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Esmeralda
By
Francis Hodgson Burnett
Esmeralda
To begin, I am a Frenchman, a teacher of
languages, and a poor man,--necessarily a poor man, as the great world would
say, or I should not be a teacher of languages, and my wife a copyist of gr=
eat
pictures, selling her copies at small prices. In our own eyes, it is true, =
we
are not so poor--my Clélie and I. Looking back upon our past we
congratulate ourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time when=
we
were poorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover, in =
London
instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor, to teach, to
live apart, not even knowing each other--and in England! In England we spent
years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we were chilled by east winds,
and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove to conciliate the appalling
English; we were discouraged and desolate. But this, thank le bon Dieu! is
past. We are united; we have our little apartment--upon the fifth floor, it=
is
true, but still not hopelessly far from the Champs Elysées.
Clélie paints her little pictures, or copies those of some greater
artist, and finds sale for them. She is not a great artist herself, and is
charmingly conscious of the fact.
"At fifteen," she says, "I
regretted that I was not a genius; at five and twenty, I rejoice that I made
the discovery so early, and so gave myself time to become grateful for the
small gifts bestowed upon me. Why should I eat out my heart with envy? Is it
not possible that I might be a less clever woman than I am, and a less lucky
one?"
On my part I have my pupils,--French pupils
who take lessons in English, German, or Italian; English or American pupils=
who
generally learn French, and, upon the whole, I do not suffer from lack of
patrons.
It is my habit when Clélie is at wo=
rk
upon a copy in one of the great galleries to accompany her to the scene of =
her
labor in the morning and call for her at noon, and, in accordance with this
habit, I made my way to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years =
ago.
I found my wife busy at her easel in the
Grande Galerie, and when I approached her and laid my hand upon her shoulde=
r,
as was my wont, she looked up with a smile and spoke to me in a cautious
undertone.
"I am glad," she said, "that
you are not ten minutes later. Look at those extraordinary people."
She still leaned back in her chair and loo=
ked
up at me, but made, at the same time, one of those indescribable movements =
of
the head which a clever woman can render so significant.
This slight gesture directed me at once to=
the
extraordinary people to whom she referred.
"Are they not truly wonderful?" =
she
asked.
There were two of them, evidently father a=
nd
daughter, and they sat side by side upon a seat placed in an archway, and
regarded hopelessly one of the finest works in the gallery. The father was a
person undersized and elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as if with y=
ears
of rough outdoor labor; the effect produced upon him by his clothes was pla=
inly
one of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His stiff hands refused =
to
meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body shrank from his garmen=
ts;
if he had not been pathetic, he would have been ridiculous. But he was
pathetic. It was evident he was not so attired of his own free will; that o=
nly
a patient nature, inured by long custom to discomfort, sustained him; that =
he
was in the gallery under protest; that he did not understand the paintings,=
and
that they perplexed--overwhelmed him.
The daughter it is almost impossible to
describe, and yet I must attempt to describe her. She had a slender and pre=
tty
figure; there were slight marks of the sun on her face also, and, as in her
father's case, the richness of her dress was set at defiance by a strong
element of incongruousness. She had black hair and gray eyes, and she sat w=
ith folded
hands staring at the picture before her in dumb uninterestedness.
Clélie had taken up her brush again,
and was touching up her work here and there.
"They have been here two hours,"=
she
said. "They are waiting for some one. At first they tried to look about
them as others did. They wandered from seat to seat, and sat down, and look=
ed
as you see them doing now. What do you think of them? To what nation should=
you
ascribe them?"
"They are not French," I answere=
d.
"And they are not English."
"If she were English," said
Clélie, "the girl would be more conscious of herself, and of wh=
at
we might possibly be saying. She is only conscious that she is out of place=
and
miserable. She does not care for us at all. I have never seen Americans like
them before, but I am convinced that they are Americans."
She laid aside her working materials and
proceeded to draw on her gloves.
"We will go and look at that 'Tentati=
on
de St. Antoine' of Teniers," she said, "and we may hear them spea=
k. I
confess I am devoured by an anxiety to hear them speak."
According, a few moments later an amiable
young couple stood before "La Tentation," regarding it with absor=
bed
and critical glances.
But the father and daughter did not seem to
see us. They looked disconsolately about them, or at the picture before whi=
ch
they sat. Finally, however, we were rewarded by hearing them speak to each
other. The father addressed the young lady slowly and deliberately, and wit=
h an
accent which, but for my long residence in England and familiarity with some
forms of its patois, I should find it impossible to transcribe.
"Esmeraldy," he said, "your
ma's a long time acomin'."
"Yes," answered the girl, with t=
he
same accent, and in a voice wholly listless and melancholy, "she's a l=
ong
time."
Clélie favored me with one of her r=
apid
side glances. The study of character is her grand passion, and her special
weakness is a fancy for the singular and incongruous. I have seen her stand=
in
silence, and regard with positive interest one of her former patronesses wh=
o was
overwhelming her with contumelious violence, seeming entirely unconscious of
all else but that the woman was of a species novel to her, and therefore wo=
rthy
of delicate observation.
"It is as I said," she whispered.
"They are Americans, but of an order entirely new."
Almost the next instant she touched my arm=
.
"Here is the mother!" she exclai=
med.
"She is coming this way. See!"
A woman advanced rapidly toward our part of
the gallery,--a small, angry woman, with an un graceful figure, and a keen
brown eye. She began to speak aloud while still several feet distant from t=
he
waiting couple.
