The crowd turned to look at the object of the clown’s speech. At the end of the carrefour, two young men were gazing, arm-in-arm, upon the assemblage. Both were of the same age; their existence might have reached to some seven or eight-and-twenty years, and they were attired in the gay military costume of the period; with rich satin under-sleeves, and bright knots or epaulettes upon the right shoulder.
One of them, to whom the mountebank had more particularly addressed himself, was of a fair complexion, and wore his own light hair in long flowing curls upon his shoulders. His face was well formed, and singularly intelligent and expressive; his forehead high and expansive, and his eyes deep set beneath the arch of the orbit, ever bearing the appearance of fixed regard upon whatever object they were cast. Still to the close observer there was a faint line running from the edge of the nostril to the outer angle of the lip, which, coupled with his retreating eye, gave him an expression of satire and mistrust. But so varied was the general expression of his face, that it was next to impossible to divine his thoughts for two minutes together.
The other was dark—his face had less indication of intellect than his companion’s, although in general contour equally good-looking. Yet did the features bear a somewhat jaded expression, and the colour on his cheek was rather fevered than healthy. His eyes too were sunk, but more from active causes than natural formation; and he gazed on the objects that surrounded him with the listless air of an idler. His mind was evidently but little occupied with anything he then saw. His attire was somewhat richer than his friend’s, betokening a superior rank in the army.
‘A proof! a proof!’ cried the gayer of the two, repeating his words.
‘Where will you have it then?’ asked the mountebank, looking about the square. ‘Ha! there is as fair a maiden as ever a king’s officer might follow, sitting at the cross. Shall she be in love with you?’
Again the attention of the crowd was directed by the glance of the mountebank towards a rude iron cross that was set up in the carrefour.
At its foot was a young girl, half sitting, half reclining upon the stone-work which formed its base. She was attired in the costume of the working order of Paris. Her hair, different from that of the higher class of females, who wore it in light bunches of ringlets at the side of the head, was in plain bands, over which a white handkerchief, edged with lace, was carelessly thrown, falling in lappets on each side. Her eyes and hair were alike dark as night, but her beautiful face was deadly pale, until she found the gaze of the mob had been called towards her. And then the red blood rushed to her neck and cheeks, as she hastily rose from her seat, and was about to leave the square.
‘A pretty wench enough,’ cried the cavalier with the black hair, as he raised himself upon the step of a house to see her. She was still hidden from his companion.
‘I doubt not,’ answered the other carelessly; ‘but I do not care to look. No,’ he cried loudly to the mountebank, ‘I have no love to spare her in return, and that might break her heart.’
The girl started at his voice, and looked towards the spot from whence it proceeded. But she was unable to see him, for the intervening people.