
as it may appear, it did not prepare either Clelie or myself--perhaps because
we had seen the world, and having learned to view it in a practical light, were
not prepared to encounter suddenly a romance almost unparalleled.
The next morning I was
compelled to go out to give my lessons as usual, and left Clelie with our
patient. On my return, my wife, hearing my footsteps, came out and met me upon
the landing. She was moved by the strongest emotion and much excited her cheeks
were pale and her eyes shone.
"Do not go in
yet," she said, "I have something to tell you. It is almost
incredible; but--but it is--the lover!"
For a moment we
remained silent--standing looking at each other. To me it seemed incredible
indeed.
"He could not give
her up," Clelie went on, "until he was sure she wished to discard
him. The mother had employed all her ingenuity to force him to believe that
such was the case, but he could not rest until he had seen his betrothed face
to face. So he followed her,--poor, inexperienced and miserable,--and when at
last he saw her at a distance, the luxury with which she was surrounded caused
his heart to fail him, and be gave way to despair."
I accompanied her into
the room, and heard the rest from his own lips. He gathered together all his
small savings, and made his journey in the cheapest possible way,--in the
steerage of the vessel, and in third-class carriages,--so that he might have
some trifle left to subsist upon.
"I've a little
farm," he said, "and there's a house on it, but I wouldn't sell that.
If she cared to go, it was all I had to take her to, an' I'd worked hard to buy
it. I'd worked hard, early and late, always thinking that some day we'd begin
life there together--Esmeraldy and me."
"Since neither
sea, nor land, nor cruelty, could separate them," said Clelie to me during
the day, "it is not I who will help to hold them apart."
So when Mademoiselle
came for her lesson that afternoon, it was Clelie's task to break the news to
her,--to tell her that neither sea nor land lay between herself and her lover,
and that he was faithful still.
She received the
information as she might have received a blow,--staggering backward, and
whitening, and losing her breath; but almost immediately afterward she uttered
a sad cry of disbelief and anguish.
"No, no," she
said, "it--it isn't true! I wont believe it--I mustn't. There's half the
world between us. Oh! don't try to make me believe it,--when it can't be
true!"
"Come with
me," replied Clelie.
Never--never in my life
has it been my fate to see, before or since, a sight so touching as the meeting
of these two young hearts. When the door of the cold, bare room opened, and
Mademoiselle Esmeralda entered, the lover held out his weak arms with a sob,--a
sob of rapture, and yet terrible to hear.
"I thought you'd
gone back on me, Esmeraldy," he cried. "I thought you'd gone back on
me."
Clelie and I turned
away and left them as the girl fell upon her knees at his side.
The effect produced
upon the father--who had followed Mademoiselle as usual, and whom we found
patiently seated upon the bottom step of the flight of stairs, awaiting our
arrival--was almost indescribable.
He sank back upon his
seat with a gasp, clutching at his hat with both hands. He also disbelieved.
"Wash!" he
exclaimed weakly. "Lord! no! Lord! no! Not Wash! Wash, he's in North
Callina. Lord! no!"
He is upstairs,"
returned Clelie, "and Mademoiselle is with him."
During the recovery of
the Monsieur Wash, though but little was said upon the subject, it is my
opinion that the minds of each of our number pointed only toward one course in
the future.
In Mademoiselle's
demeanor there appeared a certain air of new courage and determination, though
she was still pallid and anxious. It was as if she had passed a climax and had
gained strength. Monsieur, the father, was alternately nervous and dejected, or
in feverishly high spirits. Occasionally he sat for some time without speaking,
merely gazing into the fire with a hand upon each knee; and it was one evening,
after a more than usually prolonged silence of this description, that he
finally took upon himself the burden which lay upon us unitedly.
"Esmeraldy,"
he remarked, tremulously, and with manifest trepidation,--"Esme-raldy,
I've been thinkin'--it's time--we broke it to mother."
The girl lost color,
but she lifted her head steadily.
"Yes,
father," she answered, "it's time."
"Yes," he
echoed, rubbing his knees slowly, "it's time; an', Esmeraldy, it's a thing
to--to sorter set a man back."
"Yes,
father," she answered again.
"Yes," as
before, though his voice broke somewhat; "an' I dessay you know how it'll
be, Esmeraldy,--that you'll have to choose between mother and Wash."
She sat by her lover,
and for answer she dropped her face upon his hand with a sob.
"An'--an' you've
chose Wash, Esmeraldy?"
"Yes,
father."
He hesitated a moment,
and then took his hat from its place of concealment and rose.
"It's
nat'ral," he said, "an' it's right. I wouldn't want it no other way.
