Esmeralda | Page 8

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 downstairs, and which caused me to stop
a moment at the lodge of the concierge, 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, Clélie, 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 concierge could only tell us that he lived a secluded life--rarely
leaving his room in he daytime, 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. Clélie

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 Elysées, and each evening it stood before the door waiting
to bear them to some place of festivity.
Mademoiselle's bête noir, the marquis, who was a debilitated roue in
search of a fortune, attached himself to them upon all occasions.
"Bah!" said Clélie with contempt, "she amazes one by her
imbecility--this woman. Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar
sharpness would teach her that his object is 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 Clélie 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