University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
HEARTSEASE CRITICISES MISS GOSYP AND THE BANKS.

With the bright morning sunlight shining on the snow,
all Mr. Sansoucy's fears, however, passed away, and he
laughed heartily as he tied his cravat at the mirror,
reflecting upon his dream and his jealousy.

“The truth is,” he muttered, with his careless smile,
“that I am by no means free from danger in that quarter;
and this proves it. What a strange influence these childish
sentiments retain over a man, and how difficult it is to

see the old, old face—however young it is—and not be
moved by it. As to Heartsease, let him be my rival in a
game which I have no idea of playing. I suppose I shall
go to see her, and we shall drive out together, and go to
the opera, and laugh and talk about old times, and be
`given to each other' duly by the world. Then some day
a little white enameled missive will be handed to me, and
I 'll read that Mrs. Ashton will be pleased to see me on
Thursday next, which invitation will be duly endorsed by
Miss Aurelia, and Mr. Heartsease, or some other. And
I 'll go, and smile, and jest, and find my `illusion' lighter
than the bride's white veil of that material, and come back,
and smoke, and work, and dream, and go my ways. So
wags the world!”

Having taken this highly philosophical and cheerful
view of things, Sansoucy finished his toilette, and went to
breakfast; and returning, set to work.

His article on the marriage of the emperor filled six
yellow slips, and blazed all over with the utmost gaiety
of humor. It was read next day with laughter by ten
thousand persons—after which it lit a number of cigars,
and passed away.

As Sansoucy finished the last line, a knock was heard,
and obedient to permission, a young being with a smutty
face came in, and uttered the words, “Copy, sir?”

“Who are you?” said Sansoucy.

“I'm the new boy, sir.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“Yes, sir. I bin runnin' errants—”

“Knight errands, perhaps?”

“No, sir; by day, sir: I greased the wheels and done
a heap o' things, and so they made me a devil, sir.”

“That was very just and proper,” said Sansoucy, “and
I congratulate you on your good fortune. There's the
copy.”

And so the young promoted went away.

Sansoucy lay back in his chair, and gazed at the snowy
roofs opposite, on which the cold, bright light was shining—
vainly attempting to make some impression on the frozen
crust.

“The fact is—” said the philosopher: but what the fact
was, remains to this day a profound mystery. As he spoke,
another step was heard ascending the stairs, and Mr. Sansoucy's
thoughts were diverted from Aurelia, by the
entrance of no less a personage than Mr. Heartsease!

Heartsease was in all the glory of his morning toilette—
his overcoat sleeves were heavy with velvet; his yellow
gloves were supernaturally tight; his cravat extended its
fringed bows to his shoulders on either side.

Heartsease was smiling and gay — he always was.
When he spoke, his drawl was more smiling than ever—
when he sat down, his shining boot was gaily extended
straight in front with graceful ease.

“Charmed to see you, my dear Sansoucy!” said Heartsease,
“how goes it, this fine morning, after the ball? But
I needn't ask you—you are as bright as a lark.”

“We young fellows, you know, Heartsease, always are,”
said Sansoucy, “come, what news?”

“Absolutely none. But do you know I begin to feel
deuced old?”

“No.”

“Fact: and during my tour, things seem to have
changed. But I am consoled at finding that everything
has greatly improved by my absence—of course I mean
during my absence.”

“Of course.”

“What a handsome ball, last night: I regretted, however,
seeing no new modes in the dresses. I'm glad we
went in our own—I like the new fashions—pantaloons
tighter—it shows the leg, you know.”

“Certainly,” said Sansoucy, leaning back, and surveying
the Heartsease legs, with deep admiration.

“In fact,” continued that gentleman, smiling, and
drawling, “we are a progressive nation. We carry to their
utmost possible development, all the novel ideas and sentiments,
which spring from an expanded and comprehensive
view of the reciprocal relations existing between men
and things! That's a fine sentence—I was struck with it
this morning, in reading the Palladium of Liberty, and
got it by heart.”