"Come along," she said. "I'=
ve
found a place at last, though I've been all the morning at it,--and the wom=
an
who keeps the door speaks English.
"They call 'em," remarked the
husband, meekly rising, "con-ser-ges. I wonder why."
The girl rose also, still with her hopeles=
s,
abstracted air, and followed the mother, who led the way to the door. Seeing
her move forward, my wife uttered an admiring exclamation.
"She is more beautiful than I
thought," she said. "She holds herself marvelously. She moves with
the freedom of some fine wild creature."
And, as the party disappeared from view, h=
er
regret at losing them drew from her a sigh. She discussed them with
characteristic enthusiasm all the way home. She even concocted a very proba=
ble
little romance. One would always imagine so many things concerning American=
s.
They were so extraordinary a people; they acquired wealth by such peculiar
means; their country was so immense; their resources were so remarkable. Th=
ese persons,
for instance, were evidently persons of wealth, and as plainly had risen fr=
om
the people. The mother was not quite so wholly untaught as the other two, b=
ut
she was more objectionable.
"One can bear with the large simplici=
ty
of utter ignorance," said my fair philosopher. "One frequently fi=
nds
it gentle and unworldly, but the other is odious because it is always
aggressive and narrow."
She had taken a strong feminine dislike to
Madame la Mère.
"She makes her family miserable,"
she said. "She drags them from place to place. Possibly there is a
lover,--more possibly than not. The girl's eyes wore a peculiar look,--as if
they searched for something far away."
She had scarcely concluded her charming li=
ttle
harangue when we reached our destination; but, as we passed through the
entrance, she paused to speak to the curly-headed child of the concierge wh=
ose
mother held him by the hand.
"We shall have new arrivals
to-morrow," said the good woman, who was always ready for friendly gos=
sip.
"The apartment upon the first floor," and she nodded to me
significantly, and with good-natured encouragement. "Perhaps you may g=
et
pupils," she added. "They are Americans, and speak only English, =
and
there is a young lady, Madame says."
"Americans!" exclaimed
Clélie, with sudden interest.
"Americans," answered the concie=
rge.
"It was Madame who came. Mon Dieu! it was wonderful! So rich and
so--so"--filling up the blank by a shrug of deep meaning.
"It cannot have been long since they
were--peasants," her voice dropping into a cautious whisper.
"Why not our friends of the Louvre?&q=
uot;
said Clélie as we went on up-stairs.
"Why not?" I replied. "It is
very possible."
The next day there arrived at the house
numberless trunks of large dimensions, superintended by the small angry wom=
an
and a maid. An hour later came a carriage, from whose door emerged the young
lady and her father. Both looked pale and fagged; both were led up-stairs in
the midst of voluble comments and commands by the mother; and both, enterin=
g the
apartment, seemed swallowed up by it, as we saw and heard nothing further of
them. Clélie was indignant.
"It is plain that the mother overwhel=
ms
them," she said. "A girl of that age should speak and be interest=
ed
in any novelty. This one would be if she were not wretched. And the poor li=
ttle
husband!"--
"My dear," I remarked, "you=
are
a feminine Bayard. You engage yourself with such ardor in everybody's
wrongs."
When I returned from my afternoon's work a=
few
days later, I found Clélie again excited. She had been summoned to t=
he
first floor by Madame.
"I went into the room," said
Clélie, "and found the mother and daughter together. Mademoisel=
le,
who stood by the fire, had evidently been weeping Madame was in an abrupt a=
nd
angry mood. She wasted no words. 'I want you to give her lessons,' she said,
making an ungraceful gesture in the direction of her daughter. 'What do you
charge a lesson?' And on my telling her, she engaged me at once. 'It's a gr=
eat
deal, but I guess I can pay as well as other people,' she remarked."
A few of the lessons were given downstairs,
and then Clélie preferred a request to Madame.
"If you will permit Mademoiselle to c=
ome
to my room, you will confer a favor upon me," she said.
Fortunately, her request was granted, and =
so I
used afterward to come home and find Mademoiselle Esmeralda in our little s=
alon
at work disconsolately and tremulously. She found it difficult to hold her =
pencil
in the correct manner, and one morning she let it drop, and burst into tear=
s.
"Don't you see I'll never do it!"
she answered, miserably. "Don't you see I couldn't, even if my heart w=
as
in it, and it aint at all!"
She held out her little hands piteously for
Clélie to look at. They were well enough shaped, and would have been
pretty if they had not been robbed of their youthful suppleness by labor.
"I've been used to work," she sa=
id,
"rough work all my life, and my hands aint like yours."
"But you must not be discouraged,
Mademoiselle," said Clélie gently. "Time"--
"Time," interposed the girl, wit=
h a
frightened look in her pretty gray eyes. "That's what I can't bear to
think of--the time that's to come."
This was the first of many outbursts of
confidence. Afterward she related to Clélie, with the greatest
naïveté, the whole history of the family affairs.
They had been the possessors of some barren
mountain lands in North Carolina, and her description of their former life =
was
wonderful indeed to the ears of the Parisian. She herself had been brought =
up
with marvelous simplicity and hardihood, barely learning to read and write,=
and
in absolute ignorance of society. A year ago iron had been discovered upon
their property, and the result had been wealth and misery for father and
daughter. The mother, who had some vague fancies of the attractions of the
great outside world, was ambitious and restless. Monsieur, who was a mild a=
nd
accommodating person, could only give way before her stronger will.
