"My real name is Hans Jacob, but my mistress calls me Jean."
"Isn't this your first place, little Jean Jacques? You seem to be a precocious genius."
"My first service was with a baron; then I learned to ride, and I had the reins to hold when he got out of the cabriolet, for he drove, himself. Here there is only a hired coachman."
"And how long have you lived with this young lady?"
"Just a fortnight. It's a very easy place, I have every Sunday to myself; there is a chambermaid too."
"Can you speak French, Jean Jacques?"
The boy blushed. Edwin seemed to have wounded his pride.
"The young lady speaks German," he replied. "But there is her bell. I must go."
Edwin mechanically took up the book that lay upon the little table. "Balzac!" said he. "'Père Goriot.' After all, she is probably a wandering Pole or Russian; they speak all languages, and drink in Balzac, with their mother's milk."
He rose and glanced into the adjoining room. The little salon, into which the light struggled, through heavy crimson curtains, was rendered still darker by the wide spreading leaves of the palms. Before the mirror a parrot was swinging in a ring, without uttering a sound. The walls were dark, the ceiling wainscoted with brown wood, and on the black marble mantlepiece stood a heavy verde antique clock. The brightness and spaciousness of the next apartment, into which he could obtain but a partial glimpse through the open door, seemed greatly enhanced in comparison with this. Tent-like hangings with gilded rods, a portion of a dainty buffet with glittering silverware, and directly opposite to the door a little table covered with dishes, but, so far as he could see, furnished with but one plate. Besides these things, he noticed the constant chirping and fluttering of the birds in the great cage.