Eugene Pickering | Page 3

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EUGENE PICKERING

CHAPTER I.

It was at Homburg, several years ago, before the gaming had been
suppressed. The evening was very warm, and all the world was
gathered on the terrace of the Kursaal and the esplanade below it to
listen to the excellent orchestra; or half the world, rather, for the crowd
was equally dense in the gaming-rooms around the tables. Everywhere
the crowd was great. The night was perfect, the season was at its height,
the open windows of the Kursaal sent long shafts of unnatural light into
the dusky woods, and now and then, in the intervals of the music, one
might almost hear the clink of the napoleons and the metallic call of the
croupiers rise above the watching silence of the saloons. I had been
strolling with a friend, and we at last prepared to sit down. Chairs,
however, were scarce. I had captured one, but it seemed no easy matter
to find a mate for it. I was on the point of giving up in despair, and
proposing an adjournment to the silken ottomans of the Kursaal, when I
observed a young man lounging back on one of the objects of my quest,
with his feet supported on the rounds of another. This was more than
his share of luxury, and I promptly approached him. He evidently
belonged to the race which has the credit of knowing best, at home and
abroad, how to make itself comfortable; but something in his
appearance suggested that his present attitude was the result of
inadvertence rather than of egotism. He was staring at the conductor of
the orchestra and listening intently to the music. His hands were locked
round his long legs, and his mouth was half open, with rather a foolish
air. "There are so few chairs," I said, "that I must beg you to surrender
this second one." He started, stared, blushed, pushed the chair away

with awkward alacrity, and murmured something about not having
noticed that he had it.
"What an odd-looking youth!" said my companion, who had watched
me, as I seated myself beside her.
"Yes, he is odd-looking; but what is odder still is that I have seen him
before, that his face is familiar to me, and yet that I can't place him."
The orchestra was playing the Prayer from Der Freischutz, but Weber's
lovely music only deepened the blank of memory. Who the deuce was
he? where, when, how, had I known him? It seemed extraordinary that
a face should be