Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 435 | Page 4

I used to think whether it were
possible that that human being had been created purposely as a
scaffolding whereon to exhibit a flashing little stone, set in twenty
shillings worth of gold.
M. Jerome, though not, strictly speaking, a silent man, was sufficiently
reserved at table. The early courses were by him always allowed to pass
without any further remark than what politeness requires--as: 'Shall I
send you some more of this blanquette?' or, 'With pleasure, sir;' and so

forth. When dessert-time approached, however, he generally began to
unbend, to take part in the general conversation, and throw in here and
there a piquant anecdote. He did this with so much grace, that had it not
been for the diamond ring, I should have been disposed to consider him
as a man of large experience in the best society. The other people who
generally attended at table--travellers, commercial and otherwise, with
one or two smart folks from the town, on the look-out for Parisian
gossip, to retail to the less adventurous members of their circle--were
all delighted with M. Jerome: it was M. Jerome here, and M. Jerome
there; and if M. Jerome happened to dine out, every one seemed to feel
uneasy, and look upon him as guilty of a great dereliction of duty. They
could almost as well have done without their demi-tasse.
Although I am an inquisitive, I am not a very impertinent man. I like to
pry into other people's affairs only in so far as I can do so without
hurting their feelings, or putting my own self-love in danger of a check.
If, therefore, I gave the reins to my curiosity, and devoted myself to
studying the more apparent movements of this M. Jerome, I shrank
from putting any direct questions to the garçon, who might probably at
once have given me a very prosaic account of him. On one occasion, I
threw in casually a remark, to the effect that the gentleman at No. 49
seemed a great favourite with the fair sex; but the only reply was a
smile, and an acknowledgment that, in general, people of fascinating
exterior--here the garçon glanced at the mirror he was dusting--were
great favourites with the fairer portion of the creation. 'We Frenchmen,'
it was added, 'know the way to the female heart better than most men.'
The waiter had paused with his duster in his hand. I felt that he was
going to give me his Art of Love; and opportunely remembering that I
had a letter to put into the post, I escaped the infliction for the time.
I had, indeed, observed that if the public generally admitted the
valuable qualities of M. Jerome as a companion, his reputation was
based principally on the approval of the ladies. All these excellent
judges agreed that he was a nice, quiet, agreeable person; and 'so
handsome!' At least the seven members of an English family, who had
come to visit Chambord, and lingered at the hotel a week--five of them
were daughters--all expressed this opinion of M. Jerome; and even a

supercilious French lady, with a particle attached to her name, admitted
that he was 'very well.'
One day, a new face appeared at table to interest me; and as the
mysterious gentleman and his diamond ring had puzzled me for a
fortnight, during which I had made no progress towards ascertaining
his real position and character, I was not sorry to have my attention a
little diverted by a mysterious lady. Madame de Mourairef--a Russian
name, thought I--was a very agreeable person to look at; much more so
to me than M. Jerome. She was not much past twenty years of age;
small, slight, elegant in shape, if not completely so in manners; and
with one of those charming little faces which you can analyse into
ugliness, but which in their synthesis, to speak as moderns should, are
admirable, adorable, fascinating. I should have thought that such a
minois could belong only to Paris--the city, by the way, of ugly women,
whom art makes charming. However, there it was above the shoulders,
high of course--swan-necked women are only found in England--above
the shoulders of a Russian marchioness, princess, czarina, or what you
will, who called for her cigarettes after dinner, was attended by a little
soubrette, named Penelope, and looked for all the world as if she had
just been whirled off the boards of the Opera Comique.
I at first believed that this was a mere mascarade; but when a letter in a
formidable envelope, with the seal of the Russian embassy, arrived, and
was exhibited in the absence of the lady herself, to every one of the
lodgers, in proof of the aristocratic character of the customer of the
Tête Noire, I began to