Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (free e reader txt) 📖

Her Mysterious Nods And Tosses Of The Head,  (To Be Sure, 

Her Head Wagged A Little Of Its Own Accord,  The Ringlets Too, 

Like Lambs' Tails,) That She Had Had An Affaire De Coeur With

An Englishman,  And That The Perfidious Islander Had Removed

From The Continent With Her Misplaced Affections.  She Was A

Trifle Bitter,  I Thought - For I Applied Her Insinuations To

Myself - Against Englishmen Generally.  But,  Though Cynical

In Theory,  She Was Perfectly Amiable In Practice.  She

Superintended The Menage And Spent The Rest Of Her Life In

Making Paper Flowers.  I Should Hardly Have Known They Were

Flowers,  Never Having Seen Their Prototypes In Nature.  She

Assured Me,  However,  That They Were Beautiful Copies -

Undoubtedly She Believed Them To Be So.

 

Henriette,  The Youngest,  Had Been The Beauty Of The Family. 

This I Had To Take Her Own Word For,  Since Here Again There

Was Much Room For Imagination And Faith.  She Was A Confirmed

Invalid,  And,  Poor Thing! Showed Every Symptom Of It.  She

Rarely Left Her Room Except For Meals; And Although It Was

Summer When I Was There,  She Never Moved Without Her

Chauffrette.  She Seemed To Live For The Sake Of Patent

Medicines And Her Chauffrette; She Was Always Swallowing The

One,  And Feeding The Other.

 

The Middle Daughter Was Aglae.  Mademoiselle Aglae Took

Charge - I May Say,  Possession - Of Me.  She Was Tall,  Gaunt, 

And Bony,  With A Sharp Aquiline Nose,  Pomegranate Cheek-

Bones,  And Large Saffron Teeth Ever Much In Evidence.  Her

Speciality,  As I Soon Discovered,  Was Sentiment.  Like Her

Sisters,  She Had Had Her 'Affaires' In The Plural.  A Greek

Prince,  So Far As I Could Make Out,  Was The Last Of Her

Adorers.  But I Sometimes Got Into Scrapes By Mixing Up The

Greek Prince With A Polish Count,  And Then Confounding Either

One Or Both With A Hungarian Pianoforte Player.

 

Without Formulating My Deductions,  I Came Instinctively To

The Conclusion That 'En Fait D'amour,' As Figaro Puts It, 

'Trop N'est Pas Meme Assez.'  From Miss Aglae's Point Of View

A Lover Was A Lover.  As To The Superiority Of One Over

Another,  This Was - Nay,  Is - Purely Subjective.  'We Receive 

Chapter 3 Pg 15

But What We Give.'  And,  From What Mademoiselle Then Told Me, 

I Cannot But Infer That She Had Given Without Stint.

 

Be That As It May,  Nothing Could Be More Kind Than Her Care

Of Me.  She Tucked Me Up At Night,  And Used To Send For Me In

The Morning Before She Rose,  To Partake Of Her Cafe-Au-Lait. 

In Return For Her Indulgences,  I Would 'Make Eyes' Such As I

Had Seen Auguste,  The Young Man-Servant,  Cast At Rose The

Cook.  I Would Present Her With Little Scraps Which I Copied

In Roundhand From A Volume Of French Poems.  Once I Drew,  And

Coloured With Red Ink,  Two Hearts Pierced With An Arrow,  A

Copious Pool Of Red Ink Beneath,  Emblematic Of Both The

Quality And Quantity Of My Passion.  This Work Of Art

Produced So Deep A Sigh That I Abstained Thenceforth From

Repeating Such Sanguinary Endearments.

