Little lynx-eyed Dr. Von Finck, who attends most of the polite company

at Baden, drove ceaselessly about the place that day, with the _real_

version of the fainting-fit story, about which we may be sure the

wicked and malicious, and the uninitiated, had a hundred absurd

details. Lady Clara ever engaged to Captain Belsize? Fiddle-de-dee!

Everybody knew the Captain’s affairs, and that he could no more think

of marrying than flying. Lady Clara faint at seeing him! she fainted

before he came up; she was always fainting, and had done so thrice in

the last week to his knowledge. Lord Dorking had a nervous affection of

his right arm, and was always shaking his stick. He did not say

Villain, he said William; Captain Belsize’s name is William. It is not

so in the Peerage? Is he called Jack in the Peerage? Those Peerages are

always wrong. These candid explanations of course had their effect.

Wicked tongues were of course instantaneously silent. People were

entirely satisfied; they always are. The next night being Assembly

night, Lady Clara appeared at the rooms and danced with Lord Kew and

Mr. Barnes Newcome. All the society was as gracious and good-humoured

as possible, and there was no more question of fainting than of burning

down the Conversation-house. But Madame de Cruchecassée, and Madame de

Schlangenbad, and those horrid people whom the men speak to, but whom

the women salute with silent curtseys, persisted in declaring that

there was no prude like an English prude; and to Dr. Finck’s oaths,

assertions, explanations, only replied, with a shrug of their bold

shoulders, “Taisez-vous, Docteur, vous n’êtes qu’une vieille bête.”

Lady Kew was at the rooms, uncommonly gracious. Miss Ethel took a few

turns of the waltz with Lord Kew, but this nymph looked more _farouche_

than upon ordinary days. Bob Jones, who admired her hugely, asked leave

to waltz with her, and entertained her with recollections of Clive

Newcome at school. He remembered a fight in which Clive had been

engaged, and recounted that action to Miss Newcome, who seemed to be

interested. He was pleased to deplore Clive’s fancy for turning artist,

and that Miss Newcome recommended him to have his likeness taken, for

she said his appearance was exceedingly picturesque. He was going on

with further prattle, but she suddenly cut Mr. Jones short, making him

a bow, and going to sit down by Lady Kew. “And the next day, sir,” said

Bob, with whom the present writer had the happiness of dining at a mess

dinner at the Upper Temple, “when I met her on the walk, sir, she cut

me as dead as a stone. The airs those swells give themselves is enough

to make any man turn republican.”

Miss Ethel indeed was haughty, very haughty, and of a difficult temper.

She spared none of her party except her kind mother, to whom Ethel

always was kind, and her father, whom, since his illnesses, she tended

with much benevolence and care. But she did battle with Lady Kew

repeatedly, coming to her Aunt Julia’s rescue, on whom her mother as

usual exercised her powers of torturing. She made Barnes quail before

her by the shafts of contempt which she flashed at him; and she did not

spare Lord Kew, whose good-nature was no shield against her scorn. The

old queen-mother was fairly afraid of her; she even left off beating

Lady Julia when Ethel came in, of course taking her revenge in the

young girl’s absence, but trying in her presence to soothe and please

her. Against Lord Kew the young girl’s anger was most unjust, and the

more cruel because the kindly young nobleman never spoke a hard word of

any one mortal soul, and, carrying no arms, should have been assaulted

by none. But his very good-nature seemed to make his young opponent

only the more wrathful; she shot because his honest breast was bare; it

bled at the wounds which she inflicted. Her relatives looked at her

surprised at her cruelty, and the young man himself was shocked in his

dignity and best feelings by his cousin’s wanton ill-humour.

Lady Kew fancied she understood the cause of this peevishness, and

remonstrated with Miss Ethel. “Shall we write a letter to Lucerne, and

order Dick Tinto back again?” said her ladyship. “Are you such a fool,

Ethel, as to be hankering after that young scapegrace, and his yellow

beard? His drawings are very pretty. Why, I think he might earn a

couple of hundred a year as a teacher, and nothing would be easier than

to break your engagement with Kew, and whistle the drawing-master back

again.”

Ethel took up the whole heap of Clive’s drawings, lighted a taper,

carried the drawings to the fireplace, and set them in a blaze. “A very

pretty piece of work,” says Lady Kew, “and which proves satisfactorily

that you don’t care for the young Clive at all. Have we arranged a

correspondence? We are cousins, you know; we may write pretty cousinly

letters to one another.” A month before the old lady would have

attacked her with other arms than sarcasm, but she was scared now, and

dared to use no coarser weapons. “Oh!” cried Ethel in a transport,

“what a life ours is, and how you buy and sell, and haggle over your

children! It is not Clive I care about, poor boy. Our ways of life are

separate. I cannot break from my own family, and I know very well how

you would receive him in it. Had he money, it would be different. You

would receive him, and welcome him, and hold out your hands to him; but

he is only a poor painter, and we forsooth are bankers in the City; and

he comes among us on sufferance, like those concert-singers whom mamma

treats with so much politeness, and who go down and have supper by

themselves. Why should they not be as good as we are?”

“M. de C——, my dear, is of a noble family,” interposed Lady Kew; “when

he has given up singing and made his fortune, no doubt he can go back

into the world again.”

“Made his fortune, yes,” Ethel continued, “that is the cry. There never

were, since the world began, people so unblushingly sordid! We own it,

and are proud of it. We barter rank against money, and money against

rank, day after day. Why did you marry my father to my mother? Was it

for his wit? You know he might have been an angel and you would have

scorned him. Your daughter was bought with papa’s money as surely as

ever Newcome was. Will there be no day when this mammon-worship will

cease among us?”

“Not in my time or yours, Ethel,” the elder said, not unkindly; perhaps

she thought of a day long ago before she was old herself.

“We are sold,” the young girl went on, “we are as much sold as Turkish

women; the only difference being that our masters may have but one

Circassian at a time. No, there is no freedom for us. I wear my green

ticket, and wait till my master comes. But every day as I think of our

slavery, I revolt against it more. That poor wretch, that poor girl

whom my brother is to marry, why did she not revolt and fly? I would,

if I loved a man sufficiently, loved him better than the world, than

wealth, than rank, than fine houses and titles,—and I feel I love these

best,—I would give up all to follow him. But what can I be with my name

and my parents? I belong to the world like all the rest of my family.

It is you who have bred us up; you who are answerable for us. Why are

there no convents to which we can fly? You make a fine marriage for me;

you provide me with a good husband, a kind soul, not very wise, but

very kind; you make me what you call happy, and I would rather be at

the plough like the women here.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Ethel,” replies the grandmother, drily. “These are

the fine speeches of schoolgirls. The showers of rain would spoil your

complexion—you would be perfectly tired in an hour, and come back to

luncheon—you belong to your belongings, my dear, and are not better

than the rest of the world:—very good-looking, as you know perfectly

well, and not very good-tempered. It is lucky that Kew is. Calm your

temper, at least before marriage; such a prize does not fall to a

pretty girl’s lot every day. Why, you sent him away quite seared by

your cruelty; and if he is not playing at roulette, or at billiards, I

dare say he is thinking what a little termagant you are, and that he

had best pause while it is yet time. Before I was married, your poor

grandfather never knew I had a temper; of after-days I say nothing; but

trials are good for all of us, and he bore his like an angel.”

Lady Kew, too, on this occasion at least, was admirably good-humoured.

She also when it was necessary could put a restraint on her temper,

and, having this match very much at heart, chose to coax and to soothe

her granddaughter rather than to endeavour to scold and frighten her.

“Why do you desire this marriage so much, grandmamma,” the girl asked.

“My cousin is not very much in love,—at least I should fancy not,” she

added, blushing. “I am bound to own Lord Kew is not in the least eager,

and I think if you were to tell him to wait for five years he would be

quite willing. Why should you be so very anxious?”

“Why, my dear? Because I think young ladies who want to go and work in

the fields, should make hay while the sun shines; because I think it is

high time that Kew should _ranger_ himself; because I am sure he will

make the best husband, and Ethel the prettiest Countess in England.”

And the old lady, seldom exhibiting any signs of affection, looked at

her granddaughter very fondly. From her Ethel looked up into the glass,

which very likely repeated on its shining face the truth her elder had

just uttered. Shall we quarrel with the girl for that dazzling

reflection; for owning that charming truth, and submitting to the

conscious triumph? Give her her part of vanity, of youth, of desire to

rule and be admired. Meanwhile Mr. Clive’s drawings have been crackling

in the fireplace at her feet, and the last spark of that combustion is

twinkling out unheeded.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Lady Kew at the Congress

When Lady Kew heard that Madame d’Ivry was at Baden, and was informed

at once of the French lady’s graciousness towards the Newcome family,

and of her fury against Lord Kew, the old Countess gave a loose to that

energetic temper with which nature had gifted her; a temper which she

tied up sometimes and kept from barking and biting; but which when

unmuzzled was an animal of whom all her ladyship’s family had a just

apprehension. Not one of them but in his or her time had been wounded,

lacerated, tumbled over, otherwise frightened or injured by this unruly

brute. The cowards brought it sops and patted it; the prudent gave it a

clear berth, and walked round so as not to meet it; but woe be to those

of the family who had to bring the meal, and prepare the litter, and

(to speak respectfully) share the kennel with Lady Kew’s “Black Dog!”

Surely a fine furious temper, if accompanied with a certain magnanimity

and bravery which often go together with it, is one of the most

precious and fortunate gifts with which a gentleman or lady can be

endowed. A person always ready to fight is certain of the greatest

consideration amongst his or her family circle. The lazy grow tired of

contending with him; the timid coax and flatter him; and as almost

every one is timid or lazy, a bad-tempered man is sure to have his own

way. It is he who commands, and all the others obey. If he is a

gourmand, he has’ what he likes for dinner; and the tastes of all the

rest are subservient to him. She (we playfully transfer the gender, as

a bad temper is of both sexes) has the place which she likes best in

the drawing-room; nor do her parents, nor her brothers and sisters,

venture to take her favourite chair. If she wants to go to a party,

mamma will dress herself in spite of her headache; and papa, who hates

those dreadful soirées, will go upstairs after dinner and put on his

poor old white neckcloth, though he has been toiling at chambers all

day, and must be there early in the morning—he will go out with her, we

say, and stay for the cotillon. If the family are taking their tour in

the summer, it is she who ordains whither they shall go, and when they

shall stop. If he comes home late, the dinner is kept for him, and not

one dares to say a word though ever so hungry. If he is in a good

humour, how every one frisks about and is happy! How the servants jump

up at his bell and run to wait upon him! How they sit up patiently, and

how eagerly they rush out to fetch cabs in the rain! Whereas for you

and me, who have the tempers of angels, and never were known to be

angry or to complain, nobody cares whether we are pleased or not. Our

wives go to the milliners and send us the bill, and we pay it; our John

finishes reading the newspaper before he answers our bell, and brings

it to us; our sons loll in the arm-chair which we should like; fill the

house with their young men, and smoke in the dining-room; our tailors

fit us badly; our butchers give us the youngest mutton; our tradesmen

dun us much more quickly than other people’s, because they know we are

good-natured; and our servants go out whenever they like, and openly

have their friends to supper in the kitchen. When Lady Kew said _Sic

volo, sic jubeo_, I promise you few persons of her ladyship’s

belongings stopped, before they did her biddings, to ask her reasons.

If, which very seldom happens, there are two such imperious and

domineering spirits in a family, unpleasantries of course will arise

from their contentions; or, if out of doors the family Bajazet meets

with some other violent Turk, dreadful battles ensue, all the allies on

either side are brought in, and the surrounding neighbours perforce

engaged in the quarrel. This was unluckily the case in the present

instance. Lady Kew, unaccustomed to have her will questioned at home,

liked to impose it abroad. She judged the persons around her with great

freedom of speech. Her opinions were quoted, as people’s sayings will

be; and if she made bitter speeches, depend on it they lost nothing in

the carrying. She was furious against Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, and

exploded in various companies whenever that lady’s name was mentioned.

“Why was she not with her husband? Why was the poor old Duke left to

his gout, and this woman trailing through the country with her vagabond

court of billiard-markers at her heels? She to call herself Mary Queen

of Scots, forsooth!—well, she merited the title in some respects,

though she had not murdered her husband as yet. Ah! I should like to be

Queen Elizabeth if the Duchess is Queen of Scots!” said the old lady,

shaking her old fist. And these sentiments being uttered in public,

upon the promenade, to mutual friends, of course the Duchess had the

benefit of Lady Kew’s remarks a few minutes after they were uttered;

and her grace, and the distinguished princes, counts, and noblemen in

her court, designated as billiard-markers by the old Countess, returned

the latter’s compliments with pretty speeches of their own. Scandals

were dug up respecting her ladyship, so old that one would have thought

them forgotten these forty years,—so old that they happened before most

of the Newcomes now extant were born, and surely therefore are out of

the province of this contemporary biography. Lady Kew was indignant

with her daughter (there were some moments when any conduct of her

friends did not meet her ladyship’s approbation) even for the scant

civility with which Lady Anne had received the Duchess’s advances.

