AMONG the penalties great folk pay for their ascendancy, there is one
most remarkable, and that is, the intense interest taken in all their
affairs by hundreds of worthy people who are not of their acquaintance.
This feeling, which transcends every other known description of
sympathy, flourishes in small communities. In the capital of which we
are now speaking, it was at its very highest pitch of development. The
Onslows furnished all the table-talk of the city; but in no circle
were their merits so frequently and ably discussed as in that little
parliament of gossip which held its meetings at the “Villino Zoe.”
Mrs. Ricketts, who was no common diplomatist, had done her utmost to
establish relations of amity with her great neighbor. She had expended
all the arts of courtesy and all the devices of politeness to effect
this entente cordiale; but all in vain. Her advances had been met with
coldness, and “something more;” her perfumed little notes, written in a
style of euphuism all her own, had been left unanswered; her presents of
fruit and flowers unacknowledged, it is but fair to add, that they never
proceeded further than the porter's lodge, even her visiting-cards were
only replied to by the stiff courtesy of cards, left by Lady Hester's
“Chasseur;” so that, in fact, failure had fallen on all her endeavors,
and she had not even attained to the barren honor of a recognition as
they passed in the promenade.
This was a very serious discomfiture, and might, when it got abroad,
have sorely damaged the Ricketts's ascendancy in that large circle, who
were accustomed to regard her as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew
what amount of insubordination might spring out of it! what rebellious
notions might gain currency and credit! It was but the winter before
when a Duchess, who passed through, on her way to Rome, asked “who Mrs.
Ricketts was?” and the shock was felt during the whole season after.
The Vandyk for whose authenticity Martha swore, was actually called in
question. The “Sevres” cup she had herself painted was the subject of a
heresy as astounding. We live in an age of movement and convulsion, no
man's landmarks are safe now, and Mrs. Ricketts knew this.
The Onslows, it was clear, would not know her; it only remained, then,
to show why she would not know them. It was a rare thing to find a
family settling down at Florence against whom a “true bill” might not
easily be found of previous misconduct. Few left England without a
reason that might readily become an allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce
were the light offences; the higher ones we must not speak of. Now
the Onslows, as it happened, were not in this category. Sir Stafford's
character was unimpeachable, her Ladyship's had nothing more grave
against it than the ordinary levities of her station. George “had gone
the pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable attached to him. There
was no use, there fore, in “trying back” for a charge, and Mrs. Ricketts
perceived that they must be arraigned on the very vaguest of evidence.
Many a head has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, and many
a heart been broken on a surmise!
A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan of proceedings. It was
a small auto-da-fe of character at which the Onslows were to be the
victims, while the grand inquisitors were worthily represented by the
Polish Count, Haggerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, then
passing through Florence on his way to England. This gentleman, who was
the reputed son of a supposed son of George the Fourth, was received as
“very good royalty” in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a wig,
a portly chest, and a most imposing pomposity of manner, taken to be
exceedingly like his grandfather, just on the same principle as red
currant jelly makes middling mutton resemble venison.
To get rid of his importunity, a Minister had made him Consul in some
remote village of the East, but finding that there were neither fees nor
perquisites, Foglass had left his post to besiege the doors of Downing
Street once more, and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an admirable
grievance for a Radical Member, and a “very cruel case of oppression”
for the morning papers.
Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, unlike most, if not all other
humbugs, without the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability.
When men are said to live by their wits, their capital is, generally
speaking, a very sufficient one; and that interesting class of persons
known as adventurers numbers many clever talkers, shrewd observers,
subtle tacticians, and admirable billiard-players; with a steady hand on
a pistol, but ready to “pocket” either an “insult” or a “ball.” if the
occasion require it. None of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He
had not one of the qualities which either succeed in the world or in
society, and yet, strange to say, this intolerable bore had a kind of
popularity, that is to say, people gave him a vacant place at their
dinners, and remembered him at picnics.
His whole strength lay in his wig, and a certain slow, measured
intonation which he found often attracted attention to what he said,
and gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, Munden, and Mathews the
semblance of a point they never possessed. Latterly, however, he had
grown deaf, and, like most who suffer under that infirmity, taken to
speaking in a whisper so low as to be inaudible, a piece of politeness
for which even our reader will be grateful, as it will spare him the
misery of his twaddle.