"She always had her way with us,"
said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, scratching nervously upon the paper before her
with her pencil, at this part of the relation. "We did not want to lea=
ve
home, neither me nor father, and father said more than I ever heard him say
before at one time. 'Mother,' says he, 'let me an' Esmeraldy stay at home, =
an'
you go an' enjoy your tower. You've had more schoolin' an' you'll be more at
home than we should. You're useder to city ways, havin' lived in 'Lizabethv=
ille.'
But it only vexed her. People in town had been talking to her about traveli=
ng
and letting me learn things, and she'd set her mind on it."
She was very simple and unsophisticated. To
the memory of her former truly singular life she clung with unshaken fideli=
ty.
She recurred to it constantly. The novelty and luxury of her new existence
seemed to have no attractions for her. One thing even my Clélie foun=
d incomprehensible,
while she fancied she understood the rest--she did not appear to be moved to
pleasure even by our beloved Paris.
"It is a true maladie du pays,"
Clélie remarked to me. "And that is not all."
Nor was it all. One day the whole truth was
told amid a flood of tears.
"I--I was going to be married,"
cried the poor child. "I was to have been married the week the ore was
found. I was--all ready, and mother--mother shut right down on us."
Clélie glanced at me in amazed
questioning.
"It is a kind of argot which belongs =
only
to Americans," I answered in an undertone. "The alliance was brok=
en
off."
"Ciel!" exclaimed my Clél=
ie
between her small shut teeth. "The woman is a fiend!"
She was wholly absorbed in her study of th=
is
unworldly and untaught nature. She was full of sympathy for its trials and
tenderness, and for its pain.
Even the girl's peculiarities of speech we=
re
full of interest to her. She made serious and intelligent efforts to unders=
tand
them, as if she studied a new language.
"It is not common argot," she sa=
id.
"It has its subtleties. One continually finds somewhere an original
idea--sometimes even a bon mot, which startles one by its pointedness. As y=
ou
say, however, it belongs only to the Americans and their remarkable country=
. A
French mind can only arrive at its climaxes through a grave and occasionall=
y tedious
research, which would weary most persons, but which, however, does not weary
me."
The confidence of Mademoiselle Esmeralda w=
as
easily won. She became attached to us both, and particularly to Clél=
ie.
When her mother was absent or occupied, she stole up-stairs to our apartment
and spent with us the moments of leisure chance afforded her. She liked our
rooms, she told my wife, because they were small, and our society, because =
we
were "clever," which we discovered afterward meant
"amiable." But she was always pale and out of spirits. She would =
sit
before our fire silent and abstracted.
"You must not mind if I don't talk,&q=
uot;
she would say. "I can't; and it seems to help me to get to sit and thi=
nk
about things--Mother won't let me do it down-stairs."
We became also familiar with the father. O=
ne
day I met him upon the staircase, and to my amazement he stopped as if he
wished to address me. I raised my hat and bade him good-morning. On his par=
t he
drew forth a large handkerchief and began to rub the palms of his hands with
awkward timidity.
"How-dy?" he said.
I confess that at the moment I was covered
with confusion. I who was a teacher of English, and flattered myself that I
wrote and spoke it fluently did not understand. Immediately, however, it fl=
ashed
across my mind that the word was a species of salutation. (Which I finally =
discovered
to be the case.) I bowed again and thanked him, hazarding the reply that my
health was excellent, and an inquiry as to the state of Madame's. He rubbed=
his
hands still more nervously, and answered me in the slow and deliberate mari=
ner
I had observed at the Louvre.
"Thank ye," he said, "she's
doin' tol'able well, is mother--as well as common. And she's a-en-joyin'
herself, too. I wish we was all"--
But there he checked himself and glanced
hastily about him.
Then he began again:--
"Esmeraldy," he
said,--"Esmeraldy thinks a heap on you. She takes a sight of comfort o=
ut
of Mis' Des----I can't call your name, but I mean your wife."
"Madame Desmarres," I replied, "is rejoiced indeed to have won the friendship of Mademoiselle."<= o:p>
"Yes," he proceeded, "she t=
akes
a sight of comfort in you and all. An' she needs comfort, does Esmeraldy.&q=
uot;
There ensued a slight pause which somewhat
embarrassed me, for at every pause he regarded me with an air of meek and
hesitant appeal.
"She's a little down-sperrited is
Esmeraldy," he said. "An'," adding this suddenly in a subdued
and fearful tone, "so am I."
Having said this he seemed to feel that he=
had
overstepped a barrier. He seized the lapel of my coat and held me prisoner,
pouring forth his confessions with a faith in my interest by which I was at
once-amazed and touched.
"You see it's this way," he
said,--"it's this way, Mister. We're home folks, me an' Esmeraldy, an'
we're a long way from home, an' it sorter seems like we didn't get no usede=
r to
it than we was at first. We're not like mother. Mother she was raised in a
town,--she was raised in 'Lizabethville,--an' she allers took to town ways;=
but
me an' Esmeraldy, we was raised in the mountains, right under the shadder of
old Bald, an' town goes hard with us. Seems like we're allers a thinkin' of
North Callina. An' mother she gits outed, which is likely. She says we'd ou=
ght to
fit ourselves fur our higher pear, an' I dessay we'd ought,--but you see it
goes sorter hard with us. An' Esmeraldy she has her trouble an' I can't hel=
p a
sympathizin' with her, fur young folks will be young folks; an' I was young
folks once myself. Once--once I sot a heap o' store by mother. So you see-h=
ow
it is."
