_In Which Ferdinand Receives More than One Visit, and Finds
That Adversity Has Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends_.
IN THE mean time morning broke upon the unfortunate Ferdinand. He
had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he woke, it was with some
difficulty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yesterday, and
could satisfy himself that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his
bedroom window left him not very long in pleasing doubt.
His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. ‘Slept pretty
well, sir? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir? Tongue and ham, sir?
Perhaps you would like a kidney instead of a devil? It will be a
change.’
‘I have no appetite.’
‘It will come, sir. You an’t used to it. Nothing else to do here but to
eat. Better try the kidney, sir. Is there anything you fancy?’
‘I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day.’ ‘Lord! sir, don’t think
of it. Something will turn up, sir, take my word.’
And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. For bringing
in the breakfast, followed by an underling with a great pomp of plated
covers, he informed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gentleman was
enquiring for him. ‘Told you your friends would come, sir.’
The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld Mr. Glastonbury.
‘My dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, scarcely daring to meet his
glance, ‘this is very kind, and yet I wished to have saved you this.’
‘My poor child,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Oh! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter moment for
you even than for me, kind friend. This is a terrible termination of all
your zeal and labours.’
‘Nay!’ said Glastonbury; ‘let us not think of anything but the present.
For what are you held in durance?’
‘My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten pounds, I could not permit you
to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This must have happened sooner
or later. It has come, and come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like
all other calamities.’
‘But you have friends, my Ferdinand.’
‘Would that I had not! All that I wish now is that I were alone in
the world. If I could hope that my parents would leave me to myself, I
should be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, and the injury I
must do them, it is hell, it is hell.’
‘I wish you would tell me your exact situation,’ said Mr. Glastonbury.
‘Do not let us talk of it; does my father know of this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘’Tis well; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell Armine.’
Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. ‘Is it so bad?’ he said.
‘My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I am here for
nearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at least ten more.’
‘And they will not take bail?’
‘Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, the only one.’
‘And they gave you no notice?’
‘None: they must have heard somehow or other that my infernal marriage
was off. They have all waited for that. And now that you see that
affairs are past remedy; let us talk of other topics, if you will be
so kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it
directly; I shall go to gaol at once.’
Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet it was a most
melancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, except
on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand’s affairs, seemed quite a
mockery. At last, Ferdinand said, ‘Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here;
it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me,
and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Upon
reflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay as
long. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him;
but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend.’
Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. ‘This
affair should be kept quiet,’ he said. ‘I told Louis to say I was out of
town in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it,
at least until after her marriage.’
Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the
hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host’s
portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year
that he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had
grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury
had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A
spunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such
a character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and
all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened
by the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close
dungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in that
fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a
man mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present not
to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeming
himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves
unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent.
A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are great
blessings; and whatever may be one’s scrapes in life, either of these
may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once,
and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all
these calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he
had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human
nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were the
services he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollection
of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all, Count Mirabel,
fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glastonbury
was indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own
age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of
comprehending all his secret feelings; a friend who could even whisper
hope, and smile in a spunging-house.
The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; Ferdinand became
every moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the
waiter, rushed into the room. ‘My eye, sir, here is a regular nob
enquiring for you. I told you it would be all right.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Here he is coming up.’
Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on the staircase.
‘Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, _mon ami! mon cher!_
Is this your friendship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for
me! _C’est une mauvaise plaisanterie_ to pretend we are friends! How are
you, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were not here
I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man.’ The waiter disappeared,
and Count Mirabel seated himself on the hard sofa.
‘My dear fellow,’ continued the Count, twirling the prettiest cane in
the world, ‘this is a _bêtise_ of you to be here and not send for me.
Who has put you here?’
‘My dear Mirabel, it is all up.’
‘Pah! How much is it?’
‘I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off,
and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed
annuities.’
‘But how much?’
‘Between two and three thousand.’
The Count Mirabel gave a whistle.
‘I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow or
other.’
‘My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world; but I
have troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sou
from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at this
moment is some 1,500L., which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day for
nothing, through Catch.’
‘Pah! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us this
money. I will ask Bevil.’
‘I would sooner die.’
‘I will ask him for myself.’
‘It is impossible.’
‘We will arrange it: I tell you who will do it for us. He is a good
fellow, and immensely rich: it is Fitzwarrene; he owes me great
favours.’
‘Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This is good and kind. I am so
damned dull here. It quite gladdens me to see you; but do not talk about
money.’
‘Here is 500L.; four other fellows at 500L. we can manage it.’
