Having finished his breakfast, the Count leisurely betook himself to
Broadway. As he slowly strolled eastward, he observed on the other side
of the street Jaune d'Antimoine, in his desperately shabby raiment,
hurriedly walking eastward also. The Count murmured a brief panegyric
upon M. d'Antimoine, in which the words "cet animal" alone were
distinguishable. They were near Broadway at this moment, and to the
Count's surprise M. d'Antimoine entered the clothing establishment from
which the Marquis departed upon his daily walk. Could it be possible,
he thought, that fortune had smiled upon the young artist, and that he
was about to purchase a new suit of clothes? The Count entertained the
charitable hope that such could not be the case.
It was the Count's purpose, in order that he might follow also the
movements of Mademoiselle Carthame, to follow the Marquis from the
beginning to the end of his promenade. He set himself, therefore, to
watching closely--for the appearance of the grief-stricken foreigner,
moving carelessly the while from one shop-window to another that
commanded a view of the field. At the end of half an hour, when the
Count was beginning to think that the object of his solicitude was a
myth, out from the broad portal of the clothing establishment came the
Marquis in all his glory--more glorious, in truth, than Solomon, and
more melancholy than the melancholy Jaques. And yet for an instant the
Count Siccatif de Courtray was possessed by the absurd fancy that this
stately personage was Jaune d'Antimoine! Truly, here was the same tall,
handsome figure, the same easy, elegant carriage, the same cut of hair
and beard. But the resemblance went no further, for beard and hair were
gray almost to whiteness, the face was pale and old, and the clothes,
so far from being desperately seedy, were more resplendent even than
the Count's own. No, the thought was incredible, preposterous, and yet
the Count could not discharge it from his mind. He stamped his foot
savagely; this mystery was becoming more interesting than pleasing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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