The Beautiful Lady | Page 3

no one I
wished to prevent perceiving my condition more than that old Antonio
Caravacioli! I had not known that he was in Paris, but I could have no
doubt it was himself: the monocle, the handsome nose, the toupee', the
yellow skin, the dyed-black moustache, the splendid height--it was
indeed Caravacioli! He was costumed for the automobile, and threw but
one glance at me as he crossed the pavement to his car, which was in
waiting. There was no change, not of the faintest, in that frosted tragic
mask of a countenance, and I was glad to think that he had not
recognized me.
And yet, how strange that I should care, since all his life he had
declined to recognize me as what I was! Ah, I should have been glad to
shout his age, his dyes, his artificialities, to all the crowd, so to touch
him where it would most pain him! For was he not the vainest man in
the whole world? How well I knew his vulnerable point: the monstrous
depth of his vanity in that pretense of youth which he preserved
through superhuman pains and a genius of a valet, most excellently! I
had much to pay Antonio for myself, more for my father, most for my
mother. This was why that last of all the world I would have wished
that old fortune-hunter to know how far I had been reduced!
Then I rejoiced about that change which my unreal baldness produced
in me, giving me a look of forty years instead of twenty-four, so that
my oldest friend must take at least three stares to know me. Also, my
costume would disguise me from the few acquaintances I had in Paris

(if they chanced to cross the Seine), as they had only seen me in the
shabbiest; while, at my last meeting with Antonio, I had been as fine in
the coat as now.
Yet my encouragement was not so joyful that my gaze lifted often. On
the very last day, in the afternoon when my observances were most and
noisiest, I lifted my eyes but once during the final half-hour--but such a
one that was!
The edge of that beautiful grey pongee skirt came upon the lid of my
lowered eyelid like a cool shadow over hot sand. A sergent had just
made many of the people move away, so there remained only a thin
ring of the laughing pantaloons about me, when this divine skirt
presented its apparition to me. A pair of North- American trousers
accompanied it, turned up to show the ankle- bones of a rich pair of
stockings; neat, enthusiastic and humorous, I judged them to be; for, as
one may discover, my only amusement during my martyrdom--if this
misery can be said to possess such alleviatings--had been the study of
feet, pantaloons, and skirts. The trousers in this case detained my
observation no time. They were but the darkest corner of the
chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt--the mellow glow of gold was all across
the grey skirt.
How shall I explain myself, how make myself understood? Shall I be
thought sentimentalistic or but mad when I declare that my first sight of
the grey pongee skirt caused me a thrill of excitation, of tenderness,
and--oh-i-me!--of self- consciousness more acute than all my former
mortifications. It was so very different from all other skirts that had
shown themselves to me those sad days, and you may understand that,
though the pantaloons far outnumbered the skirts, many hundreds of
the latter had also been objects of my gloomy observation.
This skirt, so unlike those which had passed, presented at once the
qualifications of its superiority. It had been constructed by an artist, and
it was worn by a lady. It did not pine, it did not droop; there was no
more an atom of hanging too much than there was a portion inflated by
flamboyancy; it did not assert itself; it bore notice without seeking it.
Plain but exquisite, it was that great rarity--goodness made charming.

The peregrination of the American trousers suddenly stopped as they
caught sight of me, and that precious skirt paused, precisely in
opposition to my little table. I heard a voice, that to which the skirt
pertained. It spoke the English, but not in the manner of the inhabitants
of London, who seem to sing undistinguishably in their talking,
although they are comprehensible to each other. To an Italian it seems
that many North-Americans and English seek too often the assistance
of the nose in talking, though in different manners, each equally
unagreeable to our ears. The intelligent among our lazzaroni of Naples,
who beg from tourists, imitate this, with the purpose of reminding the
generous traveller of his home, in such a way to soften