Dross | Page 5

Austerlitz down to the matchless autumn of 1870!
The address printed in the corner of Monsieur de Clericy's card was
unknown to me, although I was passably acquainted with the Paris
streets. The Rue des Palmiers was, I learnt, across the river, and, my
informant added, lay between the boulevard and the Seine. This was a
part of the bright city which Haussmann and Napoleon III had as yet
left untouched--a quarter of quiet, gloomy streets and narrow alleys.
The sun was shining on the gay river as I crossed the bridge of the Holy
Fathers, and the water seemed to dance and laugh in the morning air.
The flags were still flying, for these jolly Parisians are always loth to
take in their bunting. It was, indeed, a gay world in which I moved that
morning.
The Hôtel Clericy I found at the end of the Rue des Palmiers, which
short street the great house closed. Indeed, the Rue des Palmiers was
but an avenue of houses terminated by the gloomy abode of the
Clericys. The house was built behind a high stone wall broken only by
a railed doorway.
I rang the bell and heard its tinkle far away within the dwelling. A
covered way led from the street to the house, and I followed on the
heels of the servant, a smart young Parisian, looking curiously at the
little garden which in London would have been forlorn and smutty.
Here in Paris bright flowers bloomed healthily and a little fountain

plashed with that restful monotony which ever suggests the patios of
Spain.
The young man was one of those modern servants who know their
business.
"Monsieur's name?" he said, sharply.
"Howard."
We were within the dimly lighted hall, with its scent of old carpets and
rusting armour, and he led the way upstairs. He threw open the
drawing-room door and mentioned my name in his short, well-trained
way. There was but one person in the large room, and she did not hear
the man's voice; for she was laughing herself, and was at that moment
chasing a small dog around the room. The little animal, which entered
gaily into the sport, was worrying a dainty handkerchief in his teeth,
and so engaged was he in this destructive purpose that he ran straight
into my hands. I rescued the bedraggled piece of cambric and stood
upright to find mademoiselle standing before me with mirth and a
certain dignified self-possession in her eyes.
[Illustration: "THANK YOU, MONSIEUR," SHE SAID, TAKING
THE HANDKERCHIEF FROM MY HAND.]
"Thank you, Monsieur," she said, taking the handkerchief from my
hand. It was evident that she did not recognise me as the stranger who
had accosted her father on the previous day.
I explained my business in as few words as possible.
"The servant," I added, "made a mistake in bringing me to this room. I
did not mean to trouble Mademoiselle; my business is with M. de
Clericy. I am applying for the post of secretary."
She looked at me with a quick surprise, and her eyes lighted on my
clothes with some significance, which made me think that perhaps
Monsieur de Clericy gave less even than two hundred pounds a year to

his amanuensis.
"Ah!" she said, with her thought apparent in her candid eyes. "My
father is at present in his study--engaged, I believe, with Monsieur
Miste."
"Miste?" I echoed, for the name was no less peculiar than her way of
pronouncing it. She seemed to look for some sign that I knew this man.
"Yes--your predecessor."
"Ah! a secretary--a man-machine that writes."
She shook her head with a happy laugh, sinking, as it were, into an air
of interest, which gave a sharp feeling that I had perhaps been
forestalled in other matters by the man called Miste. She looked at me
with such candid eyes, however, that the thought seemed almost a
sacrilege, offered gratuitously to innocence and trustfulness. Her face
was, indeed, a guarantee that if her maiden fancy had been touched, her
heart was at all events free from that deeper feeling which assuredly
leaves its mark upon all who suffer it.
The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former secretary in some way
grated on my hearing, so that instead of retiring from the presence of
mademoiselle as my manners bade me do, I lingered, seeking
opportunity to continue the conversation.
"I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de Clericy," I said. "It is perhaps
inexpedient that the new machine should be seen of the old."
Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught the deep silver note of
sympathy in her voice that was so new and yet familiar. In laughter the
soul surely speaks.
"The word scarcely describes Monsieur Miste," retorted she.
"Does any single word describe him?"