Haggerstone and he were intimates were it not a profanation of the
word, we should say friends. They were, however, always together; and
Haggerstone took pains to speak of his companion as a “monstrous clever
fellow, who required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl probably
discovered the true secret of the alliance in the fact that they always
talked to each other about the nobility, and never gave them their
titles, an illusory familiarity with Dukes and Earls that appeared to
render them supremely happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and Stanley
were in their mouths as “household words.”
After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime; and if these “Imaginary
Conversations” gave them pleasure, why need we grumble?
We have scruples about asking our reader even to a description of the
Ricketts's dinner. It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a very showy
bouquet of flowers: there was a lavish display of what seemed silver;
there was a good deal of queer china and impracticable glass; in
short, much to look at, and very little to eat. Of this fact the Pole's
appreciation was like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed round,
all who came after him became soon aware of. Neither the wine nor the
dessert were temptations to a long sitting, and the party soon found
themselves in the drawing-room.
“Son Excellence is going to England?” said the Pole, addressing Foglass,
who had been announced as an Ambassador; “if you do see de Count
Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, as well as a poor exile can, who
have lost palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de rest.”
“Ah! the poor dear Count!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, while Martha prolonged
the echo.
“You carry on the war tolerably well, notwithstanding,” said
Haggerstone, who knew something of the other's resources in piquet and
ecarte.
“Carry on de war!” rejoined he, indignantly; “wid my fader, who work in
de mines; and my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de streets of
Crakow!”
“What kind of climate have they in Crak-Crak-Crak--” A fit of coughing
finished a question which nobody thought of answering; and Purvis sat
down, abashed, in a corner.
“Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts, she was great at a diversion,
whenever such a tactic was wanted, “do you hear what Colonel Haggerstone
has been saying?”
“No, dearest,” muttered the old General, as he worked away with rule and
compass.
“He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, “that the Onslows have
separated. Not an open, formal separation, but that they occupy distinct
apartments, and hold no intercourse whatever.”
“Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee” said Haggerstone, who,
having already told the story seven times the same morning, was quite
perfect in the recital, “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee, with
a small door into the garden. My Lady retains the entire first floor
and the grand conservatory. George has a small garcon apartment off the
terrace.”
“Ho! very distressing!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, whose woe-worn looks
seemed to imply that she had never heard of a similar incident before;
“and how unlike us, Arthur!” added she, with a smile of beaming
affection. “He has ever been what you see him, since the day he stole my
young, unsuspecting heart.”
The Colonel looked over at the object thus designated, and, by the grin
of malice on his features, appeared to infer that the compliment was but
a sorry one, after all.
“'John Anderson my Jo, John,'” muttered he, half aloud.
“'We've climbed the hill toge-ge-ge-ther,'” chimed in Purvis, with a
cackle.
“Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” cried Haggerstone.
“Don't quote that low-lived creature,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “a poet only
conversant with peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our own order.
What of these poor Onslows?”
“Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cutlet, a vegetable, and a cherry
tart; two glasses of Gordon's sherry, and a cup of coffee.”
“Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” broke in Purvis, who was bursting
with jealousy at the accuracy of the other's narrative.
“You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped Haggerstone. “Nobody does take
milk-coffee after dinner.”
“I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I can't get mara-mara-mara--”
“I hope you can get maraschino down easier than you pronounce it, sir.”
“Be quiet, Scroope,” said his sister; “you always interrupt.”
“He do make de devil of misverstandness wit his whatye-call-'em,” added
the Pole, contemptuously.
And poor Purvis, rebuked on every side, was obliged to fall back beside
Martha and her embroidery.
“My Lady,” resumed Haggerstone, “is served at eleven o'clock. The moment
Granzini's solo is over in the ballet, an express is sent off to order
dinner. The table is far more costly than Midchekoff's.”
