“Stubborn in your pride to the last!  What am I to think of one who holds all sympathy in contempt?”

“Basta!” he fiercely exclaimed.  “I am like a vagrant cur:  flying from the sticks and stones of a vile rabble, I fawn with cringing servility on the first hand that throws me a crust.”

“Wrong, Marcel; wrong,” I earnestly answered.  “You are trying to warp your nature, as you tried to force the fruits of summer to bloom and ripen in midwinter.  You will be human, and your egg-plants will rot in the earth.”

My words seemed to have taken away every particle of color there was in him.  His eyes contracted until they resembled those of a wild animal, and for a moment I thought he was going to spring at my throat.  His voice—­when finally he regained it—­sounded like that of another person.

“M.  Granger,” said he, “a man visiting the Jardin des Plantes once undertook to stroke a leopard.  Strange as it may appear, the animal was more pleased with petting than the inquiring mind imagined.  The instant our naturalist attempted to desist, the creature raised his paw to strike.  There monsieur stood, for a whole night, gazing into his glaring eyes and smoothing his soft neck.  Can you imagine his feelings?”

With a bow that would have graced the Duc de Beaumont, he left.  I heard him hastily packing his modest wardrobe; and in fifteen minutes a tilbury had whirled him away—­whither, Heaven only knows.

Leaf the Third.

I do not think his own mother would call him handsome; he is certainly not young, nor particularly brilliant; and yet there is a fascination about the proprietor of this rambling old house that gave me an unaccountable desire to become his tenant.  He is a wine-merchant, and occupies, as his counting-room, the entire second floor.  The place is desolate-looking and dusty, and the furniture old with service; but, I am told, no man in Paris controls more of the grand vintages than M. Pontalba.  With a Frenchman, the legality of a transaction depends on its being negotiated in a cafe; and it was in one of these I first saw him.  He was seated at a table near me, absorbed with the contents of a box of baby-clothes, while a rather pretty and exceedingly voluble modiste harangued him on their beauty.  The tenderness of his expression struck me.  He took out the articles one by one, examining each with the interest of a woman.  He ran his fingers through the tiny sleeves, and smoothed out the ruffles and lace, with a care that was almost loving.  Diminutive cambric shirts, snowy dresses, and silky flannels,—­all in their turn were inspected and replaced with a sigh of satisfaction.

An ardent young friend and I had been discussing the merits of Comte’s philosophy; but so attracted were we by the singular trait that both stopped involuntarily, and watched him, until the woman was paid and a messenger carried the fairy wardrobe away.