“Leave a card upon her!—yes, send a card by one of your footmen; but go

in to see her—because she was at the window and saw you drive up.—Are

you mad, Anne? That was the very reason you should not have come out of

your carriage. But you are so weak and good-natured, that if a

highwayman stopped you, you would say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ as you gave

him your purse: yes, and if Mrs. Macheath called on you afterwards you

would return the visit!”

Even had these speeches been made _about_ the Duchess, and some of them

not addressed to her, things might have gone on pretty well. If we

quarrelled with all the people who abuse us behind our backs, and began

to tear their eyes out as soon as we set ours on them, what a life it

would be, and when should we have any quiet? Backbiting is all fair in

society. Abuse me, and I will abuse you; but let us be friends when we

meet. Have not we all entered a dozen rooms, and been sure, from the

countenances of the amiable persons present, that they had been

discussing our little peculiarities, perhaps as we were on the stairs?

Was our visit, therefore, the less agreeable? Did we quarrel and say

hard words to one another’s faces? No—we wait until some of our dear

friends take their leave, and then comes our turn. My back is at my

neighbour’s service; as soon as that is turned let him make what faces

he thinks proper: but when we meet we grin and shake hands like

well-bred folk, to whom clean linen is not more necessary than a clean

sweet-looking countenance, and a nicely got-up smile, for company.

Here was Lady Kew’s mistake. She wanted, for some reason, to drive

Madame d’Ivry out of Baden; and thought there were no better means of

effecting this object than by using the high hand, and practising those

frowns upon the Duchess which had scared away so many other persons.

But the Queen of Scots was resolute, too, and her band of courtiers

fought stoutly round about her. Some of them could not pay their bills,

and could not retreat: others had courage, and did not choose to fly.

Instead of coaxing and soothing Madame d’Ivry, Madame de Kew thought by

a brisk attack to rout and dislodge her. She began on almost the very

first occasion when the ladies met. “I was so sorry to hear that

Monsieur le Duc was ill at Bagneres, Madame la Duchesse,” the old lady

began on their very first meeting, after the usual salutations had

taken place.

“Madame la Comtesse is very kind to interest herself in Monsieur

d’Ivry’s health. Monsieur le Duc at his age is not disposed to travel.

You, dear miladi, are more happy in being always able to retain the

_goût des voyages!_”

“I come to my family! my dear Duchess.”

“How charmed they must be to possess you! Miladi Anne, you must be

inexpressibly consoled by the presence of a mother so tender! Permit me

to present Madame la Comtesse de la Cruchecassée to Madame la Comtesse

de Kew. Miladi is sister to that amiable Marquis of Steyne, whom you

have known, Ambrosine! Madame la Baronne de Schlangenbad, Miladi Kew.

Do you not see the resemblance to milor? These ladies have enjoyed the

hospitalities—the splendours of Gaunt House. They were of those famous

routs of which the charming Mistress Crawley, _la semillante Becki_,

made part! How sad the Hôtel de Gaunt must be under the present

circumstances! Have you heard, miladi, of the charming Mistress Becki?

Monsieur le Duc describes her as the most _spirituelle_ Englishwoman he

ever met.” The Queen of Scots turns and whispers her lady of honour,

and shrugs and taps her forehead. Lady Kew knows that Madame d’Ivry

speaks of her nephew, the present Lord Steyne, who is not in his right

mind. The Duchess looks round, and sees a friend in the distance whom

she beckons. “Comtesse, you know already monsieur the Captain

Blackball? He makes the delight of our society!” A dreadful man with a

large cigar, a florid waistcoat, and billiards written on his

countenance, swaggers forward at the Duchess’s summons. The Countess of

Kew has not gained much by her attack. She has been presented to

Cruchecassée and Schlangenbad. She sees herself on the eve of becoming

the acquaintance of Captain Blackball.

“Permit me, Duchess, to choose my _English_ friends at least for

myself,” says Lady Kew, drumming her foot.

“But, madam, assuredly! You do not love this good Monsieur de

Blackball? Eh! the English manners are droll, pardon me for saying so.

It is wonderful how proud you are as a nation, and how ashamed you are

of your compatriots!”

“There are some persons who are ashamed of nothing, Madame la

Duchesse,” cries Lady Kew; losing her temper.

“Is that _gracieuseté_ for me? How much goodness! This good Monsieur de

Blackball is not very well bred; but, for an Englishman, he is not too

bad. I have met with people who are more ill-bred than Englishmen in my

travels.”

“And they are?” said Lady Anne, who had been in vain endeavouring to

put an end to this colloquy.

“Englishwomen, madam! I speak not for you. You are kind; you—you are

too soft, dear Lady Anne, for a persecutor.”

The counsels of the worldly woman who governed and directed that branch

of the Newcome family of whom it is our business to speak now for a

little while, bore other results than those which the elderly lady

desired and foresaw. Who can foresee everything and always? Not the

wisest among us. When his Majesty Louis XIV., jockeyed his grandson on

to the throne of Spain (founding thereby the present revered dynasty of

that country), did he expect to peril his own, and bring all Europe

about his royal ears? Could a late King of France, eager for the

advantageous establishment of one of his darling sons, and anxious to

procure a beautiful Spanish princess, with a crown and kingdom in

reversion, for the simple and obedient youth, ever suppose that the

welfare of his whole august race and reign would be upset by that smart

speculation? We take only the most noble examples to illustrate the

conduct of such a noble old personage as her ladyship of Kew, who

brought a prodigious deal of trouble upon some of the innocent members

of her family, whom no doubt she thought to better in life by her

experienced guidance and undoubted worldly wisdom. We may be as deep as

Jesuits, know the world ever so well, lay the best-ordered plans, and

the profoundest combinations, and by a certain not unnatural turn of

fate, we, and our plans and combinations, are sent flying before the

wind. We may be as wise as Louis Philippe, that many-counselled Ulysses

whom the respectable world admired so; and after years of patient

scheming, and prodigies of skill, after coaxing, wheedling, doubling,

bullying, wisdom, behold yet stronger powers interpose: and schemes,

and skill and violence, are nought.

Frank and Ethel, Lady Kew’s grandchildren, were both the obedient

subjects of this ancient despot: this imperious old Louis XIV. in a

black front and a cap and ribbon, this scheming old Louis Philippe in

tabinet; but their blood was good and their tempers high; and for all

her bitting and driving, and the training of her _manége_, the generous

young colts were hard to break. Ethel, at this time, was especially

stubborn in training, rebellious to the whip, and wild under harness;

and the way in which Lady Kew managed her won the admiration of her

family: for it was a maxim among these folks that no one could manage

Ethel but Lady Kew. Barnes said no one could manage his sister but his

grandmother. He couldn’t, that was certain. Mamma never tried, and

indeed was so good-natured, that rather than ride the filly, she would

put the saddle on her own back and let the filly ride her; no, there

was no one but her ladyship capable of managing that girl, Barnes

owned, who held Lady Kew in much respect and awe. “If the tightest hand

were not kept on her, there’s no knowing what she mightn’t do,” said

her brother. “Ethel Newcome, by Jove, is capable of running away with

the writing-master.”

After poor Jack Belsize’s mishap and departure, Barnes’s own bride

showed no spirit at all, save one of placid contentment. She came at

call and instantly, and went through whatever paces her owner demanded

of her. She laughed whenever need was, simpered and smiled when spoken

to, danced whenever she was asked; drove out at Barnes’s side in Kew’s

phaeton, and received him certainly not with warmth, but with

politeness and welcome. It is difficult to describe the scorn with

which her sister-in-law regarded her. The sight of the patient timid

little thing chafed Ethel, who was always more haughty and flighty and

bold when in Clara’s presence than at any other time. Her ladyship’s

brother, Captain Lord Viscount Rooster, before mentioned, joined the

family party at this interesting juncture. My Lord Rooster found

himself surprised, delighted, subjugated by Miss Newcome, her wit and

spirit. “By Jove, she is a plucky one,” his lordship exclaimed. “To

dance with her is the best fun in life. How she pulls all the other

girls to pieces, by Jove, and how splendidly she chaffs everybody!

But,” he added with the shrewdness and sense of humour which

distinguished the young officer, “I’d rather dance with her than marry

her—by a doosid long score—I don’t envy you that part of the business,

Kew, my boy.” Lord Kew did not set himself up as a person to be envied.

He thought his cousin beautiful: and with his grandmother, that she

would make a very handsome Countess; and he thought the money which

Lady Kew would give or leave to the young couple a very welcome

addition to his means.

On the next night, when there was a ball at the room, Miss Ethel chose

to appear in a toilette the very grandest and finest which she had ever

assumed, who was ordinarily exceedingly simple in her attire, and

dressed below the mark of the rest of the world. Her clustering

ringlets, her shining white shoulders, her splendid raiment (I believe

indeed it was her court-dress which the young lady assumed) astonished

all beholders. She _écrasé’d_ all other beauties by her appearance; so

much so that Madame d’Ivry’s court could not but look, the men in

admiration, the women in dislike, at this dazzling young creature. None

of the countesses, duchesses, princesses, Russ, Spanish, Italian, were

so fine or so handsome. There were some New York ladies at Baden as

there are everywhere else in Europe now. Not even these were more

magnificent than Miss Ethel. General Jeremiah J. Bung’s lady owned that

Miss Newcome was fit to appear in any party in Fourth Avenue. She was

the only well-dressed English girl Mrs. Bung had seen in Europe. A

young German Durchlaucht deigned to explain to his aide-de-camp how

very handsome he thought Miss Newcome. All our acquaintances were of

one mind. Mr. Jones of England pronounced her stunning; the admirable

Captain Blackball examined her points with the skill of an amateur, and

described them with agreeable frankness. Lord Rooster was charmed as he

surveyed her, and complimented his late companion-in-arms on the

possession of such a paragon. Only Lord Kew was not delighted—nor did

Miss Ethel mean that he should be. She looked as splendid as Cinderella

in the prince’s palace. But what need for all this splendour? this

wonderful toilette? this dazzling neck and shoulders, whereof the

brightness and beauty blinded the eyes of lookers-on? She was dressed

as gaudily as an actress of the Varietes going to a supper at Trois

Frères. “It was Mademoiselle Mabille en habit de cœur,” Madame d’Ivry

remarked to Madame Schlangenbad. Barnes, who with his bride-elect for a

partner made a vis-a-vis for his sister and the admiring Lord Rooster,

was puzzled likewise by Ethel’s countenance and appearance. Little Lady

Clara looked like a little schoolgirl dancing before her.

One, two, three, of the attendants of her Majesty the Queen of Scots

were carried off in the course of the evening by the victorious young

beauty, whose triumph had the effect, which the headstrong girl perhaps

herself anticipated, of mortifying the Duchesse d’Ivry, of exasperating

old Lady Kew, and of annoying the young nobleman to whom Miss Ethel was

engaged. The girl seemed to take a pleasure in defying all three, a

something embittered her, alike against her friends and her enemies.

The old dowager chaffed and vented her wrath upon Lady Anne and Barnes.

Ethel kept the ball alive by herself almost. She refused to go home,

declining hints and commands alike. She was engaged for ever so many

dances more. Not dance with Count Punter? it would be rude to leave him

after promising him. Not waltz with Captain Blackball? He was not a

proper partner for her? Why then did Kew know him? Lord Kew walked and

talked with Captain Blackball every day. Was she to be so proud as not

to know Lord Kew’s friends? She greeted the Captain with a most

fascinating smile as he came up whilst the controversy was pending, and

ended it by whirling round the room in his arms.

Madame d’Ivry viewed with such pleasure as might be expected the

defection of her adherents, and the triumph of her youthful rival, who

seemed to grow more beautiful with each waltz, so that the other

dancers paused to look at her, the men breaking out in enthusiasm, the

reluctant women being forced to join in the applause. Angry as she was,

and knowing how Ethel’s conduct angered her grandson, old Lady Kew

could not help admiring the rebellious beauty, whose girlish spirit was

more than a match for the imperious dowager’s tough old resolution. As

for Mr. Barnes’s displeasure, the girl tossed her saucy head, shrugged

her fair shoulders, and passed on with a scornful laugh. In a word,

Miss Ethel conducted herself as a most reckless and intrepid young

flirt, using her eyes with the most consummate effect, chattering with

astounding gaiety, prodigal of smiles, gracious thanks and killing

glances. What wicked spirit moved her? Perhaps had she known the

mischief she was doing, she would have continued it still.

The sight of this wilfulness and levity smote poor Lord Kew’s honest

heart with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young nobleman had

passed many a year of his life in all sorts of wild company. The

_chaumière_ knew him, and the balls of Parisian actresses, the

coulisses of the opera at home and abroad. Those pretty heads of ladies

whom nobody knows, used to nod their shining ringlets at Kew, from

private boxes at theatres, or dubious Park broughams. He had run the

career of young men of pleasure, and laughed and feasted with jolly

prodigals and their company. He was tired of it: perhaps he remembered

an earlier and purer life, and was sighing to return to it. Living as

he had done amongst the outcasts, his ideal of domestic virtue was high

and pure. He chose to believe that good women were entirely good.

Duplicity he could not understand; ill-temper shocked him: wilfulness

he seemed to fancy belonged only to the profane and wicked; not to good

girls, with good mothers, in honest homes. Their nature was to love

their families; to obey their parents; to tend their poor; to honour

their husbands; to cherish their children. Ethel’s laugh woke him up

from one of these simple reveries very likely, and then she swept round

the ballroom rapidly, to the brazen notes of the orchestra. He never

offered to dance with her more than once in the evening; went away to

play, and returned to find her still whirling to the music. Madame

d’Ivry remarked his tribulation and gloomy face, though she took no

pleasure at his discomfiture, knowing that Ethel’s behaviour caused it.

