We four formed (to use a term well understood nowadays in every social sphere) a "syndicate" owning the Tremolino: an international and astonishing syndicate.And we were all ardent Royalists of the snow-white Legitimist complexion - Heaven only knows why! In all associations of men there is generally one who, by the authority of age and of a more experienced wisdom, imparts a collective character to the whole set.If I mention that the oldest of us was very old, extremely old - nearly thirty years old - and that he used to declare with gallant carelessness, "I live by my sword," I think I have given enough information on the score of our collective wisdom.He was a North Carolinian gentleman, J.M.
K.B.were the initials of his name, and he really did live by the sword, as far as I know.He died by it, too, later on, in a Balkanian squabble, in the cause of some Serbs or else Bulgarians, who were neither Catholics nor gentlemen - at least, not in the exalted but narrow sense he attached to that last word.
Poor J.M.K.B., AMERICAIN, CATHOLIQUE, ET GENTILHOMME, as he was disposed to describe himself in moments of lofty expansion! Are there still to be found in Europe gentlemen keen of face and elegantly slight of body, of distinguished aspect, with a fascinating drawing-room manner and with a dark, fatal glance, who live by their swords, I wonder? His family had been ruined in the Civil War, I fancy, and seems for a decade or so to have led a wandering life in the Old World.As to Henry C-, the next in age and wisdom of our band, he had broken loose from the unyielding rigidity of his family, solidly rooted, if I remember rightly, in a well-to-do London suburb.On their respectable authority he introduced himself meekly to strangers as a "black sheep." I have never seen a more guileless specimen of an outcast.Never.
However, his people had the grace to send him a little money now and then.Enamoured of the South, of Provence, of its people, its life, its sunshine and its poetry, narrow-chested, tall and short-sighted, he strode along the streets and the lanes, his long feet projecting far in advance of his body, and his white nose and gingery moustache buried in an open book: for he had the habit of reading as he walked.How he avoided falling into precipices, off the quays, or down staircases is a great mystery.The sides of his overcoat bulged out with pocket editions of various poets.When not engaged in reading Virgil, Homer, or Mistral, in parks, restaurants, streets, and suchlike public places, he indited sonnets (in French) to the eyes, ears, chin, hair, and other visible perfections of a nymph called Therese, the daughter, honesty compels me to state, of a certain Madame Leonore who kept a small cafe for sailors in one of the narrowest streets of the old town.
No more charming face, clear-cut like an antique gem, and delicate in colouring like the petal of a flower, had ever been set on, alas! a somewhat squat body.He read his verses aloud to her in the very cafe with the innocence of a little child and the vanity of a poet.We followed him there willingly enough, if only to watch the divine Therese laugh, under the vigilant black eyes of Madame Leonore, her mother.She laughed very prettily, not so much at the sonnets, which she could not but esteem, as at poor Henry's French accent, which was unique, resembling the warbling of birds, if birds ever warbled with a stuttering, nasal intonation.
