We first came to know the entomologist through our opposite neighbors, the
Fontenettes, when we lived in the street that still bears the romantic
name, Sixth. What a pity nothing rhymes to it. _Their_ ground-story
cottage was of a much better sort. It lay broadside to the street,
two-thirds across a lot of forty feet width, in the good old Creole
fashion, its front garden twelve feet deep, and its street fence, of white
palings, higher than the passer's head. The parlor and dining-room were on
the left, and the two main bedrooms on the right, next the garden; Mrs.
Fontenette's in front, opening into the parlor, Monsieur's behind, letting
into the dining-room. For there had been a broader garden on the parlor
and dining-room side, but that had been sold and built on. I fancy that if
Mrs. Fontenette--who was not a Creole, as her husband was, but had once
been a Miss Bangs, or something, and still called blackberries
"blackbries," and made root rhyme with foot--I fancy if she had been
doomed to our entomologist's sort of a house she would have been too
broken in spirit to have made anybody's acquaintance.
For our pretty blonde neighbor had ambitions, or _had_ had, as she once
hinted to me with a dainty sadness. When I somehow let slip to her that I
had repeated her delicately balanced words to my wife she gave me one
melting glance of reproach, and thenceforth confided in me no more beyond
the limits of literary criticism and theology--and botany. I remember we
were among the few roses of her small flower-beds at the time, and I was
trying to show her what was blighting them all in the bud. She called them
"rose-es."
They rarely bloomed for her; she was always for being the rose herself--as
Monsieur Fontenette once said; but he said it with a glance of fond
admiration. Her name was Flora, and yet not flowers, but their book-lore,
best suited her subtle capriciousness. She made such a point of names that
she could not let us be happy with the homely monosyllable by which we
were known, until we allowed her to hyphenate us as the Thorndyke-Smiths.
There hung in our hall an entire unmarred beard of the beautiful gray
Spanish moss, eight feet long. I had got this unusual specimen by
tiptoeing from the thwarts of a skiff with twelve feet of yellow crevasse-
waters beneath, the shade of the vast cypress forest above, and the bough
whence it hung brought within hand's reach for the first time in a
century. Thus I explained it one day to Mrs. Fontenette, as she touched
its ends with a delicate finger.
"Tillandsia"--was her one word of response. She loved no other part of
botany quite so much as its Latin.
"The Baron ought to see that," said Monsieur. He was a man of quiet
manners, not over-social, who had once enjoyed a handsome business income,
but had early--about the time of his marriage--been made poor through the
partial collapse of the house in Havre whose cotton-buyer he had been,
and, in a scant way, still was. "When a cotton-buyer geds down, he stays,"
was all the explanation he ever gave us. He had unfretfully let adversity
cage him for life in the only occupation he knew, while the wife he adored
kept him pecuniarily bled to death, without sharing his silent resigna--
There I go again! Somehow I can't talk about her without seeming unjust
and rude. I felt it just now, even, when I quoted her husband's fond word,
that she always chose to be the rose herself. Well, she nearly always
succeeded; she was a rose--with some of the rose's drawbacks.
When we asked who the Baron might be it was she who told us, but in a
certain disappointed way, as if she would rather have kept him unknown a
while longer. He was, she said, a profoundly learned man, graduate of one
of those great universities over in his native Germany, and a naturalist.
Young? Well, eh--comparatively--yes. At which the silent husband smiled
his dissent.
The Baron was an entomologist. Both the Fontenettes thought we should be
fascinated with the beauty of some of his cases of moths and butterflies.
"And coleoptera," said the soft rose-wife. She could ask him to bring them
to us. Take us to him?--Oh!--eh--her embarrassment made her prettier, as
she broke it to us gently that the Baroness was a seamstress. She hushed
at her husband's mention of shirts; but recovered when he harked back to
the Baron, and beamed her unspoken apologies for the great, brave scholar
who daily, silently bore up under this awful humiliation.