"It is very sad, Monsieur," I
answered with gravity. Singular as it may appear, this was not so laughable=
to
me as it might seem. It was so apparent that he did not anticipate ridicule.
And my Clélie's interest in these people also rendered them sacred i=
n my
eyes.
"Yes," he returned, "that's=
so;
an' sometimes it's wuss than you'd think--when mother's outed. An' that's w=
hy
I'm glad as Mis' Dimar an' Esmeraldy is such friends."
It struck me at this moment that he had so=
me
request to make of me. He grasped the lapel of my coat somewhat more tightl=
y as
if requiring additional support, and finally bent forward and addressed me =
with
caution, "Do you think as Mis' Dimar would mind it ef now an' then I w=
as to
step in fur Esmeraldy, an' set a little--just in a kinder neighborin' way.
Esmeraldy, she says you're so sosherble. And I haint been sosherble with no=
one
fur--fur a right smart spell. And it seems like I kinder hanker arter it.
You've no idea, Mister, how lonesome a man can git when he hankers to be so=
sherble
an' haint no one to be sosherble with. Mother, she says, 'Go out on the Cha=
mps
Elizy and promenard,' and I've done it; but some ways it don't reach the sp=
ot.
I don't seem to get sosherble with no one. I've spoke to--may be through us
speakin' different languages, an' not comin' to a understandin'. I've tried=
it
loud an' I've tried it low an' encouragen', but some ways we never seemed to
get on. An' er Mis' Dimar wouldn't take no exceptions at me a-drop-pin' in,=
I
feel as ef I should be sorter uplifted--if she'd only allow it once a week =
or
even fewer."
"Monsieur," I replied with warmt=
h,
"I beg you will consider our salon at your disposal, not once a week b=
ut
at all times, and Madame Desmarres would certainly join me in the invitatio=
n if
she were upon the spot."
He released the lapel of my coat and grasp=
ed
my hand, shaking it with fervor.
"Now, that's clever, that is," he
said. "An' its friendly, an' I'm obligated to ye."
Since he appeared to have nothing further =
to
say we went down-stairs together. At the door we parted.
"I'm a-goin'," he remarked, &quo=
t;to
the Champs Elizy to promenard. Where are you a-goin'?"
"To the Boulevard Haussmann, Monsieur= , to give a lesson," I returned. "I will wish you good-morning."<= o:p>
"Good-mornin'," he answered.
"Bong"--reflecting deeply for a moment--"Bong jore. I'm a tr=
yin'
to learn it, you see, with a view to bein' more sosherbler. Bong jore"=
And
thus took his departure.
After this we saw him frequently. In fact =
it
became his habit to follow Mademoiselle Esmeralda in all her visits to our
apartment. A few minutes after her arrival we usually heard a timid knock u=
pon
the outer door, which proved to emanate from Monsieur, who always entered w=
ith
a laborious "Bong jore" and always slipped deprecatingly into the
least comfortable chair near the fire, hurriedly concealing his hat beneath=
it.
In him also my Clélie became much
interested. On my own part I could not cease to admire the fine feeling and
delicate tact she continually exhibited in her manner toward him. In time h=
e even
appeared to lose something of his first embarrassment and discomfort, thoug=
h he
was always inclined to a reverent silence in her presence.
"He don't say much, don't father,&quo=
t;
said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, with tears in her pretty eyes. "He's like=
me,
but you don't know what comfort he's taking when he sits and listens and st=
irs
his chocolate round and round without drinking it. He doesn't drink it beca=
use
he aint used to it; but he likes to have it when we do, because he says it
makes him feel sosherble. He's trying to learn to drink it too--he practices
every day a little at a time. He was powerful afraid at first that you'd ta=
ke exceptions
to him doing nothing but stir it round; but I told him I knew you wouldn't =
for
you wasn't that kind."
"I find him," said Clélie=
to
me, "inexpressibly mournful,--even though he excites one to smile? upon
all occasions. Is it not mournful that his very suffering should be absurd.=
Mon
Dieu! he does not wear his clothes--he bears them about with him--he simply
carries them."
It was about this time that Mademoiselle
Esmeralda was rendered doubly unhappy. Since their residence in Paris Madame
had been industriously occupied in making efforts to enter society. She had
struggled violently and indefatigably. She was at once persistent and
ambitious. She had used every means that lay in her power, and, most of all,
she had used her money. Naturally, she had found people upon the outskirts =
of
good circles who would accept her with her money. Consequently, she had obt=
ained
acquaintances of a class, and was bold enough to employ them as stepping-st=
ones.
At all events, she began to receive invitations, and to discover opportunit=
ies
to pay visits, and to take her daughter with her. Accordingly, Mademoiselle
Esmeralda was placed upon exhibition.
She was dressed by experienced artistes. S=
he
was forced from her seclusion, and obliged to drive, and call, and promenad=
e.
Her condition was pitiable. While all this=
was
torture to her inexperience and timidity, her fear of her mother rendered h=
er
wholly submissive. Each day brought with it some new trial. She was admired=
for
many reasons,--by some for her wealth, of which all had heard rumors; by ot=
hers
for her freshness and beauty. The silence and sensitiveness which arose from
shyness, and her ignorance of all social rules, were called naïvet&eac=
ute;
and modesty, and people who abhorred her mother, not unfrequently were char=
med
with her, and consequently Madame found her also an instrument of some
consequence.
