“Present my respects to thy worthy patron, that good Finkelstein, who, though bourgeois and shopkeeper, I must suppose is a man of heart; and think ever with tenderness of thy old devoted uncle, de la Bourbonnaye.
“Paris, the 3 7ember, 1874.”
7ember was Uncle Florimond's quaint French way of writing September, Sept, as you know, being French for seven.
And now as to those other questions that you have asked me—so far was I from having forgotten my ideal of him, so far was he from having ceased to be a moving force in my life, I have not any doubt whatever that the thought of my relationship with him, and my desire to appear to advantage in his eyes, had a great deal to do with fostering my ambition as a scholar. Certainly, the nephew of Florimond Marquis de la Bourbonnaye must not let any boy of ordinary lineage stand above him in his classes; and then, besides, how much more highly would Uncle Florimond consider me, if, when we met, he found not an untutored ignoramus, but, in his own words, “a gentleman well-instructed and accomplished!”
During the two years that I have skipped over in such summary-fashion, my friendship with little Rosalind Earle had continued as active and as cordial as it had been at the beginning. She had grown quite tall, and even prettier than ever, with her oval face and olive skin, her soft brown hair and large dark eyes, and was really almost a young lady. She had kept pace with me in my studies also, I having acted as her teacher. Every Sunday at her home I would go over with her all my lessons for the past week, imparting to her as intelligently as I was able what I myself had learned. This would supply her with subject-matter for her study during the week to come; so that on the following Sunday she would be ready for a new send-off. This was capital drill for me, because, in order to instruct another, I had to see that my own knowledge was exact and thorough. And then, besides, I enjoyed these Sunday afternoon conferences with Rosalind so heartily, that they lightened the labor of learning, and made what to a boy is usually dull grind and drudgery, to me an abundant source of pleasure. Rosalind retained her situation at Mr. Flisch's, but her salary had been materially increased. She was only thirteen years old, yet she earned the dazzling sum of six dollars every week. This was because she had acquired the art of retouching negatives, and had thus trebled her value to her employer.
But I had made another friend during those two years, whose influence upon my life at that time was perhaps even greater than Rosalind's. Among my classmates at the school in Fifty-first Street there was a boy named Arthur Ripley, older than I, taller, stronger, a very handsome fellow, with blue eyes and curling hair, very bright, and seemingly very good-natured, whom I had admired privately from the moment I had first seen him. He, however, had taken no notice of me; and so we had never got especially well acquainted, until one day I chanced to hear him speak a few words of French; and his accent was so good that I couldn't help wondering how he had come by it.
“Say, then, Ripley,” I demanded, in the Gallic tongue, but with Saxon bluntness, “how does it happen that you speak French so well? Your pronunciation is truly extraordinary.”
“And why not?” he retorted. “I have spoken it since my childhood. My grandmother—the mother of my father—was a French lady.”
“Hold,” cried I. “Really? And so was mine.”
Thereupon we fell into conversation. We got on famously together. From that hour we were intimates. I was admitted into Ripley's “set,” which included all the nicest boys of the school; and Ripley invited me to his home, which, with its beautiful pictures and books and furnishings, and general air of comfort and refinement, struck me as the loveliest place I had ever set my foot in, and where his mother and father made me feel instantly and entirely at my ease. They talked French to me; and little by little drew from me the whole story of my life; and when I had done, “Ah! my poor little one,” said his mother, with a tenderness that went straight to my heart, “how thy lot has been hard! Come, let me kiss thee.” And, “Hold, my little man,” said his father. “You are a good and brave boy, and I am glad that my son has found such a comrade. Moreover, do you know, you come of one of the most illustrious families not only of France, but even of Europe? The la Bourbonnaye are of the most ancient nobility, and in each generation they have distinguished themselves. At Paris there is an important street named for them. A Marquis de la Bourbonnaye won great celebrity as an admiral under Louis xv.; another, his son, I believe, was equally renowned as a royalist general during the revolution.”