“I do believe well,” said the Count, who always, for nationality's sake,
deemed it proper to abuse the Russian. “De Midchekoff cook tell me he
have but ten paoli how you say par tete by the tete for his dinner; dat
to include everyting, from the caviar to de sheeze.”
“That was not the style at the Pavilion formerly,” roared out
Haggerstone, repeating the remark in Foglass's ear.
And the ex-consul smiled blandly towards Mrs. Ricketts, and said he 'd
take anything to England for her “with pleasure.”
“He 's worse than ever,” remarked Haggerstone, irritably. “When people
have a natural infirmity, they ought to confine themselves to their own
room.”
“Particularly when it is one of the tem-tem-temper,” said Purvis, almost
choked with passion.
“Better a hasty temper than an impracticable tongue, sir.” said
Haggerstone.
“Be quiet, Scroope,” added Mrs. Ricketts; and he was still. Then,
turning to the Colonel, she went on: “How thankful we ought to be that
we never knew these people! They brought letters to us, some, indeed,
from dear and valued friends. That sweet Diana Comerton, who married
the Duke of Ellewater, wrote a most pressing entreaty that I should call
upon them.”
“She did n't marry the Duke; she married his chap-chaplain,” chimed in
Purvis.
“Will you be quiet, Scroope?” remarked the lady.
“I ought to know,” rejoined he, grown courageous in the goodness of his
cause. “He was Bob Nutty. Bitter Bob, we always called him at school. He
had a kind of a poly-poly-poly--”
“A polyanthus,” suggested Haggerstone.
“No. It was a poly-polypus a polypus, that made him snuffle in his
speech.”
“Ach Gott!” sighed the Pole; but whether in sorrow for poor “Bob,” or in
utter weariness at his historian, was hard to say.
“Lady Foxington, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts, “made a serious request that
we should be intimate with her friend Lady Hester. She was candid enough
to say that her Ladyship would not suit me. 'She has no soul, Zoe,'
wrote she, 'so I need n't say more.'”
“Dat is ver bad,” said the Pole, gravely.
“Still, I should have made her acquaintance, for the sake of that young
creature Miss Dalton, I think they call her and whom I rather suspect to
be a distant cousin of ours.”
“Yes; there were Dawkinses at Exeter a very respectable solicitor,
one was, Joe Dawkins,” came in Purvis; “and he used to say we were
co-co-co-connections.”
“This family, sir, is called Dalton, and not even a stutter can make
that Dawkins.”
“Couldn't your friend Mr. Foglass find out something about these Daltons
for us, as he goes through Germany?” asked Mrs. Ricketts of the Colonel.
“No one could execute such a commission better, madam, only you must
give him his instructions in writing. Foglass,” added he, at the top of
his voice, “let me have your note-book for a moment.”
“With pleasure,” said he, presenting his snuff-box.
“No; your memorandum-book,” screamed the other, louder.
“It's gone down,” whispered the deaf man. “I lost the key on Tuesday
last.”
“Not your watch, man. I want to write a line in your note-book;” and he
made a pantomimic of writing.
“Yes, certainly; if Mrs. R. will permit, I'll write to her with
pleasure.”
“Confound him!” muttered Haggerstone; and, taking up a visiting-card, he
wrote on the back of it, “Could you trace the Daltons as you go back by
Baden?”
The deaf man at once brightened up; a look of shrewd intelligence
lighted up his fishy eyes as he said,
“Yes, of course; say, what do you want?”
“Antecedents family fortune,” wrote Haggerstone.
“If dey have de tin,” chimed in the Pole.
“If they be moral and of irreproachable reputation,” said Mrs. Ricketts.
“Are they related to the other Dawkinses?” asked Purvis. “Let him ask if
their mother was not godfather to no, I mean grandfather to the Reverend
Jere-Jere-Jere--”
“Be quiet, Scroope will you be quiet?”
“There, you have it all, now,” said Haggerstone, as he finished writing;
“their 'family, fortune, flaws, and frailties' 'what they did, and where
they did it' observing accuracy as to Christian names, and as many
dates as possible.”
“I'll do it,” said Foglass, as he read over the “instruction.”
“We want it soon, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Tell him we shall need the
information at once.”
