Part 67 (1/2)

”Will Mademoiselle permit me to take it?” I said. ”I am going upstairs.”

She hesitated.

”Many thanks,” she said, reluctantly, ”but....”

”But Madame Bousse is busy,” I urged, ”and the _pot au feu_ will spoil if she leaves it on the fire.”

The fat _concierge_ nodded, and patted me on the shoulder.

”Let him carry the parcel, Mam'selle Hortense,” she chuckled. ”Let him carry it. M'sieur is your neighbor, and neighbors should be neighborly.

Besides,” she added, in an audible aside, ”he is a _bon garcon_--an Englishman--and a book-student like yourself.”

The young lady bent her head, civilly, but proudly. Compelled, as it seemed, to accept my help, she evidently wished to show me that I must nevertheless put forward no claim to further intercourse--not even on the plea of neighborhood. I understood her, and taking up the parcel, followed her in silence to her door on the third story. Here she paused and thanked me.

”Pray let me carry it in for you,” I said.

Again she hesitated; but only for an instant. Too well-bred not to see that a refusal would now be a discourtesy, she unlocked the door, and held it open.

The first room was an ante-chamber; the second a _salon_ somewhat larger than my own, with a door to the right, leading into what I supposed would be her bedroom. At a glance, I took in all the details of her home. There was her writing-table laden with books and papers, her desk, and her pile of ma.n.u.scripts. At one end of the room stood a piano doing duty as a side-board, and looking as if it were seldom opened. Some water-color drawings were pinned against the walls, and a well-filled bookcase stood in a recess beside the fireplace. Nothing escaped me --not even the shaded reading-lamp, nor the plain ebony time-piece, nor the bronze Apollo on the bracket above the piano, nor the sword over the mantelpiece, which seemed a strange ornament in the study of a gentle lady. Besides all this, there were books everywhere, heaped upon the tables, ranged on shelves, piled in corners, and scattered hither and thither in most admired disorder. It was, however, the only disorder there.

I longed to linger, but dared not. Having laid the parcel down upon the nearest chair, there was nothing left for me to do but to take my leave.

Mademoiselle Dufresnoy still kept her hand upon the door.

”Accept my best thanks, sir,” she said in English, with a pretty foreign accent, that seemed to give new music to the dear familiar tongue.

”You have nothing to thank me for, Mademoiselle,” I replied.

She smiled, proudly still, but very sweetly, and closed the door upon me.

I went back to my room; it had become suddenly dark and desolate. I tried to read; but all subjects seemed alike tedious and unprofitable. I could fix my attention to nothing; and so, becoming restless, I went out again, and wandered about the dusky streets till evening fairly set in, and the shops were lighted, and the tide of pa.s.sers-by began to flow faster in the direction of boulevard and theatre.

The soft light of her shaded lamp streamed from her window when I came back, nor faded thence till two hours after midnight. I watched it all the long evening, stealing out from time to time upon my balcony, which adjoined her own, and welcoming the cool night air upon my brow. For I was fevered and disquieted, I knew not why, and my heart was stirred within me, strangely and sweetly.

Such was my first meeting with Hortense Dufresnoy. No incident of it has since faded from my memory. Brief as it was, it had already turned all the current of my life. I had fallen in love at first sight. Yes--in love; for love it was--real, pa.s.sionate, earnest; a love destined to be the master-pa.s.sion of all my future years.

CHAPTER XLI.

A CHRONICLE ABOUT FROISSART.

See, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so!

JULIUS CAESAR.

But all be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre, But all that he might of his frends hente, On bokes and on lerning he is spente.

CHAUCER.

”LOVE-IN-IDLENESS” has pa.s.sed into a proverb, and lovers, somehow, are not generally supposed to be industrious. I, however, worked none the less zealously for being in love. I applied only the more closely to my studies, both medical and literary, and made better progress in both than I had made before. I was not ambitious; but I had many incentives to work. I was anxious to satisfy my father. I earnestly desired to efface every unfavorable impression from the mind of Dr.