An' you mustn't mind, Esmeraldy, it's bein' kinder rough on me, as can't go
back on mother, havin' swore to cherish her till death do us part. You've allus
been a good gal to me, an' we've thought a heap on each other, an' I reckon it
can allus be the same way, even though we're sep'rated, fur it's nat'ral you
should have chose Wash, an'--an' I wouldn't have it no other way, Esmeraldy.
Now I'll go an' have it out with mother."
We were all
sufficiently unprepared for the announcement to be startled by it. Mademoiselle
Esmeralda, who was weeping bitterly, half sprang to her feet.
"To-night!"
she said. "Oh! father!"
"Yes," he
replied; "I've been thinking over it, an' I don't see no other way, an' it
may as well be to-night as any other time."
After leaving us he was
absent for about an hour. When he returned, therewere traces in his appearance
of the storm through which he had passed. His hands trembled with agitation he
even looked weakened as he sank into his chair.We regarded him with
commiseration.
"It's over,"
he half whispered, "an' it was even rougher than I thought it would be.
She was terrible outed, was mother. I reckon I never see her so outed before.
She jest raged and tore. It was most more than I could stand, Esmeraldy," and
he dropped his head upon his hands for support. "Seemed like it was the
Markis as laid heaviest upon her," he proceeded. "She was terrible
sot on the Markis, an' every time she think of him, she'd just rear--she'd just
rear. I never stood up agen mother afore, an' I hope I sha'n't never have it to
do again in my time. I'm kinder wore out."
Little by little we
learned much of what had passed, though he evidently withheld the most for the
sake of Mademoiselle, and it was some time before he broke the news to her that
her mother's doors were closed against her.
"I think you'll
find it pleasanter a-stoppin' here," he said, "if Mis' Dimar'll board
ye until--until the time fur startin' home. Her sperrit was so up that she said
she didn't aim to see you no more, an' you know how she is, Esmeraldy, when her
sperrit's up."
The girl went and clung
around his neck, kneeling at his side, and shedding tears.
"Oh! father!"
she cried, "you've bore a great deal for me; you've bore more than any one
knows, and all for me."
He looked rather grave,
as he shook his head at the fire.
"That's so,
Esmeraldy," he replied; "but we allus seemed nigh to each other,
somehow, and when it come to the wust, I was bound to kinder make a stand fur
you, as I couldn't have made fur myself. I couldn't have done it fur myself.
Lord! No!"
So Mademoiselle
remained with us, and Clelie assisted her to prepare her simple outfit, and in
the evening the tall young lover came into our apartment and sat looking on,
which aspect of affairs, I will confess, was entirely new to Clelie, and yet
did not displease her.
"Their candor
moves me," she said. "He openly regards her with adoration. At
parting she accompanies him to the door, and he embraces her tenderly, and yet
one is not repelled. It is the love of the lost Arcadia--serious and innocent."
Finally, we went with
them one morning to the American Chapel in the Rue de Berri, and they were
united in our presence and that of Monsieur, who was indescribably affected.
After the completion of
the ceremony, he presented Monsieur Wash with a package.
"It's papers as I've
had drawd up fur Esmeraldy," he said. "It'll start you well out in
the world, an' after me and mother's gone, there's no one but you and her to
have the rest. The Lord--may the Lord bless ye!"
We accompanied them to
Havre, and did not leave them until the last moment. Monsieur was strangely
excited, and clung to the hands of his daughter and son-in-law, talking fast
and nervously, and pouring out messages to be delivered to his distant friends.
"Tell 'em I'd like
powerful well to see 'em all, an' I'd have come only--only things was kinder
inconvenient. Sometime, perhaps----"
But here he was obliged
to clear his throat, as his voice had become extremely husky. And, havin, done
this, he added in an undertone:
"You see,
Esmeraldy, I couldn't, because of mother, as I've swore not to go back on.
Wash, he wouldn't go back on you, however high your sperrit was, an' I can't go
back on mother."
The figures of the
young couple standing at the side, Monsieur Wash holding his wife to his breast
with one strong arm, were the last we saw as the ship moved slowly away.
"It is obscurity
to which they are returning," I said, half unconsciously.
"It is love,"
said Clelie.
The father, who had
been standing apart, came back to us, replacing in his pocket his handkerchief.
They are young an'
likely, you see," said Monsieur, "an' life before them, an' it's
nat'ral as she should have chose Wash, as was young too, an' sot on her. Lord,
it's nat'ral, an' I wouldn't have it no otherways."
NOT what the chemists
say they be,
Are pearls--they never
grew;
They come not from the
hollow sea,
They come from heaven
in dew!
Down in the Indian sea
it slips,
Through green and briny
whirls,
Where great shells
catch it in their lips,
And kiss it into
pearls!
If dew can be so beauteous
made,
Oh, why not tears, my
girl?
Why not your tears? Be
not afraid--
I do but kiss a pearl!