EXPLANATION.
It was past seven o’clock when Trevanion made his appearance,
accompanied by O’Leary; and having in few words informed me that a
meeting was fixed for the following morning, near St. Cloud, proposed
that we should go to dinner at Verey’s, after which we should have
plenty of time to discuss the various steps to be taken. As we were
leaving the hotel for this purpose, a waiter requested of me to permit
Mr. Meurice to speak a few words to me; which, having agreed to, I
entered the little bureau where this Czar of hotels sits enthroned, and
what was my surprise to learn the request he had to prefer, was nothing
less than that I would so far oblige him as to vacate the room I
possessed in the hotel, adding that my compliance would confer upon him
the power to accommodate a “milor” who had written for apartments, and
was coming with a large suite of servants. Suspecting that some rumour
of the late affair at Frescati might have influenced my friend Meurice
in this unusual demand, I abruptly refused, and was about to turn away,
when he, perhaps guessing that I had not believed his statements,
handed me an open letter, saying, “You see, sir, this is the letter;
and, as I am so pressed for spare room, I must now refuse the writer.”
As my eye glanced at the writing, I started back with amazement to
perceive it was in my cousin Guy’s hand, requesting that apartments
might be retained for Sir Guy Lorrequer, my uncle, who was to arrive in
Paris by the end of the week. If any doubt had remained on my mind as
to the deception I had been duped by, this would completely have
dispelled it, but I had long before been convinced of the trick, and
only wondered how the false Guy—Mr. Dudley Morewood—had contrived to
present himself to me so opportunely, and by what means, in so short a
space of time, he had become acquainted with my personal appearance.
As I mentioned this circumstance of the letter to Trevanion, he could
not conceal his satisfaction at his sagacity in unravelling the
mystery, while this new intelligence confirmed the justness and
accuracy of all his explanations.
While we walked along towards the Palais Royale, Trevanion endeavoured
not very successfully, to explain to my friend O’Leary, the nature of
the trick which had been practised, promising, at another time, some
revelations concerning the accomplished individual who had planned it,
which, in boldness and daring, eclipsed even this.
Any one who in waking has had the confused memory of a dream in which
events have been so mingled and mixed as to present no uniform
narrative, but only a mass of strange and incongruous occurrences,
without object or connexion, may form some notion of the state of
restless excitement my brain suffered from, as the many and conflicting
ideas my late adventures suggested, presented themselves to my mind in
rapid succession.
The glare, the noise, and the clatter of a French cafe are certainly
not the agents most in request for restoring a man to the enjoyment of
his erring faculties; and, if I felt addled and confused before, I had
scarcely passed the threshold of Verey’s when I became absolutely like
one in a trance. The large salon was more than usually crowded, and it
was with difficulty that we obtained a place at a table where some
other English were seated, among whom I recognised my lately made
acquaintance, Mr. Edward Bingham.
Excepting a cup of coffee I had taken nothing the entire day, and so
completely did my anxieties of different kinds subdue all appetite,
that the most recherche viands of this well-known restaurant did not in
the least tempt me. The champagne alone had any attraction for me; and,
seduced by the icy coldness of the wine, I drank copiously. This was
all that was wanting to complete the maddening confusion of my brain,
and the effect was instantaneous; the lights danced before my eyes; the
lustres whirled round; and, as the scattered fragments of
conversations, on either side met my ear, I was able to form some not
very inaccurate conception of what insanity may be. Politics and
literature, Mexican bonds and Noblet’s legs, Pates de perdreaux and the
quarantine laws, the extreme gauche and the “Bains Chinois,” Victor
Hugo and rouge et noir, had formed a species of grand ballet d’action
in my fevered brain, and I was perfectly beside myself; occasionally,
too, I would revert to my own concerns, although I was scarcely able to
follow up any train of thought for more than a few seconds together,
and totally inadequate to distinguish the false from the true. I
continued to confound the counterfeit with my cousin, and wonder how my
poor uncle, for whom I was about to put on the deepest mourning, could
possibly think of driving me out of my lodgings. Of my duel for the
morning, I had the most shadowy recollection, and could not perfectly
comprehend whether it was O’Leary or I was the principal, and indeed
cared but little. In this happy state of independent existence I must
have passed a considerable time, and as my total silence when spoken
to, or my irrelevant answers, appeared to have tired out my companions,
they left me to the uninterrupted enjoyment of my own pleasant
imaginings.