In plays and novels, and I dare say in real life too sometimes, when

the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of fascination, and to

flirt with Sir Harry or the Captain, the hero, in a pique, goes off and

makes love to somebody else: both acknowledge their folly after a

while, shake hands, and are reconciled, and the curtain drops, or the

volume ends. But there are some people too noble and simple for these

amorous scenes and smirking artifices. When Kew was pleased he laughed,

when he was grieved he was silent. He did not deign to hide his grief

or pleasure under disguises. His error, perhaps, was in forgetting that

Ethel was very young; that her conduct was not design so much as

girlish mischief and high spirits; and that if young men have their

frolics, sow their wild oats, and enjoy their pleasure, young women may

be permitted sometimes their more harmless vagaries of gaiety, and

sportive outbreaks of wilful humour.

When she consented to go home at length, Lord Kew brought Miss

Newcome’s little white cloak for her (under the hood of which her

glossy curls, her blushing cheeks, and bright eyes looked provokingly

handsome), and encased her in this pretty garment without uttering one

single word. She made him a saucy curtsey in return for this act of

politeness, which salutation he received with a grave bow; and then he

proceeded to cover up old Lady Kew, and to conduct her ladyship to her

chariot. Miss Ethel chose to be displeased at her cousin’s displeasure.

What were balls made for but that people should dance? She a flirt? She

displease Lord Kew? If she chose to dance, she would dance; she had no

idea of his giving himself airs; besides it was such fun taking away

the gentlemen of Mary Queen of Scots’ court from her; such capital fun!

So she went to bed, singing and performing wonderful roulades as she

lighted her candle and retired to her room. She had had such a jolly

evening!! such famous fun, and, I dare say (but how shall a novelist

penetrate these mysteries?), when her chamber door was closed, she

scolded her maid and was as cross as two sticks. You see there come

moments of sorrow after the most brilliant victories; and you conquer

and rout the enemy utterly, and then regret that you fought.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The End of the Congress of Baden

Mention has been made of an elderly young person from Ireland, engaged

by Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, as companion and teacher of English for

her little daughter. When Miss O’Grady, as she did some time

afterwards, quitted Madame d’Ivry’s family, she spoke with great

freedom regarding the behaviour of that duchess, and recounted horrors

which she, the latter, had committed. A number of the most terrific

anecdotes issued from the lips of the indignant Miss, whose volubility

Lord Kew was obliged to check, not choosing that his countess, with

whom he was paying a bridal visit to Paris, should hear such dreadful

legends. It was there that Miss O’Grady, finding herself in misfortune,

and reading of Lord Kew’s arrival at the Hôtel Bristol, waited upon his

lordship and the Countess of Kew, begging them to take tickets in a

raffle for an invaluable ivory writing-desk, sole relic of her former

prosperity, which she proposed to give her friends the chance of

acquiring: in fact, Miss O’Grady lived for some years on the produce of

repeated raffles for this beautiful desk: many religious ladies of the

Faubourg St. Germain taking an interest in her misfortunes, and

alleviating them by the simple lottery system. Protestants as well as

Catholics were permitted to take shares in Miss O’Grady’s raffles; and

Lord Kew, good-natured then as always, purchased so many tickets, that

the contrite O’Grady informed him of a transaction which had nearly

affected his happiness, and in which she took a not very creditable

share. “Had I known your lordship’s real character,” Miss O’G was

pleased to say, “no tortures would have induced me to do an act for

which I have undergone penance. It was that black-hearted woman, my

lord, who maligned your lordship to me: that woman whom I called friend

once, but who is the most false, depraved, and dangerous of her sex.”

In this way do ladies’ companions sometimes speak of ladies when

quarrels separate them, when confidential attendants are dismissed,

bearing away family secrets in their minds, and revenge in their

hearts.

The day after Miss Ethel’s feats at the assembly, old Lady Kew went

over to advise her granddaughter, and to give her a little timely

warning about the impropriety of flirtations; above all, with such men

as are to be found at watering-places, persons who are never seen

elsewhere in society. “Remark the peculiarities of Kew’s temper, who

never flies into a passion like you and me, my dear,” said the old lady

(being determined to be particularly gracious and cautious); “when once

angry he remains so, and is so obstinate that it is almost impossible

to coax him into good-humour. It is much better, my love, to be like

us,” continued the old lady, “to fly out in a rage and have it over;

but que voulez-vous? such is Frank’s temper, and we must manage him.”

So she went on, backing her advice by a crowd of examples drawn from

the family history; showing how Kew was like his grandfather, her own

poor husband; still more like his late father, Lord Walham; between

whom and his mother there had been differences, chiefly brought on by

my Lady Walham, of course, which had ended in the almost total

estrangement of mother and son. Lady Kew then administered her advice,

and told her stories with Ethel alone for a listener; and in a most

edifying manner, she besought Miss Newcome to _ménager_ Lord Kew’s

susceptibilities, as she valued her own future comfort in life, as well

as the happiness of a most amiable man, of whom, if properly managed,

Ethel might make what she pleased. We have said Lady Kew managed

everybody, and that most of the members of her family allowed

themselves to be managed by her ladyship.

Ethel, who had permitted her grandmother to continue her sententious

advice, while she herself sat tapping her feet on the floor, and

performing the most rapid variations of that air which is called the

Devil’s Tattoo, burst out, at length, to the elder lady’s surprise,

with an outbreak of indignation, a flushing face, and a voice quivering

with anger.

“This most amiable man,” she cried out, “that you design for me, I know

everything about this most amiable man, and thank you and my family for

the present you make me! For the past year, what have you been doing?

Every one of you! my father, my brother, and you yourself, have been

filling my ears wit cruel reports against a poor boy, whom you chose to

depict as everything that was dissolute and wicked, when there was

nothing against him; nothing, but that he was poor. Yes, you yourself,

grandmamma, have told me many and many a time, that Clive Newcome was

not a fit companion for us; warned me against his bad courses, and

painted him as extravagant, unprincipled, I don’t know how bad. How

bad! I know how good he is; how upright, generous, and truth-telling:

though there was not a day until lately, that Barnes did not make some

wicked story against him,—Barnes, who, I believe, is bad himself,

like—like other young men. Yes, I am sure there was something about

Barnes in that newspaper which my father took away from me. And you

come, and you lift up your hands, and shake your head, because I dance

with one gentleman or another. You tell me I am wrong; mamma has told

me so this morning. Barnes, of course, has told me so, and you bring me

Frank as a pattern, and tell me to love and honour and obey _him!_ Look

here,” and she drew out a paper and put it into Lady Kew’s hands. “Here

is Kew’s history, and I believe it is true; yes, I am sure it is true.”

The old dowager lifted her eyeglass to her black eyebrow, and read a

paper written in English, and bearing no signature, in which many

circumstances of Lord Kew’s life were narrated for poor Ethel’s

benefit. It was not a worse life than that of a thousand young men of

pleasure, but there were Kew’s many misdeeds set down in order: such a

catalogue as we laugh at when Leporello trolls it, and sings his

master’s victories in France, Italy, and Spain. Madame d’Ivry’s name

was not mentioned in this list, and Lady Kew felt sure that the outrage

came from her.

With real ardour Lady Kew sought to defend her grandson from some of

the attacks here made against him; and showed Ethel that the person who

could use such means of calumniating him, would not scruple to resort

to falsehood in order to effect her purpose.

“Her purpose!” cries Ethel. “How do you know it is a woman?” Lady Kew

lapsed into generalities. She thought the handwriting was a woman’s—at

least it was not likely that a man should think of addressing an

anonymous letter to a young lady, and so wreaking his hatred upon Lord

Kew. “Besides, Frank has had no rivals—except—except one young

gentleman who has carried his paint-boxes to Italy,” says Lady Kew.

“You don’t think your dear Colonel’s son would leave such a piece of

mischief behind him? You must act, my dear,” continued her ladyship,

“as if this letter had never been written at all; the person who wrote

it no doubt will watch you. Of course we are too proud to allow him to

see that we are wounded; and pray, pray do not think of letting poor

Frank know a word about this horrid transaction.”

“Then the letter is true?” burst out Ethel. “You know it is true,

grandmamma, and that is why you would have me keep it a secret from my

cousin; besides,” she added, with a little hesitation, “your caution

comes too late, Lord Kew has seen the letter.”

“You fool!” screamed the old lady, “you were not so mad as to show it

to him?”

“I am sure the letter is true,” Ethel said, rising up very haughtily.

“It is not by calling me bad names that your ladyship will disprove it.

Keep them, if you please, for my Aunt Julia; she is sick and weak, and

can’t defend herself. I do not choose to bear abuse from you, or

lectures from Lord Kew. He happened to be here a short while since,

when the letter arrived. He had been good enough to come to preach me a

sermon on his own account. He to find fault with my actions!” cried

Miss Ethel, quivering with wrath and clenching the luckless paper in

her hand. “He to accuse me of levity, and to warn me against making

improper acquaintances! He began his lectures too soon. I am not a

lawful slave yet, and prefer to remain unmolested, at least as long as

I am free.”

“And you told Frank all this, Miss Newcome, and you showed him that

letter?” said the old lady.

“The letter was actually brought to me whilst his lordship was in the

midst of his sermon,” Ethel replied. “I read it as he was making his

speech,” she continued, gathering anger and scorn as she recalled the

circumstances of the interview. “He was perfectly polite in his

language. He did not call me a fool or use a single other bad name. He

was good enough to advise me and to make such virtuous pretty speeches,

that if he had been a bishop he could not have spoken better; and as I

thought the letter was a nice commentary on his lordship’s sermon, I

gave it to him. I gave it to him,” cried the young woman, “and much

good may it do him. I don’t think my Lord Kew will preach to me again

for some time.”

“I don’t think he will indeed,” said Lady Kew, in a hard dry voice.

“You don’t know what you may have done. Will you be pleased to ring the

bell and order my carriage? I congratulate you on having performed a

most charming morning’s work.”

Ethel made her grandmother a very stately curtsey. I pity Lady Julia’s

condition when her mother reached home.

All who know Lord Kew may be pretty sure that in that unlucky interview

with Ethel, to which the young lady has alluded, he just said no single

word to her that was not kind, and just, and gentle. Considering the

relation between them, he thought himself justified in remonstrating

with her as to the conduct which she chose to pursue, and in warning

her against acquaintances of whom his own experience had taught him the

dangerous character. He knew Madame d’Ivry and her friends so well that

he would not have his wife-elect a member of their circle. He could not

tell Ethel what he knew of those women and their history. She chose not

to understand his hints—did not, very likely, comprehend them. She was

quite young, and the stories of such lives as theirs had never been

told before her. She was indignant at the surveillance which Lord Kew

exerted over her, and the authority which he began to assume. At

another moment and in a better frame of mind she would have been

thankful for his care, and very soon and ever after she did justice to

his many admirable qualities—his frankness, honesty, and sweet temper.

Only her high spirit was in perpetual revolt at this time against the

bondage in which her family strove to keep her. The very worldly

advantages of the position which they offered her served but to chafe

her the more. Had her proposed husband been a young prince with a crown

to lay at her feet, she had been yet more indignant very likely, and

more rebellious. Had Kew’s younger brother been her suitor, or Kew in

his place, she had been not unwilling to follow her parents’ wishes.

Hence the revolt in which she was engaged—the wayward freaks and

outbreaks her haughty temper indulged in. No doubt she saw the justice

of Lord Kew’s reproofs. That self-consciousness was not likely to add

to her good-humour. No doubt she was sorry for having shown Lord Kew

the letter the moment after she had done that act, of which the poor

young lady could not calculate the consequences that were now to ensue.

Lord Kew, on glancing over the letter, at once divined the quarter

whence it came. The portrait drawn of him was not unlike, as our

characters described by those who hate us are not unlike. He had passed

a reckless youth; indeed he was sad and ashamed of that past life,

longed like the poor prodigal to return to better courses, and had

embraced eagerly the chance afforded him of a union with a woman young,

virtuous, and beautiful, against whom and against heaven he hoped to

sin no more. If we have told or hinted at more of his story than will

please the ear of modern conventionalism, I beseech the reader to

believe that the writer’s purpose at least is not dishonest, nor

unkindly. The young gentleman hung his head with sorrow over that sad

detail of his life and its follies. What would he have given to be able

to say to Ethel, “This is not true.”

His reproaches to Miss Newcome of course were at once stopped by this

terrible assault on himself. The letter had been put in the Baden

post-box, and so had come to its destination. It was in a disguised

handwriting. Lord Kew could form no idea even of the sex of the scribe.

He put the envelope in his pocket, when Ethel’s back was turned. He

examined the paper when he left her. He could make little of the

superscription or of the wafer which had served to close the note. He

did not choose to caution Ethel as to whether she should burn the

letter or divulge it to her friends. He took his share of the pain, as

a boy at school takes his flogging, stoutly and in silence.

When he saw Ethel again, which he did in an hour’s time, the generous

young gentleman held his hand out to her. “My dear,” he said, “if you

had loved me you never would have shown me that letter.” It was his

only reproof. After that he never again reproved or advised her.

