Gambara | Page 5

thaw, following at the heels of a
woman whose dress betrayed the most abject, inveterate, and long-
accustomed poverty, who was no handsomer than a hundred others to
be seen any evening at the play, at the opera, in the world of fashion,
and who was certainly not so young as Madame de Manerville, from
whom he had obtained an assignation for that very day, and who was
perhaps waiting for him at that very hour.
But in the glance at once tender and wild, swift and deep, which that
woman's black eyes had shot at him by stealth, there was such a world
of buried sorrows and promised joys! And she had colored so fiercely
when, on coming out of a shop where she had lingered a quarter of an
hour, her look frankly met the Count's, who had been waiting for her
hard by! In fact, there were so many /buts/ and /ifs/, that, possessed by
one of those mad temptations for which there is no word in any
language, not even in that of the orgy, he had set out in pursuit of this
woman, hunting her down like a hardened Parisian.
On the way, whether he kept behind or ahead of this damsel, he studied
every detail of her person and her dress, hoping to dislodge the insane
and ridiculous fancy that had taken up an abode in his brain; but he
presently found in his examination a keener pleasure than he had felt
only the day before in gazing at the perfect shape of a woman he loved,

as she took her bath. Now and again, the unknown fair, bending her
head, gave him a look like that of a kid tethered with its head to the
ground, and finding herself still the object of his pursuit, she hurried on
as if to fly. Nevertheless, each time that a block of carriages, or any
other delay, brought Andrea to her side, he saw her turn away from his
gaze without any signs of annoyance. These signals of restrained
feelings spurred the frenzied dreams that had run away with him, and
he gave them the rein as far as the Rue Froid- Manteau, down which,
after many windings, the damsel vanished, thinking she had thus spoilt
the scent of her pursuer, who was, in fact, startled by this move.
It was now quite dark. Two women, tattooed with rouge, who were
drinking black-currant liqueur at a grocer's counter, saw the young
woman and called her. She paused at the door of the shop, replied in a
few soft words to the cordial greeting offered her, and went on her way.
Andrea, who was behind her, saw her turn into one of the darkest yards
out of this street, of which he did not know the name. The repulsive
appearance of the house where the heroine of his romance had been
swallowed up made him feel sick. He drew back a step to study the
neighborhood, and finding an ill-looking man at his elbow, he asked
him for information. The man, who held a knotted stick in his right
hand, placed the left on his hip and replied in a single word:
"Scoundrel!"
But on looking at the Italian, who stood in the light of a street- lamp, he
assumed a servile expression.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, suddenly changing his tone. "There is
a restaurant near this, a sort of table-d'hote, where the cooking is pretty
bad and they serve cheese in the soup. Monsieur is in search of the
place, perhaps, for it is easy to see that he is an Italian-- Italians are
fond of velvet and of cheese. But if monsieur would like to know of a
better eating-house, an aunt of mine, who lives a few steps off, is very
fond of foreigners."
Andrea raised his cloak as high as his moustache, and fled from the
street, spurred by the disgust he felt at this foul person, whose clothes
and manner were in harmony with the squalid house into which the fair
unknown had vanished. He returned with rapture to the thousand
luxuries of his own rooms, and spent the evening at the Marquise
d'Espard's to cleanse himself, if possible, of the smirch left by the fancy

that had driven him so relentlessly during the day.
And yet, when he was in bed, the vision came back to him, but clearer
and brighter than the reality. The girl was walking in front of him; now
and again as she stepped across a gutter her skirts revealed a round calf;
her shapely hips swayed as she walked. Again Andrea longed to speak
to her--and he dared not, he, Marcosini, a Milanese nobleman! Then he
saw her turn into the dark passage where she