“It is equal to Macaulay—almost,” said Sansoucy,
smiling.

“Yes,” replied Heartsease, twirling his cane, “and I
regard the ball last night as a proof of it.”

“How so, my dear philosopher?” asked Mr. Sansoucy.

“Why, the girls.”

“The girls?”

“I mean their dresses.”

“What of their dresses?”

“So `finely demonstrative,' as I heard a friend say the

other day. The young ladies, he added, `are getting more
and more communicative.”'

“Bah! he's a cynic!”

“So he is.”

“To quarrel with a young lady for showing her
shoulders.”

“Abominable!”

“It would be as unreasonable for a man to find fault
with a girl for being `fast,”' said Sansoucy.

“Certainly, my dear Sansoucy; and that would be
ridiculous. Our two belles from—where are they from—
what state?—I don't know: but our belles last night
showed how ridiculous such criticisms are. I don't know
which was the fastest, but I rather think the maiden with
the japonica in her hair outstripped the other.”

And Heartsease gently smiled.

“Bah!” cried Sansoucy, “what an improper speech;
and the worst of it is that such speeches are constantly
made without young ladies knowing it. Besides it's not
original.”

“Not original?” said Heartsease, with an innocent air.

“No: it's in the Journal of last week.”

“Well, it's good: but we are getting away from the
ball.”

“So we are.”

“You enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, my dear Sansoucy, I always do for that matter.
My friends were as kind as any reasonable man could possibly
desire.”

“Were they?”

“Quite: and I was overwhelmed with congratulations
on my safe return. There was one thing, however, which
gravelled me.”

“And that?”

“That was the attack made upon me, by Miss Gosyp.
You know the antediluvian, Miss Gosyp? She actually
introduced herself to me, winter before last, by an unfavorable
commentary on my shirt studs. She assailed me
again, last night, with a criticism of my waistcoat.”

“What was the result?”

“Why, there is an end to human patience, like all other
things of this world, as I have somewhere seen it
remarked. And yet, will you believe me, my dear fellow,
I was paralyzed by that abominable woman—driven to
frenzy, and loss of temper. All I could do was to smile,
and ask her if a young lady, who came with her, was her
neice—and so we parted.”

“What a terrible and heartless attack, Heartsease!”

“Wasn't it? But revenge is fair. What do you think
she said to me last winter?”

“I can't guess.”

“Why, she squeezed my hand, in a friendly way, and
whispered, `You are the hope of America—”'

“You don't quarrel with that?”

“Listen—she added with an affectionate and winning
smile—`the hope against hope.' And then she nodded
and left me. It made me melancholy for a week, and I
have only regained my spirits since I have got revenge!”

Sansoucy applauded this happy consummation, and
said:

“All your friends, however, are not so severe?”

“Oh, no!—almost everybody has been pleased to see
me—particularly fellows I owe money to.”

“Ah?”

“Yes: and I now perceive the truth of a remark made
lately by a friend of mine—that nobody takes any interest
in a man who don't owe money. I remember when my
governor took me to the watering places, a long while
ago—when I was a young fellow—that scarcely anybody
took the trouble to enquire how I had been, on my
return. Now it is different, my dear fellow—the solicitude
about my welfare is most flattering. I met my coat-artist
the other day, and he was quite warm in his
congratulations, enquiring, as we walked on, about all
the fashions I had seen, and, as I owe him a pretty little
amount, he seemed rejoiced to see me. The fact is, my
dear boy, if you owe money, you are a gentleman, and a
man of consequence—the more you owe the better, for all
the more interest is taken in your welfare. I know that
my aforesaid coat-artist, and the rest of my friends, are
glad to find me back again, looking well and hearty;
they like to see me smiling, and well-dressed, promenading
in the afternoon, and are anxious to keep up friendly
relations with me.”