Ethel blushed. “You are very brave and generous, Frank,” said, bending

her head, “and I am captious and wicked.” He felt the hot tear blotting

on his hand from his cousin’s downcast eyes.

He kissed her little hand. Lady Anne, who was in the room with her

children when these few words passed between the two in a very low

tone, thought it was a reconciliation. Ethel knew it was a renunciation

on Kew’s part—she never liked him so much as at that moment. The young

man was too modest and simple to guess himself what the girl’s feelings

were. Could he have told them, his fate and hers might have been

changed.

“You must not allow our kind letter-writing friend,” Lord Kew

continued, “to fancy we are hurt. We must walk out this afternoon, and

we must appear very good friends.”

“Yes, always, Kew,” said Ethel, holding out her hand again. The next

minute her cousin was at the table carving roast-fowls, and

distributing the portions to the hungry children.

The assembly of the previous evening had been one of those which the

_fermier des jeux_ at Baden beneficently provides for the frequenters

of the place, and now was to come off a much more brilliant

entertainment, in which poor Clive, who is far into Switzerland by this

time, was to have taken a share. The Bachelors had agreed to give a

ball, one of the last entertainments of the season: a dozen or more of

them had subscribed the funds, and we may be sure Lord Kew’s name was

at the head of the list, as it was of any list, of any scheme, whether

of charity or fun. The English were invited, and the Russians were

invited; the Spaniards and Italians, Poles, Prussians, and Hebrews; all

the motley frequenters of the place, and the warriors in the Duke of

Baden’s army. Unlimited supper was set in the restaurant. The

dancing-room glittered with extra lights, and a profusion of cut-paper

flowers decorated the festive scene. Everybody was present, those

crowds with whom our story has nothing to do, and those two or three

groups of persons who enact minor or greater parts in it. Madame d’Ivry

came in a dress of stupendous splendour, even more brilliant than that

in which Miss Ethel had figured at the last assembly. If the Duchess

intended to _écraser_ Miss Newcome by the superior magnificence of her

toilet, she was disappointed. Miss Newcome wore a plain white frock on

the occasion, and resumed, Madame d’Ivry said, her _rôle_ of _ingenue_

for that night.

During the brief season in which gentlemen enjoyed the favour of Mary

Queen of Scots, that wandering sovereign led them through all the paces

and vagaries of a regular passion. As in a fair, where time is short

and pleasures numerous, the master of the theatrical booth shows you a

tragedy, a farce, and a pantomime, all in a quarter of an hour, having

a dozen new audiences to witness his entertainments in the course of

the forenoon; so this lady with her platonic lovers went through the

complete dramatic course,—tragedies of jealousy, pantomimes of rapture,

and farces of parting. There were billets on one side and the other;

hints of a fatal destiny, and a ruthless, lynx-eyed tyrant, who held a

demoniac grasp over the Duchess by means of certain secrets which he

knew: there were regrets that we had not known each other sooner: why

were we brought out of our convent and sacrificed to Monsieur le Duc?

There were frolic interchanges of fancy and poesy: pretty _bouderies;_

sweet reconciliations; yawns finally—and separation. Adolphe went out

and Alphonse came in. It was the new audience; for which the bell rang,

the band played, and the curtain rose; and the tragedy, comedy, and

farce were repeated.

Those Greenwich performers who appear in the theatrical pieces

above-mentioned, make a great deal more noise than your stationary

tragedians; and if they have to denounce a villain, to declare a

passion, or to threaten an enemy, they roar, stamp, shake their fists,

and brandish their sabres, so that every man who sees the play has

surely a full pennyworth for his penny. Thus Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry

perhaps a little exaggerated her heroines’ parts liking to strike her

audiences quickly, and also to change them often. Like good performers,

she flung herself heart and soul into the business of the stage, and

was what she acted. She was Phedre, and if in the first part of the

play she was uncommonly tender to Hippolyte, in the second she hated

him furiously. She was Medea, and if Jason was _volage_, woe to Creusa!

Perhaps our poor Lord Kew had taken the first character in a

performance with Madame d’Ivry; for his behaviour in which part it was

difficult enough to forgive him; but when he appeared at Baden the

affianced husband of one of the most beautiful young creatures in

Europe,—when his relatives scorned Madame d’Ivry,—no wonder she was

maddened and enraged, and would have recourse to revenge, steel,

poison.

There was in the Duchess’s court a young fellow from the South of

France, whose friends had sent him to _faire son droit_ at Paris, where

he had gone through the usual course of pleasure and studies of the

young inhabitants of the Latin Quarter. He had at one time exalted

republican opinions, and had fired his shot with distinction at St.

Méri. He was a poet of some little note—a book of his lyrics, Les Râles

d’un Asphyxié, having made a sensation at the time of their appearance.

He drank great quantities of absinthe of a morning; smoked incessantly;

played roulette whenever he could get a few pieces; contributed to a

small journal, and was especially great in his hatred of _l’infame

Angleterre. Delenda est Carthago_ was tattooed beneath his

shirt-sleeves. Fifine and Clarisse, young milliners of the students’

district, had punctured this terrible motto on his manly right arm. _Le

léopard_, emblem of England, was his aversion; he shook his fist at the

caged monster in the Garden of Plants. He desired to have “Here lies an

enemy of England” engraved upon his early tomb. He was skilled at

billiards and dominoes, adroit in the use of arms, of unquestionable

courage and fierceness. Mr. Jones of England was afraid of M. de

Castillonnes, and cowered before his scowls and sarcasms. Captain

Blackball, the other English aide-de-camp of the Duchesse d’Ivry, a

warrior of undoubted courage, who had been “on the ground” more than

once, gave him a wide berth, and wondered what the little beggar meant

when he used to say, “Since the days of the Prince Noir, monsieur, my

family has been at feud with l’Angleterre!” His family were grocers at

Bordeaux, and his father’s name was M. Cabasse. He had married a noble

in the revolutionary times; and the son at Paris called himself Victor

Cabasse de Castillonnes; then Victor C. de Castillonnes; then M. de

Castillonnes. One of the followers of the Black Prince had insulted a

lady of the house of Castillonnes, when the English were lords of

Guienne; hence our friend’s wrath against the Leopard. He had written,

and afterwards dramatised a terrific legend describing the

circumstances, and the punishment of the Briton by a knight of the

Castillonnes family. A more awful coward never existed in a melodrama

than that felon English knight. His _blanche-fille_, of course, died of

hopeless love for the conquering Frenchman, her father’s murderer. The

paper in which the feuilleton appeared died at the sixth number of the

story. The theatre of the Boulevard refused the drama; so the author’s

rage against _l’infame Albion_ was yet unappeased. On beholding Miss

Newcome, Victor had fancied a resemblance between her and Agnes de

Calverley, the blanche Miss of his novel and drama, and cast an eye of

favour upon the young creature. He even composed verses in her honour

(for I presume that the “Miss Betti” and the Princess Crimhilde of the

poems which he subsequently published, were no other than Miss Newcome,

and the Duchess, her rival). He had been one of the lucky gentlemen who

had danced with Ethel on the previous evening. On the occasion of the

ball, he came to her with a highflown compliment, and a request to be

once more allowed to waltz with her—a request to which he expected a

favourable answer, thinking, no doubt, that his wit, his powers of

conversation, and the _amour qui flambait dans son regard_, had had

their effect upon the charming Meess. Perhaps he had a copy of the very

verses in his breast-pocket, with which he intended to complete his

work of fascination. For her sake alone, he had been heard to say that

he would enter into a truce with England, and forget the hereditary

wrongs of his race.

But the blanche Miss on this evening declined to waltz with him. His

compliments were not of the least avail. He retired with them and his

unuttered verses in his crumpled bosom. Miss Newcome only danced in one

quadrille with Lord Kew, and left the party quite early, to the despair

of many of the bachelors, who lost the fairest ornament of their ball.

Lord Kew, however, had been seen walking with her in public, and

particularly attentive to her during her brief appearance in the

ballroom; and the old Dowager, who regularly attended all places of

amusement, and was at twenty parties and six dinners the week before

she died, thought fit to be particularly gracious to Madame d’Ivry upon

this evening, and, far from shunning the Duchesse’s presence or being

rude to her, as on former occasions, was entirely smiling and

good-humoured. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a reconciliation

between Ethel and her cousin. Lady Anne had given her mother some

account of the handshaking. Kew’s walk with Ethel, the quadrille which

she had danced with him alone, induced the elder lady to believe that

matters had been made up between the young people.

So, by way of showing the Duchesse that her little shot of the morning

had failed in its effect, as Frank left the room with his cousin, Lady

Kew gaily hinted, “that the young earl was aux petits soins with Miss

Ethel; that she was sure her old friend, the Duc d’Ivry, would be glad

to hear that his godson was about to range himself. He would settle

down on his estates. He would attend to his duties as an English peer

and a country gentleman. We shall go home,” says the benevolent

Countess, “and kill the veau gras, and you shall see our dear prodigal

will become a very quiet gentleman.”

The Duchesse said, “my Lady Kew’s plan was most edifying. She was

charmed to hear that Lady Kew loved veal; there were some who thought

that meat rather insipid.” A waltzer came to claim her hand at this

moment; and as she twirled round the room upon that gentleman’s arm,

wafting odours as she moved, her pink silks, pink feathers, pink

ribands, making a mighty rustling, the Countess of Kew had the

satisfaction of thinking that she had planted an arrow in that

shrivelled little waist, which Count Punter’s arms embraced, and had

returned the stab which Madame d’Ivry had delivered in the morning.

Mr. Barnes, and his elect bride, had also appeared, danced, and

disappeared. Lady Kew soon followed her young ones; and the ball went

on very gaily, in spite of the absence of these respectable personages.

Being one of the managers of the entertainment, Lord Kew returned to it

after conducting Lady Anne and her daughter to their carriage, and now

danced with great vigour, and with his usual kindness, selecting those

ladies whom other waltzers rejected because they were too old, or too

plain, or too stout, or what not. But he did not ask Madame d’Ivry to

dance. He could condescend to dissemble so far as to hide the pain

which he felt; but did not care to engage in that more advanced

hypocrisy of friendship, which for her part, his old grandmother had

not shown the least scruple in assuming.

Amongst other partners, my lord selected that intrepid waltzer, the

Gräfinn von Gumpelheim, who, in spite of her age, size, and large

family, never lost a chance of enjoying her favourite recreation. “Look

with what a camel my lord waltzes,” said M. Victor to Madame d’Ivry,

whose slim waist he had the honour of embracing to the same music.

“What man but an Englishman would ever select such a dromedary?”

“Avant de se marier,” said Madame d’Ivry, “il faut avouer que my lord

se permet d’enormes distractions.”

“My lord marries himself! And when and whom?” cried the Duchesse’s

partner.

“Miss Newcome. Do not you approve of his choice? I thought the eyes of

Stenio” (the Duchess called M. Victor, Stenio) “looked with some favour

upon that little person. She is handsome, even very handsome. Is it not

so often in life, Stenio? Are not youth and innocence (I give Miss

Ethel the compliment of her innocence, now surtout that the little

painter is dismissed)—are we not cast into the arms of jaded roues?

Tender young flowers, are we not torn from our convent gardens, and

flung into a world of which the air poisons our pure life, and withers

the sainted buds of hope and love and faith? Faith! The mocking world

tramples on it, n’est-ce pas? Love! The brutal world strangles the

heaven-born infant at its birth. Hope! It smiled at me in my little

convent chamber, played among the flowers which I cherished, warbled

with the birds that I loved. But it quitted me at the door of the

world, Stenio. It folded its white wings and veiled its radiant face!

In return for my young love, they gave me—sixty years, the dregs of a

selfish heart, egotism cowering over its fire, and cold for all its

mantle of ermine! In place of the sweet flowers of my young years, they

gave me these, Stenio!” and she pointed to her feathers and her

artificial roses. “Oh, I should like to crush them under my feet!” and

she put out the neatest little slipper. The Duchesse was great upon her

wrongs, and paraded her blighted innocence to every one who would feel

interested by that piteous spectacle. The music here burst out more

swiftly and melodiously than before; the pretty little feet forgot

their desire to trample upon the world. She shrugged the lean little

shoulders—“Eh!” said the Queen of Scots, “dansons et oublions;” and

Stenio’s arm once more surrounded her fairy waist (she called herself a

fairy; other ladies called her a skeleton); and they whirled away in

the waltz again and presently she and Stenio came bumping up against

the stalwart Lord Kew and the ponderous Madame de Gumpelheim, as a

wherry dashes against the oaken ribs of a steamer.

The little couple did not fall; they were struck on to a neighbouring

bench, luckily: but there was a laugh at the expense of Stenio and the

Queen of Scots—and Lord Kew, settling his panting partner on to a seat,

came up to make excuses for his awkwardness to the lady who had been

its victim. At the laugh produced by the catastrophe, the Duchesse’s

eyes gleamed with anger.

“M. de Castillonnes,” she said to her partner, “have you had any

quarrel with that Englishman?”

“With ce milor? But no,” said Stenio.

“He did it on purpose. There has been no day but his family has

insulted me!” hissed out the Duchesse, and at this moment Lord Kew came

up to make his apologies. He asked a thousand pardons of Madame la

Duchesse for being so maladroit.

