ed as she put him gently out of her way and walked
on. He ran to tell his aunt:

"How good she smells, that lady!"

Mademoiselle Servien only muttered that great ladies were no
better than others, and that she thought more of herself with
her merino skirt than all those set-up minxes in their flounces
and finery, adding:

"Better a good name than a gilt girdle."

But this talk was beyond little Jean's comprehension. The perfumed
silk that had swept his face left behind a vague sweetness, a
memory as of a gentle, ghostly caress.

III

One evening in summer the bookbinder was enjoying the fresh air
before his door when a big man with a red nose, past middle age and
wearing a scarlet waistcoat stained with grease-spots, appeared,
bowing politely and confidentially, and addressed him in a sing-song
voice in which even Monsieur Servien could detect an Italian
accent:

"Sir, I have translated the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, the immortal
masterpiece of Torquato Tasso"--and a bulging packet of manuscript
under his arm confirmed the statement.

"Yes, sir, I have devoted sleepless nights to this glorious and
ungrateful task. Without family or fatherland, I have written my
translation in dark, ice-cold garrets, on chandlers' wrappers,
snuff papers, the backs of playing cards! Such has been the exile's
task! You, sir, you live in your own land, in the bosom of a
happy family--at least I hope so."

This speech, which impressed him by its magniloquence and its
strangeness, set the bookbinder dreaming of the dead woman he
had loved, and he saw her in his mind's eye coiling her beautiful
hair as in the early days of their married life.

The big man proceeded:

"Man is like a plant which perishes when the storms uproot it.

"Here is your son, is it not so? He is like you"--and laying
his hand on Jean's head, who clung to his father's coat-tails
in wonder at the red waistcoat and the sing-song voice, he asked
if the child learned his lessons well, if he was growing up to
be a clever man, if he would not soon be beginning Latin.

"That noble language," he added, "whose inimitable monuments have
often made me forget my misfortunes.

"Yes, sir, I have often breakfasted on a page of Tacitus and supped
on a satire of Juvenal."

As he said the words, a look of sadness over-spread his shining
red face, and dropping his voice:

"Forgive me, sir, if I hold out to you the casque of Belisarius.
I am the Marquis Tudesco, of