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Esmeralda
by
“Monsieur,” I replied with warmth, “I beg you will consider our salon at your disposal, not once a week but at all times, and Madame Desmarres would certainly join me in the invitation if she were upon the spot.”
He released the lapel of my coat and grasped 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, “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.”
“Good-mornin’,” he answered. “Bong”–reflecting deeply for a moment–“Bong jore. I’m a tryin’ 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 upon the outer door, which proved to emanate from Monsieur, who always entered with 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 Clelie 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 he even appeared to lose something of his first embarrassment and discomfort, though he was always inclined to a reverent silence in her presence.
“He don’t say much, don’t father,” 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 stirs his chocolate round and round without drinking it. He doesn’t drink it because 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 take 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 Clelie 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 obtained acquaintances of a class, and was bold enough to employ them as stepping-stones. At all events, she began to receive invitations, and to discover opportunities to pay visits, and to take her daughter with her. Accordingly, Mademoiselle Esmeralda was placed upon exhibition.
She was dressed by experienced artistes. She was forced from her seclusion, and obliged to drive, and call, and promenade.
Her condition was pitiable. While all this was torture to her inexperience and timidity, her fear of her mother rendered her 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 others for her freshness and beauty. The silence and sensitiveness which arose from shyness, and her ignorance of all social rules, were called naivete and modesty, and people who abhorred her mother, not unfrequently were charmed with her, and consequently Madame found her also an instrument of some consequence.