“Maladroit! et tres maladroit, monsieur,” says Stenio, curling his

moustache; “c’est bien le mot, monsieur!

“Also, I make my excuses to Madame la Duchesse, which I hope she will

receive,” said Lord Kew. The Duchesse shrugged her shoulders and sunk

her head.

“When one does not know how to dance, one ought not to dance,”

continued the Duchesse’s knight.

“Monsieur is very good to give me lessons in dancing,” said Lord Kew.

“Any lessons which you please, milor!” cries Stenio; “and everywhere

where you will them.”

Lord Kew looked at the little man with surprise. He could not

understand so much anger for so trifling an accident, which happens a

dozen times in every crowded ball. He again bowed to the Duchesse, and

walked away.

“This is your Englishman—your Kew, whom you vaunt everywhere,” said

Stenio to M. de Florac, who was standing by and witnessed the scene.

“Is he simply bête, or is he poltroon as well? I believe him to be

both.”

“Silence, Victor!” cried Florac, seizing his arm, and drawing him away.

“You know me, and that I am neither one or the other. Believe my word,

that my Lord Kew wants neither courage nor wit!”

“Will you be my witness, Florac?” continues the other.

“To take him your excuses? yes. It is you who have insulted—”

“Yes, parbleu, I have insulted!” says the Gascon.

“—A man who never willingly offended soul alive. A man full of heart:

the most frank: the most loyal. I have seen him put to the proof, and

believe me he is all I say.”

“Eh! so much the better for me!” cried the Southron. “I shall have the

honour of meeting a gallant man: and there will be two on the field.”

“They are making a tool of you, my poor Gascon,” said M. de Florac, who

saw Madame d’Ivry’s eyes watching the couple. She presently took the

arm of the noble Count de Punter, and went for fresh air into the

adjoining apartment, where play was going on as usual; and Lord Kew and

his friend Lord Rooster were pacing the room apart from the gamblers.

My Lord Rooster, at something which Kew said, looked puzzled, and said,

“Pooh, stuff, damned little Frenchman! Confounded nonsense!”

“I was searching you, milor!” said Madame d’Ivry, in a most winning

tone, tripping behind him with her noiseless little feet. “Allow me a

little word. Your arm! You used to give it me once, mon filleul! I hope

you think nothing of the rudeness of M. de Castillonnes; he is a

foolish Gascon: he must have been too often to the buffet this

evening.”

Lord Kew said, No, indeed, he thought nothing of de Castillonnes’

rudeness.

“I am so glad! These heroes of the salle-d’armes have not the commonest

manners. These Gascons are always flamberge au vent. What would the

charming Miss Ethel say, if she heard of the dispute?”

“Indeed there is no reason why she should hear of it,” said Lord Kew,

“unless some obliging friend should communicate it to her.”

“Communicate it to her—the poor dear! who would be so cruel as to give

her pain?” asked the innocent Duchesse. “Why do you look at me so,

Frank?”

“Because I admire you,” said her interlocutor, with a bow. “I have

never seen Madame la Duchesse to such advantage as to-day.”

“You speak in enigmas! Come back with me to the ballroom. Come and

dance with me once more. You used to dance with me. Let us have one

waltz more, Kew. And then, and then, in a day or two I shall go back to

Monsieur le Duc, and tell him that his filleul is going to marry the

fairest of all Englishwomen and to turn hermit in the country, and

orator in the Chamber of Peers. You have wit! ah si—you have wit!” And

she led back Lord Kew, rather amazed himself at what he was doing, into

the ballroom; so that the good-natured people who were there, and who

beheld them dancing, could not refrain from clapping their hands at the

sight of this couple.

The Duchess danced as if she was bitten by that Neapolitan spider

which, according to the legend, is such a wonderful dance-incentor. She

would have the music quicker and quicker. She sank on Kew’s arm, and

clung on his support. She poured out all the light of her languishing

eyes into his face. Their glances rather confused than charmed him. But

the bystanders were pleased; they thought it so good-hearted of the

Duchesse, after the little quarrel, to make a public avowal of

reconciliation!

Lord Rooster looking on, at the entrance of the dancing-room, over

Monsieur de Florac’s shoulder, said, “It’s all right! She’s a clipper

to dance, the little Duchess.”

“The viper!” said Florac, “how she writhes!”

“I suppose that business with the Frenchman is all over,” says Lord

Rooster. “Confounded piece of nonsense.”

“You believe it finished? We shall see!” said Florac, who perhaps knew

his fair cousin better. When the waltz was over, Kew led his partner to

a seat, and bowed to her; but though she made room for him at her side,

pointing to it, and gathering up her rustling robes so that he might

sit down, he moved away, his face full of gloom. He never wished to be

near her again. There was something more odious to him in her

friendship than her hatred. He knew hers was the hand that had dealt

that stab at him and Ethel in the morning. He went back and talked with

his two friends in the doorway. “Couch yourself, my little Kiou,” said

Florac. “You are all pale. You were best in bed, mon garçon!”

“She has made me promise to take her in to supper,” Kew said, with a

sigh.

“She will poison you,” said the other. “Why have they abolished the

roue chez nous? My word of honour they should retabliche it for this

woman.”

“There is one in the next room,” said Kew, with a laugh, “Come,

Vicomte, let us try our fortune,” and he walked back into the

play-room.

That was the last night on which Lord Kew ever played a gambling game.

He won constantly. The double zero seemed to obey him; so that the

croupiers wondered at his fortune. Florac backed it; saying with the

superstition of a gambler, “I am sure something goes to arrive to this

boy.” From time to time M. de Florac went back to the dancing-room,

leaving his mise under Kew’s charge. He always found his heaps

increased; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a turn of luck in his

favour. On one occasion he returned with a grave face, saying to Lord

Rooster, “She has the other one in hand. We are going to see.”

“Trente-six encor! et rouge gagne,” cried the croupier with his nasal

tone, Monsieur de Florac’s pockets overflowed with double Napoleons,

and he stopped his play, luckily, for Kew putting down his winnings,

once, twice, thrice, lost them all.

When Lord Kew had left the dancing-room, Madame d’Ivry saw Stenio

following him with fierce looks, and called back that bearded bard.

“You were going to pursue M. de Kew,” she said: “I knew you were. Sit

down here, sir,” and she patted him down on her seat with her fan.

“Do you wish that I should call him back, madame?” said the poet, with

the deepest tragic accents.

“I can bring him when I want him, Victor,” said the lady.

“Let us hope others will be equally fortunate,” the Gascon said, with

one hand in his breast, the other stroking his moustache.

“Fi, monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac! je vous le défends,

entendez-vous, monsieur?”

“Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la Duchesse did not disdain

a cigar,” said Victor. “If the odour incommodes, permit that I retire.”

“And you also would quit me, Stenio? Do you think I did not mark your

eyes towards Miss Newcome? your anger when she refused you to dance?

Ah! we see all. A woman does not deceive herself, do you see? You send

me beautiful verses, Poet. You can write as well of a statue or a

picture, of a rose or a sunset, as of the heart of a woman. You were

angry just now because I danced with M. de Kew. Do you think in a

woman’s eyes jealousy is unpardonable?”

“You know how to provoke it, madame,” continued the tragedian.

“Monsieur,” replied the lady, with dignity, “am I to render you an

account of all my actions, and ask your permission for a walk?”

“In fact, I am but the slave, madame,” groaned the Gascon, “I am not

the master.”

“You are a very rebellious slave, monsieur,” continues the lady, with a

pretty moue, and a glance of the large eyes artfully brightened by her

rouge. “Suppose—suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for his

sake—Heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure—but for yours.

Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to proceed. Suppose I know that

he is ni sot ni poltron as you pretend. I overheard you, sir, talking

with one of the basest of men, my good cousin, M. de Florac: but it is

not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte de Kew to be a man, cold

and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as the men of his nation are—but

one who lacks no courage—one who is terrible when roused; might I have

no occasion to fear, not for him, but——”

“But for me! Ah, Marie! Ah, madame! Believe you that a man of my blood

will yield a foot to any Englishman? Do you know the story of my race?

do you know that since my childhood I have vowed hatred to that nation?

Tenez, madame, this M. Jones who frequents your salon, it was but

respect for you that has enabled me to keep my patience with this

stupid islander. This Captain Blackball, whom you distinguish, who

certainly shoots well, who mounts well to horse, I have always thought

his manners were those of the marker of a billiard. But I respect him

because he has made war with Don Carlos against the English. But this

young M. de Kew, his laugh crisps me the nerves; his insolent air makes

me bound; in beholding him I said to myself, I hate you; think whether

I love him better after having seen him as I did but now, madame!”

Also, but this Victor did not say, he thought Kew had laughed at him at

the beginning of the evening, when the blanche Miss had refused to

dance with him.

“Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would save,” said the

Duchess. And the people round about, and the Duchess herself,

afterwards said, yes, certainly, she had a good heart. She entreated

Lord Kew; she implored M. Victor; she did everything in her power to

appease the quarrel between him and the Frenchman.

After the ball came the supper, which was laid at separate little

tables, where parties of half a dozen enjoyed themselves. Lord Kew was

of the Duchess’s party, where our Gascon friend had not a seat. But

being one of the managers of the entertainment, his lordship went about

from table to table, seeing that the guests at each lacked nothing. He

supposed too that the dispute with the Gascon had possibly come to an

end; at any rate, disagreeable as the other’s speech had been, he had

resolved to put up with it, not having the least inclination to drink

the Frenchman’s blood, or to part with his own on so absurd a quarrel.

He asked people in his good-natured way to drink wine with him; and

catching M. Victor’s eye scowling at him from a distant table, he sent

a waiter with a champagne-bottle to his late opponent, and lifted his

glass as a friendly challenge. The waiter carried the message to M.

Victor, who, when he heard it, turned up his glass, and folded his arms

in a stately manner. “M. de Castillonnes dit qu’il refuse, milor,” said

the waiter, rather scared. “He charged me to bring that message to

milor.” Florac ran across to the angry Gascon. It was not while at

Madame d’Ivry’s table that Lord Kew sent his challenge and received his

reply; his duties as steward had carried him away from that pretty

early.

Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the windows of the

refreshment-room, and behold, the sun broke in and scared all the

revellers. The ladies scurried away like so many ghosts at cock-crow,

some of them not caring to face that detective luminary. Cigars had

been lighted ere this; the men remained smoking them with those

sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh supplies of drink. Lord

Kew gave the Duchesse d’Ivry his arm, and was leading her out; M. de

Castillonnes stood scowling directly in their way, upon which, with

rather an abrupt turn of the shoulder, and a “Pardon, monsieur,” Lord

Kew pushed by, and conducted the Duchesse to her carriage. She did not

in the least see what had happened between the two gentlemen in the

passage; she ogled, and nodded, and kissed her hands quite

affectionately to Kew as the fly drove away.

Florac in the meanwhile had seized his compatriot, who had drunk

champagne copiously with others, if not with Kew, and was in vain

endeavouring to make him hear reason. The Gascon was furious; he vowed

that Lord Kew had struck him. “By the tomb of my mother,” he bellowed,

“I swear I will have his blood!” Lord Rooster was bawling out, “D——

him, carry him to bed, and shut him up;” which remarks Victor did not

understand, or two victims would doubtless have been sacrificed on his

mamma’s mausoleum.

When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to do), the little Gascon

rushed forward with a glove in his hand, and having an audience of

smokers round about him, made a furious speech about England, leopards,

cowardice, insolent islanders, and Napoleon at St. Helena; and demanded

reason for Kew’s conduct during the night. As he spoke, he advanced

towards Lord Kew, glove in hand, and lifted it as if he was actually

going to strike.

“There is no need for further words,” said Lord Kew, taking his cigar

out of his mouth. “If you don’t drop that glove, upon my word I will

pitch you out of the window. Ha!—Pick the man up, somebody. You’ll bear

witness, gentlemen, I couldn’t help myself. If he wants me in the

morning, he knows where to find me.”

“I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great forbearance, and under

the most brutal provocation—the most brutal provocation, entendez-vows,

M. Cabasse?” cried out M. de Florac, rushing forward to the Gascon, who

had now risen; “monsieur’s conduct has been unworthy of a Frenchman and

a gallant homme.”

“D—— it, he has had it on his nob, though,” said Lord Viscount Rooster,

laconically.

“Ah, Roosterre! ceci n’est pas pour rire,” Florac cried sadly, as they

both walked away with Lord Kew; “I wish that first blood was all that

was to be shed in this quarrel”

“Gaw! how he did go down!” cried Rooster, convulsed with laughter.

“I am very sorry for it,” said Kew, quite seriously; “I couldn’t help

it. God forgive me.” And he hung down his head. He thought of the past,

and its levities, and punishment coming after him _pede claudo_. It was

with all his heart the contrite young man said “God forgive me.” He

would take what was to follow as the penalty of what had gone before.

“Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat, mon pauvre Kiou,” said his

French friend. And Lord Rooster, whose classical education had been

much neglected, turned round and said, “Hullo, mate, what ship’s that?”