In her determination to overcome all obsta=
cles,
Madame even condescended to apply to my wife, whose influence over Mademois=
elle
she was clever enough not to undervalue.
"I want you to talk to
Mademoiselle," she said. "She thinks a great deal of you, and I w=
ant
you to give her some good advice. You know what society is, and you know th=
at
she ought to be proud of her advantages, and not make a fool of herself. Ma=
ny a
girl would be glad enough of what she has before her. She's got money, and
she's got chances, and I don't begrudge her anything. She can spend all she
likes on clothes and things, and I'll take her anywhere if she'll behave
herself. They wear me out--her and her father. It's her father that's ruined
her, and her living as she's done. Her father never knew anything, and he's
made a pet of her, and got her into his way of thinking. It's ridiculous ho=
w little
ambition they have, and she might marry as well as any girl. There's a marq=
uis
that's quite in love with her at this moment, and she's as afraid of him as
death, and cries if I even mention him, though he's a nice enough man, if h=
e is
a bit elderly. Now, I want you to reason with her."
This Clélie told me afterward.
"And upon going away," she ended,
"she turned round toward me, setting her face into an indescribable
expression of hardness and obstinacy. 'I want her to understand,' she said,
'that she's cut off forever from anything that's happened before. There's t=
he'
Atlantic Ocean and many a mile of land between her and North Carolina, and =
so
she may as well give that up.'"
Two or three days after this Mademoiselle =
came
to our apartment in great grief. She had left Madame in a violent ill-tempe=
r.
They had received invitations to a ball at which they were to meet the marq=
uis.
Madame had been elated, and the discovery of Mademoiselle's misery and
trepidation had roused her indignation. There had been a painful scene, and=
Mademoiselle
had been overwhelmed as usual.
She knelt before the fire and wept
despairingly.
"I'd rather die than go," she sa=
id.
"I can't stand it. I can't get used to it. The light, and the noise, a=
nd
the talk, hurts me, and I don't know what I am doing. And people stare at m=
e,
and I make mistakes, and I'm not fit for it--and--and--I'd rather be dead f=
ifty
thousand times than let that man come near me. I hate him, and I'm afraid of
him, and I wish I was dead."
At this juncture came the timid summons up=
on
the door, and the father entered with a disturbed and subdued air. He did n=
ot
conceal his hat, but held it in his hands, and turned it round and round in=
an
agitated manner as he seated himself beside his daughter.
"Esmeraldy," he said, "don't
you take it so hard; honey. Mother, she's kinder outed, and she's not at
herself rightly. Don't you never mind. Mother she means well, but--but she's
got a sorter curious way of showin' it. She's got a high sperrit, an' we'd
ought to 'low fur it, and not take it so much to heart. Mis' Dimar here kno=
ws
how high-sperrited people is sometimes, I dessay,--an' mother she's got a
powerful high sperrit."
But the poor child only wept more hopeless=
ly.
It was not only the cruelty of her mother which oppressed her, it was the w=
ound
she bore in her heart.
Clélie's eyes filled with tears as =
she
regarded her.
The father was also more broken in spirit =
than
he wished it to appear. His weather-beaten face assumed an expression of de=
ep
melancholy which at last betrayed itself in an evidently inadvertent speech=
.
"I wish--I wish," he faltered.
"Lord! I'd give a heap to see Wash now. I'd give a heap to see him,
Esmeraldy."
It was as if the words were the last straw.
The girl turned toward him and flung herself upon his breast with a passion=
ate
cry.
"Oh, father!" she sobbed, "=
we
sha'n't never see him again--never--never! nor the mountains, nor the people
that cared for us. We've lost it all, and we can't get it back,--and we hav=
en't
a soul that's near to us,--and we're all alone,--you and me, father, and
Wash--Wash, he thinks we don't care."
I must confess to a momentary spasm of ala=
rm,
her grief was so wild and overwhelming. One hand was flung about her father=
's
neck, and the other pressed itself against her side, as if her heart was
breaking.
Clélie bent down and lifted her up,
consoling her tenderly.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "=
do
not despair. Le Bon Dieu will surely have pity."
The father drew forth the large linen
handkerchief, and unfolding it slowly, applied it to his eyes.
"Yes, Esmeraldy," he said;
"don't let us give out,--at least don't you give out. It doesn't matter
fur me, Esmeraldy, because, you see, I must hold on to mother, as I swore n=
ot
to go back on; but you're young an' likely, Esmeraldy, an' don't you give o=
ut
yet, fur the Lord's sake."
But she did not cease weeping until she had
wholly fatigued herself, and by this time there arrived a message from Mada=
me,
who required her presence down-stairs. Monsieur was somewhat alarmed, and r=
ose precipitately,
but Mademoiselle was too full of despair to admit of fear.
"It's only the dress-maker," she
said. "You can stay where you are, father, and she won't guess we've b=
een
together, and it'll be better for us both."
And accordingly she obeyed the summons alo=
ne.
Great were the preparations made by Madame=
for
the entertainment My wife, to whom she displayed the costumes and jewels she
had purchased, was aroused to an admiration truly feminine.
