ESMERALDA

To begin, I am a Frenchman, a teacher of languages, and a poor
man,--necessarily a poor man, as the great world would say, or I should
not be a teacher of languages, and my wife a copyist of great pictures,
selling her copies at small prices. In our own eyes, it is true, we are
not so poor--my Clélie and I. Looking back upon our past we congratulate
ourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time when we were
poorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover, in
London instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor,
to teach, to live apart, not even knowing each other--and in England! In
England we spent years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we were
chilled by east winds, and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove to
conciliate the appalling English; we were discouraged and desolate. But
this, thank _le bon Dieu!_ is past. We are united; we have our little
apartment--upon the fifth floor, it is true, but still not hopelessly
far from the Champs Elysées. Clélie paints her little pictures, or
copies those of some greater artist, and finds sale for them. She is not
a great artist herself, and is charmingly conscious of the fact.

"At fifteen," she says, "I regretted that I was not a genius; at five
and twenty, I rejoice that I made the discovery so early, and so gave
myself time to become grateful for the small gifts bestowed upon me. Why
should I eat out my heart with envy? Is it not possible that I might be
a less clever woman than I am, and a less lucky one?"

On my part I have my pupils,--French pupils who take lessons in English,
German, or Italian; English or American pupils who generally learn
French, and, upon the whole, I do not suffer from lack of patrons.

It is my habit when Clélie is at work upon a copy in one of the great
galleries to accompany her to the scene of her labor in the morning and
call for her at noon, and, in accordance with this habit, I made my way
to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years ago.

I found my wife busy at her easel in the _Grande Galerie_, and when I
approached her and laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my wont, she
looked up with a smile and spoke to me in a cautious undertone.

"I am glad," she said, "that you are not ten minutes later. Look at
those extraordinary people."