Viscount Rooster had not been two hours in bed, when the Count de

Punter (formerly of the Black Jägers) waited upon him upon the part of

M. de Castillonnes and the Earl of Kew, who had referred him to the

Viscount to arrange matters for a meeting between them. As the meeting

must take place out of the Baden territory, and they ought to move

before the police prevented them, the Count proposed that they should

at once make for France; where, as it was an affair of honneur, they

would assuredly be let to enter without passports.

Lady Anne and Lady Kew heard that the gentlemen after the ball had all

gone out on a hunting-party, and were not alarmed for four-and-twenty

hours at least. On the next day none of them returned; and on the day

after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with rather a dangerous

accident; but all the town knew he had been shot by M. de Castillonnes

on one of the islands on the Rhine, opposite Kehl, where he was now

lying.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Across the Alps

Our discursive muse must now take her place in the little britzska in

which Clive Newcome and his companions are travelling, and cross the

Alps in that vehicle, beholding the snows on St. Gothard, and the

beautiful region through which the Ticino rushes on its way to the

Lombard lakes, and the corn-covered great plains of the Milanese; and

that royal city, with the cathedral for its glittering crown, only less

magnificent than the imperial dome of Rome. I have some long letters

from Mr. Clive, written during this youthful tour, every step of which,

from the departure at Baden, to the gate of Milan, he describes as

beautiful; and doubtless, the delightful scenes through which the young

man went, had their effect in soothing any private annoyances with

which his journey commenced. The aspect of nature, in that fortunate

route which he took, is so noble and cheering, that our private affairs

and troubles shrink away abashed before that serene splendour. O sweet

peaceful scene of azure lake, and snow-crowned mountain, so wonderfully

lovely is your aspect, that it seems like heaven almost, and as if

grief and care could not enter it! What young Clive’s private cares

were I knew not as yet in those days; and he kept them out of his

letters; it was only in the intimacy of future life that some of these

pains were revealed to me.

Some three months after taking leave of Miss Ethel, our young gentleman

found himself at Rome, with his friend Ridley still for a companion.

Many of us, young or middle-aged, have felt that delightful shock which

the first sight of the great city inspires. There is one other place of

which the view strikes one with an emotion even greater than that with

which we look at Rome, where Augustus was reigning when He saw the day,

whose birthplace is separated but by a hill or two from the awful gates

of Jerusalem. Who that has beheld both can forget that first aspect of

either? At the end of years the emotion occasioned by the sight still

thrills in your memory, and it smites you as at the moment when you

first viewed it.

The business of the present novel, however, lies neither with priest

nor pagan, but with Mr. Clive Newcome, and his affairs and his

companions at this period of his life. Nor, if the gracious reader

expects to hear of cardinals in scarlet, and noble Roman princes and

princesses, will he find such in this history. The only noble Roman

into whose mansion our friend got admission was the Prince Polonia,

whose footmen wear the liveries of the English royal family, who gives

gentlemen and even painters cash upon good letters of credit; and, once

or twice in a season, opens his transtiberine palace and treats his

customers to a ball. Our friend Clive used jocularly to say, he

believed there were no Romans. There were priests in portentous hats;

there were friars with shaven crowns; there were the sham peasantry,

who dressed themselves out in masquerade costumes, with bagpipe and

goatskin, with crossed leggings and scarlet petticoats, who let

themselves out to artists at so many pauls per sitting; but he never

passed a Roman’s door except to buy a cigar or to purchase a

handkerchief. Thither, as elsewhere, we carry our insular habits with

us. We have a little England at Paris, a little England at Munich,

Dresden, everywhere. Our friend is an Englishman, and did at Rome as

the English do.

There was the polite English society, the society that flocks to see

the Colosseum lighted up with blue fire, that flocks to the Vatican to

behold the statues by torchlight, that hustles into the churches on

public festivals in black veils and deputy-lieutenants’ uniforms, and

stares, and talks, and uses opera-glasses while the pontiffs of the

Roman Church are performing its ancient rites, and the crowds of

faithful are kneeling round the altars; the society which gives its

balls and dinners, has its scandal and bickerings, its aristocrats,

parvenus, toadies imported from Belgravia; has its club, its hunt, and

its Hyde Park on the Pincio: and there is the other little English

world, the broad-hatted, long-bearded, velvet-jacketed, jovial colony

of the artists, who have their own feasts, haunts, and amusements by

the side of their aristocratic compatriots, with whom but few of them

have the honour to mingle.

J. J. and Clive engaged pleasant lofty apartments in the Via

Gregoriana. Generations of painters had occupied these chambers and

gone their way. The windows of their painting-room looked into a quaint

old garden, where there were ancient statues of the Imperial time, a

babbling fountain and noble orange-trees with broad clustering leaves

and golden balls of fruit, glorious to look upon. Their walks abroad

were endlessly pleasant and delightful. In every street there were

scores of pictures of the graceful characteristic Italian life, which

our painters seem one and all to reject, preferring to depict their

quack brigands, contadini, pifferari, and the like, because Thompson

painted them before Jones, and Jones before Thompson, and so on,

backwards into time. There were the children at play, the women huddled

round the steps of the open doorways, in the kindly Roman winter; grim,

portentous old hags, such as Michael Angelo painted, draped in majestic

raggery; mothers and swarming bambins; slouching countrymen, dark of

beard and noble of countenance, posed in superb attitudes, lazy,

tattered, and majestic. There came the red troops, the black troops,

the blue troops of the army of priests; the snuffy regiments of

Capuchins, grave and grotesque; the trim French abbés; my lord the

bishop, with his footman (those wonderful footmen); my lord the

cardinal, in his ramshackle coach and his two, nay three, footmen

behind him;—flunkeys, that look as if they had been dressed by the

costumier of a British pantomime; coach with prodigious emblazonments

of hats and coats-of-arms, that seems as if it came out of the

pantomime too, and was about to turn into something else. So it is,

that what is grand to some persons’ eyes appears grotesque to others;

and for certain sceptical persons, that step, which we have heard of,

between the sublime and the ridiculous, is not visible.

“I wish it were not so,” writes Clive, in one of the letters wherein he

used to pour his full heart out in those days. “I see these people at

their devotions, and envy them their rapture. A friend, who belongs to

the old religion, took me, last week, into a church where the Virgin

lately appeared in person to a Jewish gentleman, flashed down upon him

from heaven in light and splendour celestial, and, of course,

straightway converted him. My friend bade me look at the picture, and,

kneeling down beside me, I know prayed with all his honest heart that

the truth might shine down upon me too; but I saw no glimpse of heaven

at all. I saw but a poor picture, an altar with blinking candles, a

church hung with tawdry strips of red and white calico. The good, kind

W—— went away, humbly saying ‘that such might have happened again if

heaven so willed it.’ I could not but feel a kindness and admiration

for the good man. I know his works are made to square with his faith,

that he dines on a crust, lives as chaste as a hermit, and gives his

all to the poor.

“Our friend J. J., very different to myself in so many respects, so

superior in all, is immensely touched by these ceremonies. They seem to

answer to some spiritual want of his nature, and he comes away

satisfied as from a feast, where I have only found vacancy. Of course

our first pilgrimage was to St. Peter’s. What a walk! Under what noble

shadows does one pass; how great and liberal the houses are, with

generous casements and courts, and great grey portals which giants

might get through and keep their turbans on. Why, the houses are twice

as tall as Lamb Court itself; and over them hangs a noble dinge, a

venerable mouldy splendour. Over the solemn portals are ancient mystic

escutcheons—vast shields of princes and cardinals, such as Ariosto’s

knights might take down; and every figure about them is a picture by

himself. At every turn there is a temple: in every court a brawling

fountain. Besides the people of the streets and houses, and the army of

priests black and brown, there’s a great silent population of marble.

There are battered gods tumbled out of Olympus and broken in the fall,

and set up under niches and over fountains; there are senators

namelessly, noselessly, noiselessly seated under archways, or lurking

in courts and gardens. And then, besides these defunct ones, of whom

these old figures may be said to be the corpses, there is the reigning

family, a countless carved hierarchy of angels, saints, confessors of

the latter dynasty which has conquered the court of Jove. I say, Pen, I

wish Warrington would write the history of the Last of the Pagans. Did

you never have a sympathy for them as the monks came rushing into their

temples, kicking down their poor altars, smashing the fair calm faces

of their gods, and sending their vestals a-flying? They are always

preaching here about the persecution of the Christians. Are not the

churches full of martyrs with choppers in their meek heads; virgins on

gridirons; riddled St. Sebastians, and the like? But have they never

persecuted in their turn? O me! You and I know better, who were bred up

near to the pens of Smithfield, where Protestants and Catholics have

taken their turn to be roasted.

“You pass through an avenue of angels and saints on the bridge across

Tiber, all in action; their great wings seem clanking, their marble

garments clapping; St. Michael, descending upon the Fiend, has been

caught and bronzified just as he lighted on the Castle of St. Angelo:

his enemy doubtless fell crushing through the roof and so downwards. He

is as natural as blank verse—that bronze angel-set, rhythmic,

grandiose. You’ll see, some day or other, he’s a great sonnet, sir, I’m

sure of that. Milton wrote in bronze; I am sure Virgil polished off his

Georgics in marble—sweet calm shapes! exquisite harmonies of line! As

for the Aeneid; that, sir, I consider to be so many bas-reliefs, mural

ornaments which affect me not much.

“I think I have lost sight of St. Peter’s, haven’t I? Yet it is big

enough. How it makes your heart beat when you first see it! Ours did as

we came in at night from Civita Vecchia, and saw a great ghostly

darkling dome rising solemnly up into the grey night, and keeping us

company ever so long as we drove, as if it had been an orb fallen out

of heaven with its light put out. As you look at it from the Pincio,

and the sun sets behind it, surely that aspect of earth and sky is one

of the grandest in the world. I don’t like to say that the facade of

the church is ugly and obtrusive. As long as the dome overawes, that

facade is supportable. You advance towards it—through, oh, such a noble

court! with fountains flashing up to meet the sunbeams; and right and

left of you two sweeping half-crescents of great columns; but you pass

by the courtiers and up to the steps of the throne, and the dome seems

to disappear behind it. It is as if the throne was upset, and the king

had toppled over.

“There must be moments, in Rome especially, when every man of friendly

heart, who writes himself English and Protestant, must feel a pang at

thinking that he and his countrymen are insulated from European

Christendom. An ocean separates us. From one shore or the other one can

see the neighbour cliffs on clear days: one must wish sometimes that

there were no stormy gulf between us; and from Canterbury to Rome a

pilgrim could pass, and not drown beyond Dover. Of the beautiful parts

of the great Mother Church I believe among us many people have no idea;

we think of lazy friars, of pining cloistered virgins, of ignorant

peasants worshipping wood and stones, bought and sold indulgences,

absolutions, and the like commonplaces of Protestant satire. Lo! yonder

inscription, which blazes round the dome of the temple, so great and

glorious it looks like heaven almost, and as if the words were written

in stars, it proclaims to all the world, this is that Peter, and on

this rock the Church shall be built, against which Hell shall not

prevail. Under the bronze canopy his throne is lit with lights that

have been burning before it for ages. Round this stupendous chamber are

ranged the grandees of his court. Faith seems to be realised in their

marble figures. Some of them were alive but yesterday; others, to be as

blessed as they, walk the world even now doubtless; and the

commissioners of heaven, here holding their court a hundred years

hence, shall authoritatively announce their beatification. The signs of

their power shall not be wanting. They heal the sick, open the eyes of

the blind, cause the lame to walk to-day as they did eighteen centuries

ago. Are there not crowds ready to bear witness to their wonders? Isn’t

there a tribunal appointed to try their claims; advocates to plead for

and against; prelates and clergy and multitudes of faithful to back and

believe them? Thus you shall kiss the hand of a priest to-day, who has

given his to a friar whose bones are already beginning to work

miracles, who has been the disciple of another whom the Church has just

proclaimed a saint,—hand in hand they hold by one another till the line

is lost up in heaven. Come, friend, let us acknowledge this, and go and

kiss the toe of St. Peter. Alas! there’s the Channel always between us;

and we no more believe in the miracles of St. Thomas of Canterbury,

than that the bones of His Grace John Bird, who sits in St. Thomas’s

chair presently, will work wondrous cures in the year 2000: that his

statue will speak, or his portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence will wink.

“So, you see, at those grand ceremonies which the Roman Church exhibits

at Christmas, I looked on as a Protestant. Holy Father on his throne or

in his palanquin, cardinals with their tails and their train-bearers,

mitred bishops and abbots, regiments of friars and clergy, relics

exposed for adoration, columns draped, altars illuminated, incense

smoking, organs pealing, and boxes of piping soprani, Swiss guards with

slashed breeches and fringed halberts;—between us and all this

splendour of old-world ceremony, there’s an ocean flowing: and yonder

old statue of Peter might have been Jupiter again, surrounded by a

procession of flamens and augurs, and Augustus as Pontifex Maximus, to

inspect the sacrifices,—and my feelings at the spectacle had been,

doubtless, pretty much the same.