She had the discretion to trust to the tas=
te
of the artistes, and had restrained them in nothing. Consequently, all that=
was
to be desired in the appearance of Mademoiselle Esmeralda upon the eventful
evening was happiness. With her mother's permission, she came to our room to
display herself, Monsieur following her with an air of awe and admiration c=
ommingled.
Her costume was rich and exquisite, and her beauty beyond criticism; but as=
she
stood in the centre of our little salon to be looked at, she presented an
appearance to move one's heart. The pretty young face which had by this time
lost its slight traces of the sun had also lost some of its bloom; the slig=
ht
figure was not so round nor so erect as it had been, and moved with less of
spirit and girlishness.
It appeared that Monsieur observed this al=
so,
for he stood apart regarding her with evident depression, and occasionally =
used
his handkerchief with a violence that was evidently meant to conceal some s=
ecret
emotion.
"You're not so peart as you was,
Esmeraldy," he remarked, tremulously; "not as peart by a light sm=
art,
and what with that, and what with your fixin's, Wash--I mean the
home-folks,"--hastily--"they'd hardly know ye."
He followed her down-stairs mournfully when
she took her departure, and Clélie and myself being left alone
interested ourselves in various speculations concerning them, as was our ha=
bit.
"This Monsieur Wash," remarked
Clélie, "is clearly the lover. Poor child! how passionately she
regrets him,--and thousands of miles lie between them--thousands of
miles!"
It was not long after this that, on my way
downstairs to make a trifling purchase, I met with something approaching an
adventure. It so chanced that, as I descended the staircase of the second
floor, the door of the first floor apartment was thrown open, and from it
issued Mademoiselle Esmeralda and her mother on their way to their waiting
carriage. My interest in the appearance of Mademoiselle in her white robes =
and sparkling
jewels so absorbed me that I inadvertently brushed against a figure which s=
tood
in the shadow regarding them also. Turning at once to apologize, I found my=
self
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 slow=
ly
up the stairs.
But even the utterance of this brief sente= nce had betrayed to my practiced ear a peculiar accent--an accent which, strang= e 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.<= o:p>
"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 tria=
ls
one encounters with such persons,--endeavoring to comprehend, poor creature=
s,
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?--i=
t 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 w=
atch
for him. The concierge could only tell us that he lived a secluded life--ra=
rely
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 l=
oaf,
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," s=
he
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 insis=
ted
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 s=
een
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 marqui=
s,
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 wo=
uld
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 cl=
ever
enough to outwit and control him. Consequently, he was encouraged and fawned
upon, and Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large-eyed, and wore continua=
lly
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 wi=
th
alarm.
"Do you know what I shall do?" s=
he
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 I've laid awake and thought of it many a night. Father and me saw=
a
man taken out of it one day, and the people said he was a Tyrolean, and dro=
wned
himself because he was so poor and lonely--and--and so far from home."=
Upon the very morning she made this speech=
I
saw again our friend of the sixth floor. In going down-stairs I came upon h=
im,
sitting upon one of the steps as if exhausted, and when he turned his face
upward, its pallor and haggardness startled me. His tall form was wasted, h=
is eyes
were hollow, the peculiarities I had before observed were doubly marked--he=
was
even emaciated.
"Monsieur," I said in English,
"you appear indisposed. You have been ill. Allow me to assist you to y=
our
room."
"No, thank you," he answered.
"It's only weakness. I--I sorter give out. Don't trouble yourself. I s=
hall
get over it directly."
Something in his face, which was a very yo=
ung
and well-looking one, forced me to leave him in silence, merely bowing as I=
did
so. I felt instinctively that to remain would be to give him additional pai=
n.
As I passed the room of the concierge,
however, the excellent woman beckoned to me to approach her.
"Did you see the young man?" she
inquired rather anxiously. "He has shown himself this morning for the =
first
time in three days. There is something wrong. It is my impression that he
suffers want--that he is starving himself to death!"
Her rosy countenance absolutely paled as s=
he
uttered these last words, retreating a pace from me and touching my arm wit=
h her
fore-finger.
"He has carried up even less bread th=
an
usual during the last few weeks," she added, "and there has been =
no
bouillon whatever. A young man cannot live only on dry bread, and too littl=
e of
that. He will perish; and apart from the inhumanity of the thing, it will b=
e unpleasant
for the other locataires."
I wasted no time in returning to
Clélie, having indeed some hope that I might find the poor fellow st=
ill
occupying his former position upon the staircase. But in this I met with
disappointment: he was gone and I could only relate to my wife what I had
heard, and trust to her discretion. As I had expected, she was deeply moved=
.
"It is terrible," she said..
"And it is also a delicate and difficult matter to manage. But what can
one do? There is only one thing--I who am a woman, and have suffered privat=
ion
myself, may venture."
Accordingly, she took her departure for the
floor above. I heard her light summons upon the door of one of the rooms, b=
ut
heard no reply. At last, however, the door was opened gently, and with a
hesitance that led me to imagine that it was Clélie herself who had
pushed it open, and immediately afterward I was sure that she had uttered an
alarmed exclamation. I stepped out upon the landing and called to her in a =
subdued
tone,--
"Clélie," I said, "d=
id I
hear you speak?"
"Yes," she returned from within =
the
room. "Come at once, and bring with you some brandy."
In the shortest possible time I had joined=
her
in the room, which was bare, cold, and unfurnished--a mere garret, in fact,
containing nothing but a miserable bedstead. Upon the floor, near the windo=
w,
knelt Clélie, supporting with her knee and arm the figure of the you=
ng
man she had come to visit.
