ALPHONSO JONES.
“Would you like a little fun this evening, Gilbert?” asked his
room-mate, on the succeeding morning.
“Yes,” said Gilbert; “I always enjoy fun, and especially now when I have
lost my place, since it will help me to forget my bad luck. Is there
anything up?”
“Yes; we are going to play a practical joke on Alphonso Jones. We are
going to gratify his taste for associating with the aristocracy.”
“What is your plan?”
“I have discovered in Bleecker Street a stylish barber, who has a
smattering of French. In feet, he has served me more than once. He has
entered into our plot, and agreed to personate a French count—the Count
de Montmorency.”
“Good!” said Gilbert, laughing. “When are the two to be brought
together?”
“This very evening, in our room. I shall despatch a note to Mr. Jones
during the day, inviting him to meet my illustrious visitor. Hayward and
Kennedy are in the secret, and will be present also. Of course you will
be with us, but you must keep on a straight face.”
“Never fear for me,” said Gilbert. “I will take care not to let the cat
out of the bag.”
In conformity with the plan, Mr. Alphonso Jones received, during the
day, the following note:—
“DEAR MR. JONES,—I shall be glad if you will favor me with your
company this evening, in my room. I have been fortunate enough to
make the acquaintance of an illustrious French nobleman, Count
Ernest de Montmorency, who, in the most condescending manner, has
accepted an invitation to spend this evening with me. You will find
him very affable and agreeable, notwithstanding his superiority in
social rank. I feel a little diffident about receiving him, not
being so well up in the usages of fashionable society as you are—I
rely on you to help me out. I have invited Hayward and Kennedy also
to be present. Greyson will, of course, be with us. If you have any
other engagement, break it for my sake.
“Yours truly,
“W. INGALLS.”
The face of Jones was overspread with smiles as he read this epistle,
and he felt at least a foot taller. He could conceive of nothing more
glorious than to be introduced to a foreign nobleman. Once in his life
it had been his privilege to make the acquaintance of a brigadier-general,
who had given him two fingers to shake, and said, “I am glad to meet you,
sir.” Most of the fashionable acquaintances of whom he boasted had no
existence save in his imagination, but this general was a reality; he
was only a general of volunteers, but that made no difference to
Alphonso; he had managed hundreds of times to make capital of his
greatness in some such way as this: “My friend, General Smith, remarked
to me one day;” or, “Speaking of brave men reminds me of my intimate
friend, General Smith.” But even General Smith was not for a moment to
be compared to the Count Ernest de Montmorency; there was something
peculiarly high-toned in the name, Alphonso thought. So thought Mr.
Ingalls, or he would have invented some other.
Alphonso was anxious to communicate to some one else the honor in store
for him; he would like to have gone to his employer at once, and said,
“Mr. Simpson, I am to meet the Count de Montmorency this evening.” This,
however, even to Alphonso, seemed rather an abrupt and uncalled-for
announcement, and he had to consider how best to manage the matter, for
he was determined that Mr. Simpson should know it. It was not entirely
easy, but finally a bright and satisfactory idea dawned upon the happy
Jones.
He went up to the desk, behind which his employer, a stout, practical
man of business, was sitting, and coughed by the way of arresting his
attention.
“Eh, Mr. Jones, did you wish to speak to me?” inquired Mr. Simpson.
“Yes, sir,” said Alphonso; “would you be kind enough to let me leave the
store half an hour earlier than usual?”
“If you have a good reason, Mr. Jones; are you sick?”
“No, sir, my health is excellent, thank you. The fact is, sir, I have an
invitation to meet the noble count, Count Ernest de Montmorency, this
evening, and—”
“The—what?” exclaimed his employer, arching his brows.
“A French nobleman, sir—the Count Ernest de Montmorency,” repeated
Alphonso, trying not to betray too strongly his inward exultation.
“What time are you going to meet him?”
“This evening, sir, but I wish time to dress properly.”
“Well, I don’t know that I have any objection,” said the merchant,
deliberately. “Where is this count stopping?”
“I don’t know exactly, sir; but probably at the Brevoort House or the
Clarendon.”
“Very well, you can go. Business is not pressing, and you can be spared.
But, hark you, Mr. Jones, one word of advice.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“If this count wants to borrow money of you, don’t lend him.”
“I am sure he wouldn’t ask such a thing,” said Alphonso, shocked at the
idea. “Why, he possesses a beautiful chateau and an immense estate in
France!”
Here Alphonso drew upon his imagination for what he considered to be
probable enough.
“They all say so,” said the practical Simpson, “even when they haven’t
twenty-five cents to bless themselves with. My advice may be needed,
after all.”
Alphonso was rather disgusted by this caution, which seemed so
derogatory to the character and position of a nobleman; but he, after
some reflection, attributed it to Mr. Simpson’s disappointment in not
himself enjoying the privilege of being invited to meet the count.
“Mr. Kidder,” he said to a fellow-clerk, “what do you think of my
necktie?”
“It looks well enough—why?”
“I was wondering whether it would do to wear this evening.”
“What’s up this evening?”
“I am invited to meet the Count Ernest de Montmorency, as you will see
by this note.”
“Strange Ingalls didn’t invite me,” said Kidder. “When did he pick up
the count?”
“Really, Mr. Kidder, that is a singular way of speaking,—_picking up_
the count,” protested Alphonso.
“I have no great respect for French counts,” said Kidder. “They don’t
generally amount to much.”
“He’s jealous, too,” said Alphonso to himself, complacently. “It is
clear he envies me my invitation.”
“What do you think I ought to wear, Mr. Kidder?” he asked.
“Dress suit and white tie, of course.”
“So I think. I’m really sorry I can’t take you with me, Kidder.”
“Oh, I couldn’t go to-night. I’ve got a ticket to the theatre.”
“I’d rather meet the count than go to forty theatres,” thought Alphonso.
“Wouldn’t it be a splendid thing if he should take a fancy to me, and
invite me to visit him at his chateau in _la belle France_?”
Alphonso made so many mistakes during the remainder of the day that he
might have been spared considerably sooner without detriment to the
business.