“O–oh, Monsieur Parole,” I exclaimed at his nattering category of my attributes, almost blushing.
“Ah, but yes,” he went on—“I am quaite raite. You are handsome; with un air distingué; reech.”
I shook my head, to show that I could not lay claim to being a millionaire, in addition to my other virtues.
“No, not reech, but clevaire; and you will be reech bye-bye! I see not why ze ladees should not leesten to you, mon ami, he?—But, if she does note; why, courage! Dere are many odere ladees beautifool also in England; and, yet, if you feels your loss mooch, like myselfs with ma perfide Marie, why you can go aways and be console, as I!”
His words encouraged me:—and, my face imperceptibly brightened.
“Ah, ha! dat is bettaire,” he said—“I likes you, Meestaire Lorton; and it does me pain to sees you at deespair like dese! Cheer oop; and all will be raite, as our good friend, ze vicaire, all-ways tells to us. We will go and sees him now!”
He took my unresisting arm, and carried me off to the vicarage; changing the conversation as we went along, and gradually instilling fresh hope into my heart.
I dare say you think it was very idiotical on my part, thus to bewail my grief to another person; and allow a few empty words to change the current of my feelings?
But then, you must recollect, that I would not have comported myself in this way with a brother Englishman.
If Horner had told me of his woes, for example, similarly as I told mine, or let them be drawn out of me by Monsieur Parole, I confess I would have been much more likely to have laughed at, than sympathised with him.