‘No more, no more! I beseech you.’
‘But you cannot stop here. _Quel drôle appartement!_ Before Charley
Doricourt was in Parliament he was always in this sort of houses, but I
got him out somehow or other; I managed it. Once I bought of the fellow
five hundred dozen of champagne.’
‘A new way to pay old debts, certainly,’ said Ferdinand.
‘I tell you--have you dined?’
‘I was going to; merely to have something to do.’
‘I will stop and dine with you,’ said the Count, ringing the bell, ‘and
we will talk over affairs. Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine: this is
only a scene. This is life. What can we have for dinner, man? I shall
dine here.’
‘Gentleman’s dinner is ordered, my lord; quite ready,’ said the waiter.
‘Champagne in ice, my lord?’
‘To be sure; everything that is good. _Mon cher_ Armine, we shall have
some fun.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the waiter, running down stairs. ‘Dinner for best
drawing-room directly; green-pea-soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck and
boiled chicken, everything that is good, champagne in ice; two regular
nobs!’
The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends seated themselves.
‘Potage admirable!’ said Count Mirabel. ‘The best champagne I ever drank
in my life. _Mon brave_, your health. This must be Charley’s man, by the
wine. I think we will have him up; he will lend us some money. Finest
turbot I ever ate! I will give you some of the fins. Ah! you are glad to
see me, my Armine, you are glad to see your friend. _Encore_ champagne!
Good Armine, excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, I will manage these
fellows. You must take some bifteac. The most tender bifteac I ever
tasted! This is a fine dinner. _Encore un verre!_ Man, you may go; don’t
wait.’
‘By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. Now,
you are a friend; I feel quite in spirits.’
‘To be sure! always be in spirits. _C’est une bêtise_ not to be in
spirits. Everything is sure to go well. You will see how I will manage
these fellows, and I will come and dine with you every day until you are
out: you shall not be here eight-and-forty hours. As I go home I will
stop at Mitchell’s and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. Have you ever
read Paul de Kock’s books?’
‘Never,’ said Ferdinand.
‘What a fortunate man to be arrested! Now you can read Paul de Kock!
By Jove, you are the most lucky fellow I know. You see, you thought
yourself very miserable in being arrested. ‘Tis the finest thing in the
world, for now you will read _Mon Voisin Raymond_. There are always two
sides to a case.’
‘I am content to believe myself very lucky in having such a friend as
you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but now as these things are cleared away, let us
talk over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta?’
‘Of course, I see her every day.’
‘I hope she will not know of my crash until she has married.’
‘She will not, unless you tell her.’
‘And when do you think she will be married?’
‘When you please.’
‘_Cher ami! point de moquerie!_’
‘By Jove, I am quite serious,’ exclaimed the Count. ‘I am as certain
that you will marry her as that we are in this damned spunging-house.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘The very finest sense in the world. If you will not marry her, I will
myself, for I am resolved that good Montfort shall not. It shall never
be said that I interfered without a result. Why, if she were to marry
Montfort now, it would ruin my character. To marry Montfort after all
my trouble: dining with that good Temple, and opening the mind of that
little Grandison, and talking fine things to that good duchess; it would
be a failure.’
‘What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel!’ ‘Of course! Would you have me
like other people and not odd? We will drink _la belle Henriette!_
Fill up! You will be my friend when you are married, eh? _Mon Armine,
excellent garçon!_ How we shall laugh some day; and then this dinner,
this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had!’
‘But why do you think there is the slightest hope of Henrietta not
marrying Montfort?’
‘Because my knowledge of human nature assures me that a young woman,
very beautiful, very rich, with a very high spirit, and an only
daughter, will never go and marry one man when she is in love with
another, and that other one, my dear fellow, like you. You are more sure
of getting her because she is engaged.’
What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human nature! thought Ferdinand
to himself. The Count’s knowledge of human nature is like my friend the
waiter’s experience. One assures me that I am certain to marry a woman
because she is engaged to another person, and the other, that it is
quite clear my debts will be paid because they are so large! The Count
remained with his friend until eleven o’clock, when everybody was locked
up. He invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and promised that
he should have a whole collection of French novels before he awoke. And
assuring him over and over again that he looked upon him as the most
fortunate of all his friends, and that if he broke the bank at Crocky’s
to-night, which he fancied he should, he would send him two or three
thousand pounds; at the same time he shook him heartily by the hand,
and descended the staircase of the spunging-house, humming _Vive la
Bagatelle_.