 

Not The Least Interesting Part Of The Family Was The

Servants.  I Say 'Family,' For A French Family,  Unlike An

English One,  Includes Its Domestics; Wherein Our Neighbours

Have The Advantage Over Us.  In The British Establishment The

Household Is But Too Often Thought Of And Treated As

Furniture.  I Was As Fond Of Rose The Cook And Maid-Of-All-

Work As I Was Of Anyone In The House.  She Showed Me How To

Peel Potatoes,  Break Eggs,  And Make Pot-Au-Feu.  She Made Me

Little Delicacies In Pastry - Swans With Split Almonds For

Wings,  Comic Little Pigs With Cloves In Their Eyes - For All

Of Which My Affection And My Liver Duly Acknowledged Receipt

In Full.  She Taught Me More Provincial Pronunciation And Bad

Grammar Than Ever I Could Unlearn.  She Was Very Intelligent, 

And Radiant With Good Humour.  One Peculiarity Especially

Took My Fancy - The Yellow Bandana In Which She Enveloped Her

Head.  I Was Always Wondering Whether She Was Born Without

Hair - There Was None To Be Seen.  This Puzzled Me So That

One Day I Consulted Auguste,  Who Was My Chief Companion.  He

Was Quite Indignant,  And Declared With Warmth That Mam'selle

Rose Had The Most Beautiful Hair He Had Ever Beheld.  He

Flushed Even With Enthusiasm.  If It Hadn't Been For His

Manner,  I Should Have Asked Him How He Knew.  But Somehow I

Felt The Subject Was A Delicate One.

 

How Incessantly They Worked,  Auguste And Rose,  And How

Cheerfully They Worked!  One Could Hear Her Singing,  And Him

Whistling,  At It All Day.  Yet They Seemed To Have Abundant

Leisure To Exchange A Deal Of Pleasantry And Harmless Banter. 

Auguste Was A Swiss,  And A Bigoted Protestant,  And Never Lost

An Opportunity Of Holding Forth On The Superiority Of The

Reformed Religion.  If He Thought The Family Were Out Of

Hearing,  He Would Grow Very Animated And Declamatory.  But

Rose,  Who Also Had Hopes,  Though Perhaps Faint,  For My

Salvation,  Would Suddenly Rush Into The Room With The Carpet

Broom,  And Drive Him Out,  With Threats Of Miss Aglae,  And The

Broomstick.

 

The Gardener,  Monsieur Benoit,  Was Also A Great Favourite Of 

Chapter 3 Pg 16

Mine,  And I Of His,  For I Was Never Tired Of Listening To His

Wonderful Adventures.  He Had,  So He Informed Me,  Been A

Soldier In The Grande Armee.  He Enthralled Me With Hair-

Raising Accounts Of His Exploits:  How,  When Leading A

Storming Party - He Was Always The Leader - One Dark And

Terrible Night,  The Vivid And Incessant Lightning Betrayed

Them By The Flashing Of Their Bayonets; And How In A Few

Minutes They Were Mowed Down By Mitraille.  He Had Led

Forlorn Hopes,  And Performed Deeds Of Astounding Prowess. 

How Many Life-Guardsmen He Had Annihilated:  'Ah! Ben Oui!'

He Was Afraid To Say.  He Had Been Personally Noticed By 'Le

P'tit Caporal.'  There Were Many,  Whose Deeds Were Not To

Compare With His,  Who Had Been Made Princes And Mareschals. 

Parbleu! But His Luck Was Bad.  'Pas D'chance! Pas D'chance! 

Mo'sieu Henri.'  As Monsieur Benoit Recorded His Feats,  And

Witnessed My Unbounded Admiration,  His Voice Would Grow More

And More Sepulchral,  Till It Dropped To A Hoarse And Scarcely

Audible Whisper.

 

I Was A Little Bewildered One Day When,  Having Breathlessly

Repeated Some Of His Heroic Deeds To The Marquise,  She With A

Quiet Smile Assured Me That 'Ce Petit Bon-Homme,' As She

Called Him,  Had For A Short Time Been A Drummer In The

National Guard,  But Had Never Been A Soldier.  This Was A

Blow To Me; Moreover,  I Was Troubled By The Composure Of The

Marquise.  Monsieur Benoit Had Actually Been Telling Me What

Was Not True.  Was It,  Then,  Possible That Grown-Up People

Acquired The Privilege Of Fibbing With Impunity?  I Wondered

Whether This Right Would Eventually Become Mine!

