It was well agreed by the fashion of Bath that M. le Duc de Chateaurien
was a person of sensibility and haut ton; that his retinue and equipage
surpassed in elegance; that his person was exquisite, his manner
engaging. In the company of gentlemen his ease was slightly tinged with
graciousness (his single equal in Bath being his Grace of Winterset);
but it was remarked that when he bowed over a lady's hand, his air
bespoke only a gay and tender reverence.
He was the idol of the dowagers within a week after his appearance;
matrons warmed to him; young belles looked sweetly on him, while the
gentlemen were won to admiration or envy. He was of prodigious wealth:
old Mr. Bicksit, who dared not, for his fame's sake, fail to have seen
all things, had visited Chateaurien under the present Duke's father,
and descanted to the curious upon its grandeurs. The young noble had one
fault, he was so poor a gambler. He cared nothing for the hazards of a
die or the turn of a card. Gayly admitting that he had been born with no
spirit of adventure in him, he was sure, he declared, that he failed of
much happiness by his lack of taste in such matters.
But he was not long wanting the occasion to prove his taste in the
matter of handling a weapon. A certain led-captain, Rohrer by
name, notorious, amongst other things, for bearing a dexterous and
bloodthirsty blade, came to Bath post-haste, one night, and jostled
heartily against him, in the pump-room on the following morning. M.
de Chauteaurien bowed, and turned aside without offense, continuing a
conversation with some gentlemen near by. Captain Rohrer jostled
against him a second time. M. de Chateaurien looked him in the eye, and
apologized pleasantly for being so much in the way. Thereupon Rohrer
procured an introduction to him, and made some observations derogatory
to the valor and virtue of the French. There was current a curious piece
of gossip of the French court: a prince of the blood royal, grandson of
the late Regent and second in the line of succession to the throne
of France, had rebelled against the authority of Louis XV, who had
commanded him to marry the Princess Henriette, cousin to both of them.
The princess was reported to be openly devoted to the cousin who refused
to accept her hand at the bidding of the king; and, as rumor ran, the
prince's caprice elected in preference the discipline of Vincennes, to
which retirement the furious king had consigned him. The story was the
staple gossip of all polite Europe; and Captain Rohrer, having in his
mind a purpose to make use of it in leading up to a statement that
should be general to the damage of all Frenchwomen, and which a
Frenchman might not pass over as he might a jog of the elbow, repeated
it with garbled truths to make a scandal of a story which bore none on a
plain relation.
He did not reach his deduction. M. de Chateaurien, breaking into his
narrative, addressed him very quietly. “Monsieur,” he said, “none but
swine deny the nobleness of that good and gentle lady, Mademoiselle la
Princesse de Bourbon-Conti. Every Frenchman know' that her cousin is a
bad rebel and ingrate, who had only honor and rispec' for her, but was
so wilful he could not let even the king say, 'You shall marry here,
you shall marry there.' My frien's,” the young man turned to the others,
“may I ask you to close roun' in a circle for one moment? It is clearly
shown that the Duke of Orleans is a scurvy fellow, but not--” he wheeled
about and touched Captain Rohrer on the brow with the back of his gloved
hand--“but not so scurvy as thou, thou swine of the gutter!”
Two hours later, with perfect ease, he ran Captain Rohrer through the
left shoulder--after which he sent a basket of red roses to the Duke
of Winterset. In a few days he had another captain to fight. This was
a ruffling buck who had the astounding indiscretion to proclaim M.
de Chateaurien an impostor. There was no Chateaurien, he swore. The
Frenchman laughed in his face, and, at twilight of the same day, pinked
him carefully through the right shoulder. It was not that he could
not put aside the insult to himself, he declared to Mr. Molyneux,
his second, and the few witnesses, as he handed his wet sword to his
lackey--one of his station could not be insulted by a doubt of that
station--but he fought in the quarrel of his friend Winterset. This
rascal had asserted that M. le Duc had introduced an impostor. Could he
overlook the insult to a friend, one to whom he owed his kind reception
in Bath? Then, bending over his fallen adversary, he whispered: “Naughty
man, tell your master find some better quarrel for the nex' he sen'
agains' me.”
The conduct of M. de Chateaurien was pronounced admirable.
There was no surprise when the young foreigner fell naturally into the
long train of followers of the beautiful Lady Mary Carlisle, nor was
there great astonishment that he should obtain marked favor in her eyes,
shown so plainly that my Lord Townbrake, Sir Hugh Guilford, and the rich
Squire Bantison, all of whom had followed her through three seasons,
swore with rage, and his Grace of Winterset stalked from her aunt's
house with black brows.
Meeting the Duke there on the evening after his second encounter de
Chateaurien smiled upon him brilliantly. “It was badly done; oh, so
badly!” he whispered. “Can you afford to have me strip' of my mask by
any but yourself? You, who introduce' me? They will say there is some
bad scandal that I could force you to be my god-father. You mus' get the
courage yourself.”
“I told you a rose had a short life,” was the answer.
“Oh, those roses! 'Tis the very greates' rizzon to gather each day
a fresh one.” He took a red bud from his breast for an instant, and
touched it to his lips.
“M. de Chateaurien!” It was Lady Mary's voice; she stood at a table
where a vacant place had been left beside her. “M. de Chateaurien, we
have been waiting very long for you.”
The Duke saw the look she did not know she gave the Frenchman, and he
lost countenance for a moment.
“We approach a climax, eh, monsieur?” said M. de Chateaurien.