"Quick with the brandy," she
exclaimed. "This may be a faint, but it looks like death." She had
found the door partially open, and receiving no answer to her knock, had pu=
shed
it farther ajar, and caught a glimpse of the fallen figure, and hurried to =
its
assistance.
To be as brief as possible, we both remain=
ed
at the young man's side during the whole of the night. As the concierge had
said, he was perishing from inanition, and the physician we called in assur=
ed
us that only the most constant attention would save his life.
"Monsieur," Clélie explai=
ned
to him upon the first occasion upon which he opened his eyes, "you are=
ill
and alone, and we wish to befriend you." And he was too weak to require
from her anything more definite.
Physically he was a person to admire. In
health his muscular power must have been immense. He possessed the frame of=
a
young giant, and yet there was in his face a look of innocence and inexperi=
ence
amazing even when one recollected his youth.
"It is the look," said
Clélie, regarding him attentively,--"the look one sees in the f=
aces
of Monsieur and his daughter down-stairs; the look of a person who has live=
d a
simple life, and who knows absolutely nothing of the world."
It is possible that this may have prepared=
the
reader for the dénoûment which followed; but singular as it may
appear, it did not prepare either Clélie or myself--perhaps because =
we
had seen the world, and having learned to view it in a practical light, were
not prepared to encounter suddenly a romance almost unparalleled.
The next morning I was compelled to go out=
to
give my lessons as usual, and left Clélie with our patient. On my
return, my wife, hearing my footsteps, came out and met me upon the landing.
She was moved by the strongest emotion and much excited; her cheeks were pa=
le
and her eyes shone.
"Do not go in yet," she said,
"I have something to tell you. It is almost incredible; but--but it
is--the lover!"
For a moment we remained silent--standing
looking at each other. To me it seemed incredible indeed.
"He could not give her up,"
Clélie went on, "until he was sure she wished to discard him. T=
he
mother had employed all her ingenuity to force him to believe that such was=
the
case, but he could not rest until he had seen his betrothed face to face. S=
o he
followed her,--poor, inexperienced, and miserable,--and when at last he saw=
her
at a distance, the luxury with which she was surrounded caused his heart to=
fail
him, and he gave way to despair."
I accompanied her into the room, and heard=
the
rest from his own lips. He gathered together all his small savings, and made
his journey in the cheapest possible way,--in the steerage of the vessel, a=
nd
in third-class carriages,--so that he might have some trifle left to subsist
upon.
"I've a little farm," he said,
"and there's a house on it, but I wouldn't sell that. If she cared to =
go,
it was all I had to take her to, an' I'd worked hard to buy it. I'd worked
hard, early and late, always thinking that some day we'd begin life there
together--Esmeraldy and me."
"Since neither sea, nor land, nor
cruelty, could separate them," said Clélie to me during the day,
"it is not I who will help to hold them apart."
So when Mademoiselle came for her lesson t=
hat
afternoon, it was Clélie's task to break the news to her,--to tell h=
er
that neither sea nor land lay between herself and her lover, and that he was
faithful still.
She received the information as she might =
have
received a blow,--staggering backward, and whitening, and losing her breath;
but almost immediately afterward she uttered a sad cry of disbelief and ang=
uish.
"No, no," she said, "it--it
isn't true! I won't believe it--I mustn't. There's half the world between u=
s.
Oh, don't try to make me believe it,--when it can't be true!"
"Come with me," replied
Clélie.
Never--never in my life has it been my fat=
e to
see, before or since, a sight so touching as the meeting of these two young
hearts. When the door of the cold, bare room opened, and Mademoiselle Esmer=
alda
entered, the lover held out his weak arms with a sob,--a sob of rapture, and
yet terrible to hear.
"I thought you'd gone back on me,
Esmeraldy," he cried. "I thought you'd gone back on me."
Clélie and I turned away and left t=
hem
as the girl fell upon her knees at his side.
The effect produced upon the father--who h=
ad
followed Mademoiselle as usual, and whom we found patiently seated upon the
bottom step of the flight of stairs, awaiting our arrival--was almost
indescribable.
He sank back upon his seat with a gasp,
clutching at his hat with both hands. He also disbelieved.
"Wash!" he exclaimed weakly.
"Lord, no! Lord, no! Not Wash! Wash, he's in North Cal-lina. Lord,
no!"
"He is up-stairs," returned
Clélie, "and Mademoiselle is with him."
During the recovery of Monsieur Wash, thou=
gh
but little was said upon the subject, it is my opinion that the minds of ea=
ch
of our number pointed only toward one course in the future.
In Mademoiselle's demeanor there appeared a
certain air of new courage and determination, though she was still pallid a=
nd
anxious. It was as if she had passed a climax and had gained strength.
Monsieur, the father, was alternately nervous and dejected, or in feverishly
high spirits. Occasionally he sat for some time without speak ing, merely
gazing into the fire with a hand upon each knee; and it was one evening, af=
ter
a more than usually prolonged silence of this description, that he finally =
took
upon himself the burden which lay upon us unitedly.
"Esmeraldy," he remarked,
tremulously, and with manifest trepidation,--"Esmeraldy, I've been
thinkin'--it's time--we broke it to mother."
The girl lost color, but she lifted her he=
ad
steadily.
"Yes, father," she answered,
"it's time."