“Shall I utter any more heresies? I am an unbeliever in Raphael’s

‘Transfiguration’—the scream of that devil-possessed boy, in the lower

part of the figure of eight (a stolen boy too), jars the whole music of

the composition. On Michael Angelo’s great wall, the grotesque and

terrible are not out of place. What an awful achievement! Fancy the

state of mind of the man who worked it—as alone, day after day, he

devised and drew those dreadful figures! Suppose in the days of the

Olympian dynasty, the subdued Titan rebels had been set to ornament a

palace for Jove, they would have brought in some such tremendous work:

or suppose that Michael descended to the Shades, and brought up this

picture out of the halls of Limbo. I like a thousand and a thousand

times better to think of Raphael’s loving spirit. As he looked at women

and children, his beautiful face must have shone like sunshine: his

kind hand must have caressed the sweet figures as he formed them. If I

protest against the ‘Transfiguration,’ and refuse to worship at that

altar before which so many generations have knelt, there are hundreds

of others which I salute thankfully. It is not so much in the set

harangues (to take another metaphor), as in the daily tones and talk

that his voice is so delicious. Sweet poetry, and music, and tender

hymns drop from him: he lifts his pencil, and something gracious falls

from it on the paper. How noble his mind must have been! it seems but

to receive, and his eye seems only to rest on, what is great, and

generous, and lovely. You walk through crowded galleries, where are

pictures ever so large and pretentious; and come upon a grey paper, or

a little fresco, bearing his mark-and over all the brawl and the throng

recognise his sweet presence. ‘I would like to have been Giulio

Romano,’ J. J. says (who does not care for Giulio’s pictures), ‘because

then I would have been Raphael’s favourite pupil.’ We agreed that we

would rather have seen him and William Shakspeare, than all the men we

ever read of. Fancy poisoning a fellow out of envy—as Spagnoletto did!

There are some men whose admiration takes that bilious shape. There’s a

fellow in our mess at the Lepre, a clever enough fellow too—and not a

bad fellow to the poor. He was a Gandishite. He is a genre and portrait

painter, by the name of Haggard. He hates J. J. because Lord Fareham,

who is here, has given J. J. an order; and he hates me, because I wear

a clean shirt, and ride a cock-horse.

“I wish you could come to our mess at the Lepre. It’s such a dinner:

such a tablecloth: such a waiter: such a company! Every man has a beard

and a sombrero: and you would fancy we were a band of brigands. We are

regaled with woodcocks, snipes, wild swans, ducks, robins, and owls and

οἰωνοῖσι τε πᾶσι for dinner; and with three pauls’ worth of wines and

victuals the hungriest has enough, even Claypole the sculptor. Did you

ever know him? He used to come to the Haunt. He looks like the

Saracen’s head with his beard now. There is a French table still more

hairy than ours, a German table, an American table. After dinner we go

and have coffee and mezzo-caldo at the Café Greco over the way.

Mezzo-caldo is not a bad drink—a little rum—a slice of fresh

citron—lots of pounded sugar, and boiling water for the rest. Here in

various parts of the cavern (it is a vaulted low place) the various

nations have their assigned quarters, and we drink our coffee and

strong waters, and abuse Guido, or Rubens, or Bernini _selon les

goûts_, and blow such a cloud of smoke as would make Warrington’s lungs

dilate with pleasure. We get very good cigars for a bajoccho and

half—that is very good for us, cheap tobaccanalians; and capital when

you have got no others. M’Collop is here: he made a great figure at a

cardinal’s reception in the tartan of the M’Collop. He is splendid at

the tomb of the Stuarts, and wanted to cleave Haggard down to the chine

with his claymore for saying that Charles Edward was often drunk.

“Some of us have our breakfasts at the Café Greco at dawn. The birds

are very early birds here; and you’ll see the great sculptors—the old

Dons, you know, who look down on us young fellows—at their coffee here

when it is yet twilight. As I am a swell, and have a servant, J. J. and

I breakfast at our lodgings. I wish you could see Terribile our

attendant, and Ottavia our old woman! You will see both of them on the

canvas one day. When he _hasn’t_ blacked our boots and has got our

breakfast, Terribile the valet-de-chambre becomes Terribile the model.

He has figured on a hundred canvases ere this, and almost ever since he

was born. All his family were models. His mother having been a Venus,

is now a Witch of Endor. His father is in the patriarchal line: he has

himself done the cherubs, the shepherd-boys, and now is a grown man,

and ready as a warrior, a pifferaro, a capuchin, or what you will.

“After the coffee and the Café Greco we all go to the Life Academy.

After the Life Academy, those who belong to the world dress and go out

to tea-parties just as if we were in London. Those who are not in

society have plenty of fun of their own—and better fun than the

tea-party fun too. Jack Screwby has a night once a week, sardines and

ham for supper, and a cask of Marsala in the corner. Your humble

servant entertains on Thursdays: which is Lady Fitch’s night too; and I

flatter myself some of the London dandies who are passing the winter

here, prefer the cigars and humble liquors which we dispense, to tea

and Miss Fitch’s performance on the pianoforte.

“What is that I read in _Galignani_ about Lord K— and an affair of

honour at Baden? Is it my dear kind jolly Kew with whom some one has

quarrelled? I know those who will be even more grieved than I am,

should anything happen to the best of good fellows. A great friend of

Lord Kew’s, Jack Belsize commonly called, came with us from Baden

through Switzerland, and we left him at Milan. I see by the paper that

his elder brother is dead and so poor Jack will be a great man some

day. I wish the chance had happened sooner if it was to befall at all.

So my amiable cousin, Barnes Newcome Newcome, Esq., has married my Lady

Clara Pulleyn; I wish her joy of her bridegroom. All I have heard of

that family is from the newspaper. If you meet them, tell me anything

about them.—We had a very pleasant time altogether at Baden. I suppose

the accident to Kew will put off his marriage with Miss Newcome. They

have been engaged, you know, ever so long.—And—do, do write to me and

tell me something about London. It’s best I should—should stay here and

work this winter and the next. J. J. has done a famous picture, and if

I send a couple home, you’ll give them a notice in the _Pall Mall

Gazette_—won’t you?—for the sake of old times and yours affectionately,

Clive Newcome.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

In which M. de Florac is promoted

However much Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry was disposed to admire and

praise her own conduct in the affair which ended so unfortunately for

poor Lord Kew, between whom and the Gascon her grace vowed that she had

done everything in her power to prevent a battle, the old Duke, her

lord, was, it appeared, by no means delighted with his wife’s

behaviour, nay, visited her with his very sternest displeasure. Miss

O’Grady, the Duchesse’s companion, and her little girl’s instructress,

at this time resigned her functions in the Ivry family; it is possible

that in the recriminations consequent upon the governess’s dismissal,

the Miss Irlandaise, in whom the family had put so much confidence,

divulged stories unfavourable to her patroness, and caused the

indignation of the Duke, her husband. Between Florac and the Duchesse

there was also open war and rupture. He had been one of Kew’s seconds

in the latter’s affair with the Vicomte’s countryman. He had even cried

out for fresh pistols, and proposed to engage Castillonnes, when his

gallant principal fell; and though a second duel was luckily averted as

murderous and needless, M. de Florac never hesitated afterwards, and in

all companies, to denounce with the utmost virulence the instigator and

the champion of the odious original quarrel. He vowed that the Duchesse

had shot _le petit Kiou_ as effectually as if she had herself fired the

pistol at his breast. Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilliers, a hundred more

such epithets he used against his kinswoman, regretting that the good

old times were past—that there was no Chambre Ardente to try her, and

no rack and wheel to give her her due.

The biographer of the Newcomes has no need (although he possesses the

fullest information) to touch upon the Duchesse’s doings, further than

as they relate to that most respectable English family. When the Duke

took his wife into the country, Florac never hesitated to say that to

live with her was dangerous for the old man, and to cry out to his

friends of the Boulevards or the Jockey Club, “Ma parole d’honneur,

cette femme le tuera!”

Do you know, O gentle and unsuspicious readers, or have you ever

reckoned as you have made your calculation of society, how many most

respectable husbands help to kill their wives—how many respectable

wives aid in sending their husbands to Hades? The wife of a

chimney-sweep or a journeyman butcher comes shuddering before a police

magistrate—her head bound up—her body scarred and bleeding with wounds,

which the drunken ruffian, her lord, has administered: a poor

shopkeeper or mechanic is driven out of his home by the furious

ill-temper of the shrill virago his wife—takes to the public-house—to

evil courses—to neglecting his business—to the gin-bottle—to _delirium

tremens_—to perdition. Bow Street, and policemen, and the newspaper

reporters, have cognisance and a certain jurisdiction over these vulgar

matrimonial crimes; but in politer company how many murderous assaults

are there by husband or wife—where the woman is not felled by the

actual fist, though she staggers and sinks under blows quite as cruel

and effectual; where, with old wounds yet unhealed, which she strives

to hide under a smiling face from the world, she has to bear up and to

be stricken down and to rise to her feet again, under fresh daily

strokes of torture; where the husband, fond and faithful, has to suffer

slights, coldness, insult, desertion, his children sneered away from

their love for him, his friends driven from his door by jealousy, his

happiness strangled, his whole life embittered, poisoned, destroyed! If

you were acquainted with the history of every family in your street,

don’t you know that in two or three of the houses there such tragedies

have been playing? Is not the young mistress of Number 20 already

pining at her husband’s desertion? The kind master of Number 30 racking

his fevered brains and toiling through sleepless nights to pay for the

jewels on his wife’s neck, and the carriage out of which she ogles

Lothario in the Park? The fate under which man or woman falls, blow of

brutal tyranny, heartless desertion, weight of domestic care too heavy

to bear—are not blows such as these constantly striking people down? In

this long parenthesis we are wandering ever so far away from M. le Duc

and Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, and from the vivacious Florac’s

statement regarding his kinsman, that that woman will kill him.

There is this at least to be said, that if the Duc d’Ivry did die he

was a very old gentleman, and had been a great viveur for at least

threescore years of his life. As Prince de Moncontour in his father’s

time before the Revolution, during the Emigration, even after the

Restoration, M. le Duc had vecu with an extraordinary vitality. He had

gone through good and bad fortune: extreme poverty, display and

splendour, affairs of love—affairs of honour,—and of one disease or

another a man must die at the end. After the Baden business—and he had

dragged off his wife to Champagne—the Duke became greatly broken; he

brought his little daughter to a convent at Paris, putting the child

under the special guardianship of Madame de Florac, with whom and with

whose family in these latter days the old chief of the house effected a

complete reconciliation. The Duke was now for ever coming to Madame de

Florac; he poured all his wrongs and griefs into her ear with garrulous

senile eagerness. “That little Duchesse is a monstre, a femme d’Eugene

Sue,” the Vicomte used to say; “the poor old Duke he cry—ma parole

d’honneur, he cry and I cry too when he comes to recount to my poor

mother, whose sainted heart is the _asile_ of all griefs, a real Hotel

Dieu, my word the most sacred, with beds for all the afflicted, with

sweet words, like Sisters of Charity, to minister to them:—I cry, mon

bon Pendennis, when this _vieillard_ tells his stories about his wife

and tears his white hairs to the feet of my mother.”

When the little Antoinette was separated by her father from her mother,

the Duchesse d’Ivry, it might have been expected that that poetess

would have dashed off a few more _cris de l’âme_, shrieking according

to her wont, and baring and beating that shrivelled maternal bosom of

hers, from which her child had been just torn. The child skipped and

laughed to go away to the convent. It was only when she left Madame de

Florac that she used to cry; and when urged by that good lady to

exhibit a little decorous sentiment in writing to her mamma, Antoinette

would ask, in her artless way, “Pourquoi? Mamma used never to speak to

me except sometimes before the world, before ladies, that understands

itself. When her gentleman came, she put me to the door; then she gave

me tapes, _oh oui_, she gave me tapes! I cry no more; she has so much

made to cry M. le Duc, that it is quite enough of one in a family.” So

Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry did not weep, even in print, for the loss of

her pretty little Antoinette; besides, she was engaged, at that time,

by other sentimental occupations. A young grazier of their neighbouring

town, of an aspiring mind and remarkable poetic talents, engrossed the

Duchesse’s platonic affections at this juncture. When he had sold his

beasts at market, he would ride over and read Rousseau and Schiller

with Madame la Duchesse, who formed him. His pretty young wife was

rendered miserable by all these readings, but what could the poor

little ignorant countrywoman know of Platonism? Faugh! there is more

than one woman we see in society smiling about from house to house,

pleasant and sentimental and formosa superne enough; but I fancy a

fish’s tail is flapping under her fine flounces, and a forked fin at

the end of it!

Finer flounces, finer bonnets, more lovely wreaths, more beautiful

lace, smarter carriages, bigger white bows, larger footmen, were not

seen, during all the season of 18—, than appeared round about St.

George’s, Hanover Square, in the beautiful month of June succeeding

that September when so many of our friends the Newcomes were assembled

at Baden. Those flaunting carriages, powdered and favoured footmen,

were in attendance upon members of the Newcome family and their

connexions, who were celebrating what is called a marriage in high life

in the temple within. Shall we set down a catalogue of the dukes,

marquises, earls, who were present; cousins of the lovely bride? Are

they not already in the _Morning Herald_ and _Court Journal_, as well

as in the _Newcome Sentinel_ and _Independent_, and the _Dorking

Intelligence_ and _Chanticlere Weekly Gazette?_ There they are, all

printed at full length sure enough; the name of the bride, Lady Clara

Pulleyn, the lovely and accomplished daughter of the Earl and Countess

of Dorking; of the beautiful bridesmaids, the Ladies Henrietta,

Belinda, Adelaide Pulleyn, Miss Newcome, Miss Alice Newcome, Miss Maude

Newcome, Miss Anna Maria (Hobson) Newcome; and all the other persons

engaged in the ceremony. It was performed by the Right Honourable

Viscount Gallowglass, Bishop of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law to the

bride, assisted by the Honourable and Reverend Hercules O’Grady, his

lordship’s chaplain, and the Reverend John Bulders, Rector of St.

