Beau Nash stood at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty
throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite
bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows:
before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august deference;
somewhat stately to the young bucks; greeting the wits with gracious
friendliness and a twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly
gallantry before the beauties; the degree of his inclination measured
the altitude of the recipient as accurately as a nicely calculated
sand-glass measures the hours.
The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, fashion--to speak more
concretely: nobles, belles, gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets
--made fairyland (or opera bouffe, at least) in his dominions; play ran
higher and higher, and Mr. Nash's coffers filled up with gold. To
crown his pleasure, a prince of the French blood, the young Comte de
Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached Bath at noon in state,
accompanied by the Marquis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV. The
Beau dearly prized the society of the lofty, and the present visit was
an honor to Bath: hence to the Master of Ceremonies. What was better,
there would be some profitable hours with the cards and dice. So it was
that Mr. Nash smiled never more benignly than on that bright evening.
The rooms rang with the silvery voices of women and delightful laughter,
while the fiddles went merrily, their melodies chiming sweetly with the
joyance of his mood.
The skill and brazen effrontery of the ambassador's scoundrelly servant
in passing himself off for a man of condition formed the point of
departure for every conversation. It was discovered that there were but
three persons present who had not suspected him from the first; and, by
a singular paradox, the most astute of all proved to be old Mr. Bicksit,
the traveler, once a visitor at Chateaurien; for he, according to
report, had by a coup of diplomacy entrapped the impostor into an
admission that there was no such place. However, like poor Captain
Badger, the worthy old man had held his peace out of regard for the Duke
of Winterset. This nobleman, heretofore secretly disliked, suspected
of irregular devices at play, and never admired, had won admiration and
popularity by his remorse for the mistake, and by the modesty of his
attitude in endeavoring to atone for it, without presuming upon the
privilege of his rank to laugh at the indignation of society; an action
the more praiseworthy because his exposure of the impostor entailed the
disclosure of his own culpability in having stood the villain's sponsor.
To-night, the happy gentleman, with Lady Mary Carlisle upon his arm,
went grandly about the rooms, sowing and reaping a harvest of smiles.
'Twas said work would be begun at once to rebuild the Duke's country
seat, while several ruined Jews might be paid out of prison. People
gazing on the beauty and the stately but modest hero by her side, said
they would make a noble pair. She had long been distinguished by his
attentions, and he had come brilliantly out of the episode of the
Frenchman, who had been his only real rival. Wherever they went, there
arose a buzz of pleasing gossip and adulation. Mr. Nash, seeing them
near him, came forward with greetings. A word on the side passed between
the nobleman and the exquisite.
“I had news of the rascal tonight,” whispered Nash. “He lay at a farm
till yesterday, when he disappeared; his ruffians, too.”
“You have arranged?” asked the Duke.
“Fourteen bailiffs are watching without. He could not come within
gunshot. If they clap eyes on him, they will hustle him to jail, and his
cutthroats shall not avail him a hair's weight. The impertinent swore
he'd be here by nine, did he?”
“He said so; and 'tis a rash dog, sir.”
“It is just nine now.”
“Send out to see if they have taken him.”
“Gladly.”
The Beau beckoned an attendant, and whispered in his ear.
Many of the crowd had edged up to the two gentlemen with apparent
carelessness, to overhear their conversation. Those who did overhear
repeated it in covert asides, and this circulating undertone, confirming
a vague rumor that Beaucaire would attempt the entrance that night, lent
a pleasurable color of excitement to the evening. The French prince, the
ambassador, and their suites were announced. Polite as the assembly
was, it was also curious, and there occurred a mannerly rush to see the
newcomers. Lady Mary, already pale, grew whiter as the throng closed
round her; she looked up pathetically at the Duke, who lost no time in
extricating her from the pressure.
“Wait here,” he said; “I will fetch you a glass of negus,” and
disappeared. He had not thought to bring a chair, and she, looking about
with an increasing faintness and finding none, saw that she was standing
by the door of a small side-room. The crowd swerved back for the passage
of the legate of France, and pressed upon her. She opened the door, and
went in.
The room was empty save for two gentlemen, who were quietly playing
cards at a table. They looked up as she entered. They were M. Beaucaire
and Mr. Molyneux.
