Early the whole of the next day, endeavoring to look preoccupied¹, I haunted the lobbies and vicinity of the most expensive hotels, unable to do any other thing, but ashamed of myself that I had not returned to my former task of seeking employment, although still reassured² by possession of two louis and some silver, I dined well at a one-franc coachman’s restaurant, where my elegance³ created not the slightest surprise, and I felt that I might live in this way indefinitely.  
However, dreams often conclude abruptly⁴, and two louis always do, as I found, several days later, when, after paying the rent for my unspeakable lodging⁵ and lending twenty francs to a poor, bad painter, whom I knew and whose wife was ill, I found myself with the choice of obtaining funds on my finery or not eating, either of which I was very loath⁶ to do. It is not essential for me to tell any person that when you seek a position it is better that you appear not too greatly in need of it; and my former garments had prejudiced many against me, I fear, because they had been patched by a friendly concierge⁷. Pantaloons suffer as terribly as do antiques from too obvious restorations; and while I was only grateful to the good woman’s needle (except upon one occasion when she forgot to remove it), my costume had reached, at last, great sympathies for the shade of Praxiteles, feeling the same melancholy⁸ over original intentions so far misrepresented by renewals⁹.
 
Therefore I determined¹⁰ to preserve my fineries to the uttermost; and it was fortunate that I did so; because, after dining, for three nights upon nothing but looking out of my window, the fourth morning brought me a letter from my English friend. I had written to him, asking if he knew of any people who wished to pay a salary to a young man who knew how to do nothing. I place his reply in direct annexation¹¹:
 
“Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square, May 14.
 
“My dear Ansolini,—Why haven’t you made some of your relatives do something? I understand that they do not like you; neither do my own, but after our crupper at Monte Carlo what could mine do, except provide? If a few pounds (precious few, I fear!) be of any service to you, let me know. In the mean time, if you are serious about a position, I may, preposterously¹² enough, set you in the way of it. There is an old thundering Yankee here, whom I met in the States, and who believed me a god because I am the nephew of my awful uncle, for whose career he has ever had, it appears, a life-long admiration¹³, sir! Now, by chance, meeting this person in the street, it developed that he had need of a man, precisely¹⁴ such a one as you are not: a sober, tutorish, middle-aged¹⁵, dissenting¹⁶ parson, to trot¹⁷ about the Continent tied to a dancing bear. It is the old gentleman’s cub¹⁸, who is a species of Caliban in fine linen¹⁹, and who has taken a few too many liberties in the land of the free. In fact, I believe he is much a youth of my own kind with similar admiration for baccarat and good cellars. His father must return at once, and has decided²⁰ (the cub’s native heath and friends being too wild) to leave him in charge of a proper guide, philosopher, courier, chaplain, and friend, if such can be found, the same required to travel with the cub and keep him out of mischief²¹. I thought of your letter directly, and I have given you the most tremendous recommendation—part of it quite true, I suspect, though I am not a judge of learning. I explained, however, that you are a master of languages, of elegant though subdued²² deportment, and I extolled²³ at length your saintly habits. Altogether, I fear there may have been too much of the virtuoso²⁴ in my interpretation²⁵ of you; few would have recognized from it the gentleman who closed a table at Monte Carlo and afterwards was closed himself in the handsome and spectacular fashion I remember with both delight and regret. Briefly²⁶, I lied like a master. He almost had me in the matter of your age; it was important that you should be middle-aged. I swore that you were at least thirty-eight, but, owing to exemplary habits, looked very much younger. The cub himself is twenty-four.
 
“Hence, if you are really serious and determined not to appeal to your people, call at once upon Mr. Lambert R. Poor, of the Hotel d’Iena. He is the father, and the cub is with him. The elder Yankee is primed with my praises of you, and must engage someone at once, as he sails in a day or two. Go—with my blessing²⁷, an air of piety²⁸, and as much age as you can assume. When the father has departed, throw the cub into the Seine, but preserve his pocket-book, and we shall have another go at those infernal tables. Vale! J.G.S.”
 