“Do you hear, Lorrequer,” at last said Trevanion; “are you asleep, my
dear friend? This gentleman has been good enough to invite us to
breakfast to-morrow at St. Cloud.”
I looked up, and was just able to recognise the well-trimmed moustache
of Mr. Edward Bingham, as he stood mumbling something before me. “St.
Cloud—what of St. Cloud?” said I.
“We have something in that quarter to-morrow.”
“What is it, O’Leary? Can we go?”
“Oh! certainly—our engagement’s an early one.”
“We shall accept your polite invitation with pleasure”—
Here he stooped over, and whispered something in my ear; what, I cannot
say, but I know that my reply, now equally lost to me, produced a
hearty fit of laughing to my two friends.
My next recollection is, finding myself in a crowded loge at the
theatre. It seems that O’Leary had acceded to a proposal from some of
the other party to accompany them to the Porte St. Martin, where Mrs.
Bingham and her daughter had engaged a box. Amid all the confusion
which troubled thoughts and wine produced in me, I could not help
perceiving a studied politeness and attention on the part of Mr. Edward
Bingham towards me; and my first sobering reflection came, on finding
that a place was reserved for me beside Miss Bingham, into which, by
some contrivance I can in no wise explain, I found myself almost
immediately installed. To all the excitements of champagne and punch,
let the attractions of a French ballet be added, and, with a singularly
pretty companion at your side, to whom you have already made sufficient
advances to be aware that you are no longer indifferent to her, and I
venture to predict, that it is much more likely your conversation will
incline to flirting than political economy; and, moreover, that you
make more progress during the performance of one single pas de deux
upon the stage, than you have hitherto done in ten morning calls, with
an unexceptionable whisker and the best fitting gloves in Paris. Alas!
alas! it is only the rich man that ever wins at rouge et noir. The
well-insured Indiaman, with her cargo of millions, comes safe into
port; while the whole venture of some hardy veteran of the wave,
founders within sight of his native shore. So is it ever; where success
would be all and every thing, it never comes—but only be indifferent or
regardless, and fortune is at your feet, suing and imploring your
acceptance of her favours. What would I not have given for one half of
that solicitude now so kindly expressed in my favour by Miss Bingham,
if syllabled by the lips of Lady Jane Callonby—how would my heart have
throbbed for one light smile from one, while I ungratefully basked in
the openly avowed preference of the other. These were my first
thoughts—what were the succeeding ones?
“Comment elle est belle,” said a Frenchwoman, turning round in the box
next to us, and directing at the same moment the eyes of a moustached
hero upon my fair companion.
What a turn to my thoughts did this unexpected ejaculation give rise
to! I now began to consider her more attentively, and certainly
concurred fully in the Frenchwoman’s verdict. I had never seen her look
half so well before. The great fault in her features, which were most
classically regular, lay in the monotony and uniform character of their
expression. Now this was quite changed. Her cheek was slightly flushed,
and her eyes more brilliant than ever; while her slightly parted lips
gave a degree of speaking earnestness to her expression, that made her
perfectly beautiful.
Whether it was from this cause I cannot say, but I certainly never felt
so suddenly decided in my life from one course to its very opposite, as
I now did to make l’aimable to my lovely companion. And here, I fear, I
must acknowledge, in the honesty of these confessional details, that
vanity had also its share in the decision. To be the admitted and
preferred suitor of the prettiest woman in company, is generally a
strong inducement to fall desperately in love with her, independently
of other temptations for so doing.