“Nothing could be more philosophical,” said Sansoucy.

“I think so,” continued Heartsease; “now if I looked
seedy, and had a long face, they would regret it, and call
on me to inquire about my health—possibly just recollecting
their little bill, and bringing it along to save the
trouble of another call. This would distress them, and,

consequently, they rejoice to see me looking gay and well
pleased with myself, and everybody: and take pleasure
in waving their hands to me as I stroll along in my new
coat sent home on Saturday. If they miss me in my
accustomed walk, they are grieved, and institute enquiries
as to my whereabouts. If I leave town, they are more
interested still, and express sincere anxiety lest I should
grow pleased with some other place of residence, and not
return. When I reappear, they meet me with smiles and
congratulations, as I have said—and all this good feeling
and popularity, I attribute to the interest taken in me as
a money-owing man. I do, indeed!”

And Mr. Heartsease contemplated the end of a cigar
he had lit, with smiling interest.

“You reason like a philosopher, Heartsease,” said Mr.
Sansoucy: “and I bow to your views. There is only
one objection that I see to your philosophy.”

“What is that?”

“Your coat-artist may be poor.”

“Poor?”

“Yes: and his children may rely for bread upon their
father's labor.”

“His children?—ah—yes.”

“And the money-owing general favorite may be the
cause of their having none of this necessary of life.”

“Why, that is true—strange it never occured to me,”
said Mr. Heartsease, reflecting, with much interest, upon
the new view thus presented to him.

“Therefore,” said Sansoucy: “it seems to me better

not to be in debt—and if it is a necessity of human
existence—”

“It certainly is, my boy.”

“Why, choose your creditors from other walks. If
absolutely essential to existence, get the money, and make
the Banks come to your relief.”

“The Banks?”

“Certainly.”

“That reminds me that I couldn't get a discount yesterday.
There is that collection of pictures going at an
awful sacrifice, and that institution yonder, positively
refused to let me have some money, though I took the
pains to explain my situation to the president.”

“Absolutely heartless!”

“Wasn't it?”

“What will you do?”

“Why, go to my friends, the Jews. I have set my
heart especially upon a portrait of Count D'Orsay, and a
Psyche, which I am going to present to that charming
Miss Ashton.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“Is n't she exquisite?”

“Very.”

“Do you know, my dear fellow, I half think of paying
my addresses in that quarter. I have had some encouragement.”

“What! encouragement?”

“You seem surprised, but why should you be? Answer
me candidly, my dear boy; am I a monster?”

Mr. Heartsease accompanied this question by a caressing

movement of his hand around his chin, so self-satisfied
and complacent in its way, that Sansoucy began to laugh.

“You are a perfect star of fashion, my dear Heartsease,”
he said, “and doubtless you might have good fortune; why
not try? Miss Ashton is a prize worth having—and that
reminds me that I engaged to send somebody to her this
morning. Will you stay and smoke? I must set about
my engagement.”

And Sansoucy, suddenly thinking of Ellie and his
promise, rose.

“No, I have an engagement too, my boy. Come, and
see me: What! so busy that you can't?”

“I am up to my eyes.”

“Well, let us trust to luck. I shall go up and see Miss
Ashton—ta la!”

And Heartsease kissed his fingers, and strolled out and
down the street.

“There goes the most perfect butterfly of our times,”
said Sansoucy, smiling, as he donned his overcoat, “a
man who believes life was made to trifle in—time made
to be `killed,'—and everything else to be laughed at. I
am a careless man, but I should shudder did I believe my
character was growing into such a mould. Life is a
battle-field, not a flower-garden. Let me go now and
forget Monsieur Heartsease, in the presence of my valiant
little `soldier and servant.”'

And putting on his gloves, the journalist went out and
descended the stairs, and issued forth into the cold, bleak,
brilliant streets, which glittered as though decorated with
a thousand icicles.