“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 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 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 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.”