How far my successes tallied with my good intentions in this respect, I
cannot now say. I only remember, that more than once O’Leary whispered
to me something like a caution of some sort or other; but Emily’s
encouraging smiles and still more encouraging speeches had far more
effect upon me than all the eloquence of the united service, had it
been engaged in my behalf, would have effected. Mrs. Bingham, too—who,
to do her justice, seemed but little cognisant of our proceedings—from
time to time evinced that species of motherly satisfaction which very
young men rejoice much in, and older ones are considerably alarmed at.
The play over O’Leary charged himself with the protection of madam,
while I enveloped Emily in her cachmere, and drew her arm within my
own. What my hand had to do with her’s I know not; it remains one of
the unexplained difficulties of that eventful evening. I have, it is
true, a hazy recollection of pressing some very taper and delicately
formed finger—and remember, too, the pain I felt next morning on
awaking, by the pressure of a too tight ring, which had, by some
strange accident, found its way to my finger, for which its size was
but ill adapted.
“You will join us at supper, I hope,” said Mrs. Bingham, as Trevanion
handed her to her carriage. “Mr. Lorrequer, Mr. O’Leary, we shall
expect you.”
I was about to promise to do so, when Trevanion, suddenly interrupted
me, saying that he had already accepted an invitation, which would,
unfortunately, prevent us; and having hastily wished the ladies good
night, hurried me away so abruptly, that I had not a moment given for
even one parting look at the fair Emily.
“Why, Trevanion,” said I, “what invitation are you dreaming of? I, for
one, should have been delighted to have gone home with the Binghams.”
“So I perceived,” said Trevanion, gravely; “and it was for that precise
reason I so firmly refused what, individually, I should have been most
happy to accept.”
“Then, pray, have the goodness to explain.”
“It is easily done. You have already, in recounting your manifold
embarrassments, told me enough of these people, to let me see that they
intend you should marry among them; and, indeed, you have gone quite
far enough to encourage such an expectation. Your present excited state
has led you sufficiently far this evening, and I could not answer for
your not proposing in all form before the supper was over; therefore, I
had no other course open to me than positively to refuse Mrs. Bingham’s
invitation. But here we are now at the ‘Cadran rouge;’ we shall have
our lobster and a glass of Moselle, and then to bed, for we must not
forget that we are to be at St. Cloud by seven.”
“Ah! that is a good thought of yours about the lobster,” said O’Leary;
“and now, as you understand these matters, just order supper, and let
us enjoy ourselves.”
With all the accustomed despatch of a restaurant, a most appetizing
petit souper made its speedy appearance; and although now perfectly
divested of the high excitement which had hitherto possessed me, my
spirits were excellent, and I never more relished our good fare and
good fellowship.
After a full bumper to the health of the fair Emily had been proposed
and drained by all three, Trevanion again explained how much more
serious difficulty would result from any false step in that quarter
than from all my other scrapes collectively.
This he represented so strongly, that for the first time I began to
perceive the train of ill consequences that must inevitably result, and
promised most faithfully to be guided by any counsel he might feel
disposed to give me.
“Ah! what a pity,” said O’Leary, “it is not my case. It’s very little
trouble it would cost any one to break off a match for me. I had always
a most peculiar talent for those things.
“Indeed!” said Trevanion. “Pray, may we know your secret? for, perhaps,
ere long we may have occasion for its employment.”
“Tell it, by all means,” said I.
“If I do,” said O’Leary, “it will cost you a patient hearing; for my
experiences are connected with two episodes in my early life, which,
although not very amusing, are certainly instructive.”
“Oh! by all means, let us hear them,” said Trevanion; “for we have yet
two bottles of chambertin left, and must finish them ere we part.”
“Well, agreed,” said O’Leary; “only, once for all, as what I am about
to confide is strictly confidential, you must promise never even to
allude to it hereafter in even the most remote manner, much less
indulge in any unseemly mirth at what I shall relate.”
Having pledged ourselves to secrecy and a becoming seriousness, O’Leary
began his story as follows:—