"Yes," he echoed, rubbing his kn=
ees
slowly, "it's time; an', Esmeraldy, it's a thing to--to sorter set a m=
an
back."
"Yes, father," she answered agai=
n.
"Yes," as before, though his voi=
ce broke
somewhat; "an' I dessay you know how it'll be, Esmeraldy,--that you'll
have to choose betwixt mother and Wash."
She sat by her lover, and for answer she
dropped her face upon his hand with a sob.
"An'--an' you've chose Wash,
Esmeraldy?"
"Yes, father."
He hesitated a moment, and then took his h=
at
from its place of concealment and rose.
"It's nat'ral,"'he said, "a=
n'
it's right. I wouldn't want it no other way. An' you mustn't mind, Esmerald=
y,
it's bein' kinder rough on me, as can't go back on mother, havin' swore to
cherish her till death do us part You've allus been a good gal to me, an' w=
e've
thought a heap on each other, an' I reckon it can allers be the same way, e=
ven
though we're sep'rated, fur it's nat'ral you should have chose Wash, an'--a=
n' I
wouldn't have it no other way, Esmeraldy. Now I'll go an' have it out with
mother."
We were all sufficiently unprepared for the
announcement to be startled by it Mademoiselle Esmeralda, who was weeping
bitterly, half sprang to her feet.
"To-night!" she said. "Oh,
father!"
"Yes," he replied; "I've be=
en
thinking over it, an' I don't see no other way, an' it may as well be to-ni=
ght
as any other time."
After leaving us he was absent for about an
hour. When he returned, there were traces in his appearance of the storm
through which he had passed. His hands trembled with agitation; he even loo=
ked
weakened as he sank into his chair, We regarded him with commiseration.
"It's over," he half whispered,
"an' it was even rougher than I thought it would be. She was terrible
outed, was mother. I reckon I never see her so outed before. She jest raged=
and
tore. It was most more than I could stand, Esmeraldy," and he dropped =
his
head upon his hands for support. "Seemed like it was the Markis as laid
heaviest upon her," he proceeded. "She was terrible sot on the
Markis, an' every time she think of him, she'd just rear--. she'd just rear=
. I
never stood up agen mother afore, an' I hope I shan't never have it to do a=
gain
in my time. I'm kinder wore out."
Little by little we learned much of what h=
ad
passed, though he evidently withheld the most for the sake of Mademoiselle,=
and
it was some time before he broke the news to her that her mother's doors we=
re
closed against her.
"I think you'll find it pleasanter
a-stoppin' here," he said, "if Mis' Dimar'll board ye until--the =
time
fur startin' home. Her sperrit was so up that she said she didn't aim to see
you no more, an' you know how she is, Esmeraldy, when her sperrit's up.&quo=
t;
The girl went and clung around his neck,
kneeling at his side, and shedding tears.
"Oh, father!" she cried,
"you've bore a great deal for me; you've bore more than any one knows,=
and
all for me."
He looked rather grave, as he shook his he=
ad
at the fire.
"That's so, Esmeraldy," he repli=
ed;
"but we ailers seemed nigh to each other, somehow, and when it come to=
the
wust, I was bound to kinder make a stand fur you, as I couldn't have made f=
ur
myself. I couldn't have done it fur myself. Lord, no!"
So Mademoiselle remained with us, and
Clélie assisted her to prepare her simple outfit, and in the evening=
the
tall young lover came into our apartment and sat looking on, which aspect of
affairs, I will confess, was entirely new to Clélie, and yet did not
displease her.
"Their candor moves me," she sai=
d.
"He openly regards her with adoration. At parting she accompanies him =
to
the door, and he embraces her tenderly, and yet one is not repelled. It is =
the
love of the lost Arcadia--serious and innocent."
Finally, we went with them one morning to =
the
American Chapel in the Rue de Bern, and they were united in our presence and
that of Monsieur, who was indescribably affected.
After the completion of the ceremony, he
presented Monsieur Wash with a package.
"It's papers as I've had drawd up fur
Esmeraldy," he said. "It'll start you well out in the world, an'
after me and mother's gone, there's no one but you and her to have rest. The
Lord--may the Lord bless ye!"
We accompanied them to Havre, and did not
leave them until the last moment. Monsieur was strangely excited, and clung=
to
the hands of his daughter and son-in-law, talking fast and nervously, and
pouring out messages to be delivered to his distant friends.
"Tell 'em I'd like powerful well to s=
ee
'em all, an' I'd have come only--only things was kinder onconvenient. Somet=
ime,
perhaps"--
But here he was obliged to clear his throa=
t,
as his voice had become extremely husky. And, having done this, he added in=
an
undertone:--
"You see, Esmeraldy, I couldn't, beca=
use
of mother, as I've swore not to go back on. Wash, he wouldn't go back on yo=
u,
however high your sperrit was, an' I can't go back on mother."
The figures of the young couple standing at
the side, Monsieur Wash holding his wife to his breast with one strong arm,
were the last we saw as the ship moved slowly away.
"It is obscurity to which they are
returning," I said, half unconsciously.
"It is love," said Clélie=
.
The father, who had been standing apart, c=
ame
back to us, replacing in his pocket his handkerchief.
"They are young an' likely, you
see," said Monsieur, "an' life before them, an' it's nat'ral as s=
he
should have chose Wash, as was young too, an' sot on her. Lord, it's nat'ra=
l,
an' I wouldn't have it no otherways."