 

At Bourg-La-Reine There Is,  Or Was,  A Large School.  Three

Days In The Week I Had To Join One Of The Classes There; On

The Other Three One Of The Ushers Came Up To Larue For A

Couple Of Hours Of Private Tuition.  At The School Itself I

Did Not Learn Very Much,  Except That Boys Everywhere Are

Pretty Similar,  Especially In The Badness Of Their Manners. 

I Also Learnt That Shrugging The Shoulders While Exhibiting

The Palms Of The Hands,  And Smiting Oneself Vehemently On The

Chest,  Are Indispensable Elements Of The French Idiom.  The

Indiscriminate Use Of The Word 'Parfaitement' I Also Noticed

To Be Essential When At A Loss For Either Language Or Ideas, 

And Have Made Valuable Use Of It Ever Since.

 

Monsieur Vincent,  My Tutor,  Was A Most Good-Natured And

Patient Teacher.  I Incline,  However,  To Think That I Taught

Him More English Than He Taught Me French.  He Certainly

Worked Hard At His Lessons.  He Read English Aloud To Me,  And

Made Me Correct His Pronunciation.  The Mental Agony This

Caused Me Makes Me Hot To Think Of Still.  I Had Never Heard

His Kind Of Franco-English Before.  To My Ignorance It Was

The Most Comic Language In The World.  There Were Some Words

Which,  In Spite Of My Endeavours,  He Persisted In Pronouncing

In His Own Way.  I Have Since Got Quite Used To The Most Of

Them,  And Their Only Effect Is To Remind Me Of My Own Rash

 

Chapter 3 Pg 17

Ventures In A Foreign Tongue.  There Are One Or Two Words

Which Recall The Pain It Gave Me To Control My Emotions.  He

Would Produce His Penknife,  For Instance; And,  Contemplating

It With A Despondent Air,  Would Declare It To Be The Most

Difficult Word In The English Language To Pronounce.  'Ow You

Say 'Im?'  'Penknife,' I Explained.  He Would Bid Me Write It

Down; Then Having Spelt It,  He Would,  With Much Effort,  And A

Sound Like Sneezing - Oh! The Pain I Endured! - Slowly Repeat

'Penkneef.'  I Gave It Up At Last; And He Was Gratified With

His Success.  As My Explosion Generally Occurred About Five

Minutes Afterwards,  Monsieur Vincent Failed To Connect Cause

And Effect.  When We Parted He Gave Me A Neatly Bound Copy Of

La Bruyere As A Prize - For His Own Proficiency,  I Presume. 

Many A Pleasant Half-Hour Have I Since Spent With The Witty

Classic.

 

Except The Controversial Harangues Of The Zealot Auguste,  My

Religious Teaching Was Neglected On Week Days.  On Sundays, 

If Fine,  I Was Taken To A Protestant Church In Paris; Not

Infrequently To The Embassy.  I Did Not Enjoy This At All.  I

Could Have Done Very Well Without It.  I Liked The Drive, 

Which Took About An Hour Each Way.  Occasionally Aglae And I

Went In The Bourg-La-Reine Coucou.  But Mr. Ellice Had

Arranged That A Carriage Should Be Hired For Me.  Probably He

Was Not Unmindful Of The Convenience Of The Old Ladies.  They

Were Not.  The Carriage Was Always Filled.  Even Mademoiselle

Henriette Managed To Go Sometimes - Aided By A Little Patent

Medicine,  And When It Was Too Hot For The Chauffrette.  If

She Was Unable,  A Friend In The Neighbourhood Was Offered A

Seat; And I Had To Sit Bodkin,  Or On Mademoiselle Aglae's

Lap.  I Hated The 'Friend'; For,  Secretly,  I Felt The

Carriage Was Mine,  Though Of Course I Never Had The Bad Taste

To Say So.

 

They Went To Mass,  And I Was Allowed To Go With Them,  In

Addition To My Church,  As A Special Favour.  I Liked The

Music,  The Display Of Candles,  The Smell Of The Incense,  And

The Dresses Of The Priests; And Wondered Whether When

Undressed - Unrobed,  That Is - They Were Funny Old Gentlemen

Like Monsieur Le Cure