Mary’s, Newcome. Then follow the names of all the nobility who were

present, and of the noble and distinguished personages who signed the

book. Then comes an account of the principal dresses, chefs-d’œuvre of

Madame Crinoline; of the bride’s coronal of brilliants, supplied by

Messrs. Morr and Stortimer;—of the veil of priceless Chantilly lace,

the gift of the Dowager Countess of Kew. Then there is a description of

the wedding-breakfast at the house of the bride’s noble parents, and of

the cake, decorated by Messrs. Gunter with the most delicious taste and

the sweetest hymeneal allusions.

No mention was made by the fashionable chronicler of a slight

disturbance which occurred at St. George’s, and which was indeed out of

the province of such a genteel purveyor of news. Before the marriage

service began, a woman of vulgar appearance and disorderly aspect,

accompanied by two scared children who took no part in the disorder

occasioned by their mother’s proceeding, except by their tears and

outcries to augment the disquiet, made her appearance in one of the

pews of the church, was noted there by persons in the vestry, was

requested to retire by a beadle, and was finally induced to quit the

sacred precincts of the building by the very strongest persuasion of a

couple of policemen; X and Y laughed at one another, and nodded their

heads knowingly as the poor wretch with her whimpering boys was led

away. They understood very well who the personage was who had come to

disturb the matrimonial ceremony; it did not commence until Mrs. De

Lacy (as this lady chose to be called) had quitted this temple of

Hymen. She slunk through the throng of emblazoned carriages, and the

press of footmen arrayed as splendidly as Solomon in his glory. John

jeered at Thomas, William turned his powdered head, and signalled

Jeames, who answered with a corresponding grin, as the woman with sobs,

and wild imprecations, and frantic appeals, made her way through the

splendid crowd escorted by her aides-de-camp in blue. I dare say her

little history was discussed at many a dinner-table that day in the

basement story of several fashionable houses. I know that at clubs in

St. James’s the facetious little anecdote was narrated. A young fellow

came to Bays’s after the marriage breakfast and mentioned the

circumstance with funny comments; although the _Morning Post_, in

describing this affair in high life, naturally omitted all mention of

such low people as Mrs. De Lacy and her children.

Those people who knew the noble families whose union had been

celebrated by such a profusion of grandees, fine equipages, and

footmen, brass bands, brilliant toilets, and wedding favours, asked how

it was that Lord Kew did not assist at Barnes Newcome’s marriage; other

persons in society inquired waggishly why Jack Belsize was not present

to give Lady Clara away.

As for Jack Belsize, his clubs had not been ornamented by his presence

for a year past. It was said he had broken the bank at Hombourg last

autumn; had been heard of during the winter at Milan, Venice, and

Vienna; and when, a few months after the marriage of Barnes Newcome and

Lady Clara, Jack’s elder brother died, and he himself became the next

in succession to the title and estates of Highgate, many folks said it

was a pity little Barney’s marriage had taken place so soon. Lord Kew

was not present, because Kew was still abroad; he had had a gambling

duel with a Frenchman, and a narrow squeak for his life. He had turned

Roman Catholic, some men said; others vowed that he had joined the

Methodist persuasion. At all events Kew had given up his wild courses,

broken with the turf, and sold his stud off; he was delicate yet, and

his mother was taking care of him; between whom and the old dowager of

Kew, who had made up Barney’s marriage, as everybody knew, there was no

love lost.

Then who was the Prince de Moncontour, who, with his princess, figured

at this noble marriage? There was a Moncontour, the Duc d’Ivry’s son,

but he died at Paris before the revolution of ’30: one or two of the

oldsters at Bays’s, Major Pendennis, General Tufto, old Cackleby—the

old fogies, in a word—remembered the Duke of Ivry when he was here

during the Emigration, and when he was called Prince de Moncontour, the

title of the eldest son of the family. Ivry was dead, having buried his

son before him, and having left only a daughter by that young woman

whom he married, and who led him such a life. Who was this present

Moncontour?

He was a gentleman to whom the reader has already been presented,

though when we lately saw him at Baden he did not enjoy so magnificent

a title. Early in the year of Barnes Newcome’s marriage, there came to

England, and to our modest apartment in the Temple, a gentleman

bringing a letter of recommendation from our dear young Clive, who said

that the bearer, the Vicomte de Florac, was a great friend of his, and

of the Colonel’s, who had known his family from boyhood. A friend of

our Clive and our Colonel was sure of a welcome in Lamb Court; we gave

him the hand of hospitality, the best cigar in the box, the easy-chair

with only one broken leg; the dinner in chambers and at the club, the

banquet at Greenwich (where, _ma foi_, the little _whites baites_

elicited his profound satisfaction); in a word, did our best to honour

that bill which our young Clive had drawn upon us. We considered the

young one in the light of a nephew of our own; we took a pride in him,

and were fond of him; and as for the Colonel, did we not love and

honour him; would we not do our utmost in behalf of any stranger who

came recommended to us by Thomas Newcome’s good word? So Florac was

straightway admitted to our companionship. We showed him the town, and

some of the modest pleasures thereof; we introduced him to the Haunt,

and astonished him by the company which he met there. Between Brent’s

“Deserter” and Mark Wilder’s “Garryowen,” Florac sang—

Tiens voici ma pipe, voilà mon bri—quet;

Et quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra—jet

Que tu sois la seule dans le régi—ment

Avec la brûle-gueule de ton cher z’a—mant;

to the delight of Tom Sarjent, who, though he only partially

comprehended the words of the song, pronounced the singer to be a rare

gentleman, full of most excellent differences. We took our Florac to

the Derby; we presented him in Fitzroy Square, whither we still

occasionally went, for Clive’s and our dear Colonel’s sake.

The Vicomte pronounced himself strongly in favour of the blanche misse

little Rosey Mackenzie, of whom we have lost sight for some few

chapters. Mrs. Mac he considered, my faith, to be a woman superb. He

used to kiss the tips of his own fingers, in token of his admiration

for the lovely widow; he pronounced her again more pretty than her

daughter; and paid her a thousand compliments, which she received with

exceeding good-humour. If the Vicomte gave us to understand presently

that Rosey and her mother were both in love with him, but that for all

the world he would not meddle with the happiness of his dear little

Clive, nothing unfavourable to the character or constancy of the

before-mentioned ladies must be inferred from M. de Florac’s speech;

his firm conviction being, that no woman could pass many hours in his

society without danger to her subsequent peace of mind.

For some little time we had no reason to suspect that our French friend

was not particularly well furnished with the current coin of the realm.

Without making any show of wealth, he would, at first, cheerfully

engage in our little parties: his lodgings in the neighbourhood of

Leicester Square, though dingy, were such as many noble foreign exiles

have inhabited. It was not until he refused to join some pleasure-trip

which we of Lamb Court proposed, honestly confessing his poverty, that

we were made aware of the Vicomte’s little temporary calamity; and, as

we became more intimate with him, he acquainted us, with great

openness, with the history of all his fortunes. He described

energetically that splendid run of luck which had set in at Baden with

Clive’s loan: his winnings, at that fortunate period, had carried him

through the winter with considerable brilliancy, but bouillotte and

Mademoiselle Atala, of the Variétés (_une ogresse, mon cher!_ who

devours thirty of our young men every year in her cavern, in the Rue de

Bréda), had declared against him, and the poor Vicomte’s pockets were

almost empty when he came to London.

He was amiably communicative regarding himself, and told us his virtues

and his faults (if indeed a passion for play and for women could be

considered as faults in a gay young fellow of two or three and forty),

with a like engaging frankness. He would weep in describing his angel

mother: he would fly off again into tirades respecting the wickedness,

the wit, the extravagance, the charms of the young lady of the

Variétés. He would then (in conversation) introduce us to Madame de

Florac, _née_ Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was incessant, and to

my friend Mr. Warrington especially he was an object of endless delight

and amusement and wonder. He would roll and smoke countless paper

cigars, talking unrestrainedly when we were not busy, silent when we

were engaged; he would only rarely partake of our meals, and altogether

refused all offers of pecuniary aid. He disappeared at dinner-time into

the mysterious purlieus of Leicester Square, and dark ordinaries only

frequented by Frenchmen. As we walked with him in the Regent Street

precincts, he would exchange marks of recognition with many dusky

personages, smoking bravos; and whiskered refugees of his nation.

“That gentleman,” he would say, “who has done me the honour to salute

me, is a coiffeur of the most celebrated; he forms the _delices_ of our

table-d’hôte. ‘Bon jour, mon cher monsieur!’ We are friends, though not

of the same opinion. Monsieur is a republican of the most

distinguished; conspirator of profession, and at this time engaged in

constructing an infernal machine to the address of His Majesty, Louis

Philippe, King of the French.” “Who is my friend with the scarlet beard

and the white paletot? My good Warrington! you do not move in the

world; you make yourself a hermit, my dear! Not know monsieur!—monsieur

is secretary to Mademoiselle Caracoline, the lovely rider at the circus

of Astley; I shall be charmed to introduce you to this amiable society

some day at our table-d’hôte.”

Warrington vowed that the company of Florac’s friends would be

infinitely more amusing than the noblest society ever chronicled in the

_Morning Post;_ but we were neither sufficiently familiar with the

French language to make conversation in that tongue as pleasant to us

as talking in our own; and so were content with Florac’s description of

his compatriots, which the Vicomte delivered in that charming

French-English of which he was a master.

However threadbare in his garments, poor in purse, and eccentric in

morals our friend was, his manners were always perfectly gentlemanlike,

and he draped himself in his poverty with the grace of a Spanish

grandee. It must be confessed, that the grandee loved the estaminet

where he could play billiards with the first comer; that he had a

passion for the gambling-house; that he was a loose and disorderly

nobleman: but, in whatever company he found himself, a certain

kindness, simplicity, and politeness distinguished him always. He bowed

to the damsel who sold him a penny cigar, as graciously as to a

duchess; he crushed a _manant’s_ impertinence or familiarity as

haughtily as his noble ancestors ever did at the Louvre, at Marli, or

Versailles. He declined to _obtempérer_ to his landlady’s request to

pay his rent, but he refused with a dignity which struck the woman with

awe; and King Alfred, over the celebrated muffin (on which Gandish and

other painters have exercised their genius), could not have looked more

noble than Florac in a robe-de-chambre, once gorgeous, but shady now as

became its owner’s clouded fortunes; toasting his bit of bacon at his

lodgings, when the fare even of his table-d’hôte had grown too dear for

him.

As we know from Gandish’s work, that better times were in store for the

wandering monarch, and that the officers came acquainting him that his

people demanded his presence _à grands cris_, when of course King

Alfred laid down the toast and resumed the sceptre; so in the case of

Florac, two humble gentlemen, inhabitants of Lamb Court, and members of

the Upper temple, had the good luck to be the heralds as it were, nay

indeed, the occasion, of the rising fortunes of the Prince de

Moncontour. Florac had informed us of the death of his cousin the Duc

d’Ivry, by whose demise the Vicomte’s father, the old Count de Florac,

became the representative of the house of Ivry, and possessor, through

his relative’s bequest, of an old château still more gloomy and

spacious than the count’s own house in the Faubourg St. Germain—a

château, of which the woods, domains, and appurtenances had been lopped

off by the Revolution. “Monsieur le Comte,” Florac says, “has not

wished to change his name at his age; he has shrugged his old shoulder,

and said it was not the trouble to make to engrave a new card; and for

me,” the philosophical Vicomte added, “of what good shall be a title of

prince in the position where I find myself?” It is wonderful for us who

inhabit a country where rank is worshipped with so admirable a

reverence, to think that there are many gentlemen in France who

actually have authentic titles and do not choose to bear them.

Mr. George Warrington was hugely amused with this notion of Florac’s

ranks and dignities. The idea of the Prince purchasing penny cigars; of

the Prince mildly expostulating with his landlady regarding the rent;

of his punting for half-crowns at a neighbouring hall in Air Street,

whither the poor gentleman desperately ran when he had money in his

pocket, tickled George’s sense of humour. It was Warrington who gravely

saluted the Vicomte, and compared him to King Alfred, on that afternoon

when we happened to call upon him and found him engaged in cooking his

modest dinner.

We were bent upon an excursion to Greenwich, and on having our friend’s

company on that voyage, and we induced the Vicomte to forgo his bacon,

and be our guest for once. George Warrington chose to indulge in a

great deal of ironical pleasantry in the course of the afternoon’s

excursion. As we went down the river, he pointed out to Florac the very

window in the Tower where the captive Duke of Orleans used to sit when

he was an inhabitant of that fortress. At Greenwich, which palace

Florac informed us was built by Queen Elizabeth, George showed the very

spot where Raleigh laid his cloak down to enable Her Majesty to step

over a puddle. In a word, he mystified M. de Florac; such was Mr.

Warrington’s reprehensible spirit.