She uttered a quick cry and leaned against the wall, her hand to her
breast. Beaucaire, though white and weak, had brought her a chair before
Molyneux could stir.
“Mademoiselle--”
“Do not touch me!” she said, with such frozen abhorrence in her voice
that he stopped short. “Mr. Molyneux, you seek strange company!”
“Madam,” replied Molyneux, bowing deeply, as much to Beaucaire as to
herself, “I am honored by the presence of both of you.
“Oh, are you mad!” she exclaimed, contemptuously.
“This gentleman has exalted me with his confidence, madam,” he replied.
“Will you add your ruin to the scandal of this fellow's presence here?
How he obtained entrance--”
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” interrupted Beaucaire. “Did I not say I should
come? M. Molyneux was so obliging as to answer for me to the fourteen
frien's of M. de Winterset and Meestaire Nash.”
“Do you not know,” she turned vehemently upon Molyneux, “that he will be
removed the moment I leave this room? Do you wish to be dragged out
with him? For your sake, sir, because I have always thought you a man
of heart, I give you a chance to save yourself from disgrace--and--your
companion from jail. Let him slip out by some retired way, and you
may give me your arm and we will enter the next room as if nothing had
happened. Come, sir--”
“Mademoiselle--”
“Mr. Molyneux, I desire to hear nothing from your companion. Had I not
seen you at cards with him I should have supposed him in attendance as
your lackey. Do you desire to take advantage of my offer, sir?”
“Mademoiselle, I could not tell you, on that night--”
“You may inform your high-born friend, Mr. Molyneux, that I heard
everything he had to say; that my pride once had the pleasure of
listening to his high-born confession!”
“Ah, it is gentle to taunt one with his birth, mademoiselle? Ah, no!
There is a man in my country who say strange things of that--that a man
is not his father, but himself.”
“You may inform your friend, Mr. Molyneux, that he had a chance to
defend himself against accusation; that he said all--”
“That I did say all I could have strength to say. Mademoiselle, you did
not see--as it was right--that I had been stung by a big wasp. It was
nothing, a scratch; but, mademoiselle, the sky went round and the moon
dance' on the earth. I could not wish that big wasp to see he had stung
me; so I mus' only say what I can have strength for, and stand straight
till he is gone. Beside', there are other rizzons. Ah, you mus' belief!
My Molyneux I sen' for, and tell him all, because he show courtesy
to the yo'ng Frenchman, and I can trus' him. I trus' you,
mademoiselle--long ago--and would have tol' you ev'rything, excep' jus'
because--well, for the romance, the fon! You belief? It is so clearly
so; you do belief, mademoiselle?”
She did not even look at him. M. Beaucaire lifted his hand appealingly
toward her. “Can there be no faith in--in--he said timidly, and paused.
She was silent, a statue, my Lady Disdain.
“If you had not belief' me to be an impostor; if I had never said I was
Chateaurien; if I had been jus' that Monsieur Beaucaire of the story
they tol' you, but never with the heart of a lackey, an hones' man, a
man, the man you knew, himself, could you--would you--” He was trying
to speak firmly; yet, as he gazed upon her splendid beauty, he
choked slightly, and fumbled in the lace at his throat with unsteady
fingers.--“Would you--have let me ride by your side in the autumn
moonlight?” Her glance passed by him as it might have passed by a
footman or a piece of furniture. He was dressed magnificently, a
multitude of orders glittering on his breast. Her eye took no knowledge
of him.
“Mademoiselle-I have the honor to ask you: if you had known this
Beaucaire was hones', though of peasant birth, would you--”
Involuntarily, controlled as her icy presence was, she shuddered. There
was a moment of silence.
“Mr. Molyneux,” said Lady Mary, “in spite of your discourtesy in
allowing a servant to address me, I offer you a last chance to leave
this room undisgraced. Will you give me your arm?”
“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Molyneux.
Beaucaire dropped into a chair with his head bent low and his arm
outstretched on the table; his eyes filled slowly in spite of himself,
and two tears rolled down the young man's cheeks.
“An' live men are jus'--names!” said M. Beaucaire.