I found myself smiling—I fear miserably—over this kind letter, especially at the wonder of my friend that I had not appealed to my relatives. The only ones who would have liked to help me, if they had known I needed something, were my two little nieces who were in my own care; because my father, being but a poet, had no family, and my mother had lost hers, even her eldest²⁹ son, by marrying my father. After that they would have nothing to do with her, nor were they asked. That rascally³⁰ old Antonio was now the head of all the Caravacioli, as was I of my own outcast branch of our house—that is, of my two little nieces and myself. It was partly of these poor infants I had thought when I took what was left of my small inheritance to Monte Carlo, hoping, since I seemed to be incapable³¹ of increasing it in any other way, that number seventeen and black would hand me over a fortune as a waiter does wine. Alas³²! Luck is not always a fool’s servant, and the kind of fortune she handed me was of that species the waiter brings you in the other bottle of champagne³³, the gold of a bubbling brain, lasting³⁴ an hour. After this there is always something evil to one’s head, and mine, alas! was shaved.
 
Half an hour after I had read the letter, the little paper-flower makers³⁵ in the attic³⁶ window across from mine may have seen me shaving it—without pleasure—again. What else was I to do? I could not well expect to be given the guardianship³⁷ of an erring³⁸ young man if I presented myself to his parent as a gentleman who had been sitting at the Cafe’ de la Paix with his head painted. I could not wear my hat through the interview. I could not exhibit the thick five days’ stubble, to appear in contrast with the heavy fringe that had been spared;—I could not trim the fringe to the shortness of the stubble; I should have looked like Pierrot. I had only, then, to remain bald, and, if I obtained the post, to shave in secret—a harmless and mournful imposition.
 
It was well for me that I came to this determination. I believe it was the appearance of maturity³⁹ which my head and dining upon thoughts lent me, as much as my friend’s praises, which created my success with the amiable⁴⁰ Mr. Lambert R. Poor. I witness that my visit to him provided one of the most astonishing interviews of my life. He was an instance of those strange beings of the Western republic, at whom we are perhaps too prone⁴¹ to pass from one of ourselves to another the secret smile, because of some little imperfections of manner. It is a type which has grown more and more familiar to us, yet never less strange: the man in costly⁴² but severe costume, big, with a necessary great waistcoat, not noticing the loudness of his own voice; as ignorant of the thousand tiny things which we observe and feel as he would be careless of them (except for his wife) if he knew. We laugh at him, sometimes even to his face, and he does not perceive it. We are a little afraid that he is too large to see it; hence too large for us to comprehend, and in spite of our laughter we are always conscious of a force—yes, of a presence! We jeer⁴³ slyly, but we respect, fear a little, and would trust.
 
Such was my patron. He met me with a kind greeting, looked at me very earnestly, but smiling as if he understood my good intentions, as one understands the friendliness⁴⁴ of a capering⁴⁵ poodle, yet in such a way that I could not feel resentment⁴⁶, for I could see that he looked at almost everyone in the same fashion.
 
My friend had done wonders for me; and I made the best account of myself that I could, so that within half an hour it was arranged that I should take charge of his son, with an honourarium which gave me great rejoicing for my nieces and my accumulated appetite.
 
“I think I can pick men,” he said, “and I think that you are the man I want. You’re old enough and you’ve seen enough, and you know enough to keep one fool boy in order for six months.”
 
So frankly⁴⁷ he spoke⁴⁸ of his son, yet not without affection and confidence. Before I left, he sent for the youth himself, Lambert R. Poor, Jr.,—not at all a Caliban, but a most excellent-appearing, tall gentleman, of astonishingly meek⁴⁹ countenance⁵⁰. He gave me a sad, slow look from his blue eyes at first; then with a brightening smile he gently shook my hand, murmuring that he was very glad in the prospect⁵¹ of knowing me better; after which the parent defined before him, with singular elaboration, my duties. I was to correct all things in his behaviour which I considered improper⁵² or absurd. I was to dictate⁵³ the line of travel, to have a restraining influence upon expenditures⁵⁴; in brief, to control the young man as a governess does a child.
 
To all of his parent’s instructions Poor Jr. returned a dutiful nod and expressed perfect acquiescence⁵⁵. The following day the elder sailed from Cherbourg, and I took up my quarters with the son.