“This with speed,” wrote Haggerstone at the foot of the memorandum.
Foglass bowed a deep assent.
“How like his grandfather!” said Mrs. Ricketts, in ecstasy.
“I never knew he had one,” whispered Haggerstone to the Pole. “His
father was a coachmaker in Long Acre.”
“Is he not thought very like them?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with a sidelong
glance of admiration at the auburn peruke.
“I've heard that the wig is authentic, madam.”
“He has so much of that regal urbanity in his manner.”
“If he is not the first gentleman of England,” muttered Haggerstone to
himself, “he is the first one in his own family, at least.”
“By the way,” said Mrs. Ricketts, hastily, “let him inquire into that
affair of Lord Norwood.”
“No necessity, madam. The affair is in 'Bell's Life,' with the
significant question, 'Where is he?' But he can learn the particulars,
at all events.” And he made a note in the book.
“How dreadful all this, and how sad to think Florence should be the
resort of such people!”
“If it were not for rapparees and refugees, madam, house-rent would be
very inexpensive,” said the Colonel, in a subdued voice; while,
turning to the Pole, he added, “and if respectability is to be always
a caricature, I'd as soon have its opposite. I suppose you do not admit
the Viscount, madam?”
“He has not ventured to present himself,” said Mrs. Ricketts, proudly.
“I hope that there is, at least, one sanctuary where virtue can live
unmolested.” And, as she spoke, she looked over at Martha, who was
working away patiently; but whether happy in the exclusive tariff
aforesaid, or somewhat tired of “protection,” we are unable to say.
“What has he do?” asked the Count.
“He has done the 'ring' all round, I believe,” said Haggerstone,
chuckling at a joke which he alone could appreciate.
“Dey do talk of play in England!” said the Pole, contemptuously. “Dey
never do play high, wit there leetle how do you call 'em? bets, of tree,
four guinea, at ecarte. But in Polen we have two, tree, five tousand
crowns on each card. Dere, crack! you lose a fortune, or I do win one!
One evening at Garowidsky's I do lose one estate of seventeen million
florins, but I no care noting for all dat! I was ver rich, wit my
palaces and de mayorat how you call dat?”
Before this question could be answered, the servant threw open the
double door of the salon, and announced, “Milordo Norwood!” A shell
might have burst in the apartment and not created much more confusion.
Mrs. Ricketts gave a look at Martha, as though to assure herself that
she was in safety. Poor Martha's own fingers trembled as she bent over
her frame. Haggerstone buttoned up his coat and arranged his cravat with
the air of a man so consummate a tactician that he could actually roll
himself in pitch and yet never catch the odor; while Purvis, whose dread
of a duel list exceeded his fear of a mad dog, ensconced himself behind
a stand of geraniums, where he resolved to live in a state of retirement
until the terrible Viscount had withdrawn. As for the Count, a
preparatory touch at his moustache, and a slight arrangement of his
hair, sufficed him to meet anything; and as these were the ordinary
details of his daily toilet, he performed them with a rapidity quite
instinctive.
To present oneself in a room where one's appearance is unacceptable is,
perhaps, no slight test of tact, manner, and effrontery; to be actually
indifferent to the feelings around is to be insensible to the danger;
to see the peril, and yet appear not to notice it, constitutes the true
line of action. Lord Norwood was perfect in this piece of performance,
and there was neither exaggerated cordiality nor any semblance of
constraint in his manner as he advanced to Mrs. Ricketts, and taking her
hand, pressed it respectfully to his lips.
“This salutation,” said he, gayly, “is a commission from Lord
Kennycroft, your old and constant admirer. It was his last word as we
parted: 'Kiss Mrs. Ricketts's hand for me, and say I am faithful as
ever.'”
“Poor dear Lord! General, here is Lord Norwood come to see us.”
“How good of him how very kind! Just arrived from the East, my Lord?”
said he, shaking Foglass by the hand in mistake.
“No, sir; from Malta.” He wouldn't say England, for reasons. “Miss
Ricketts, I am most happy to see you and still occupied with the fine
arts? Haggy, how d'ye do? Really it seems to me like yesterday since I
sat here last in this delightful arm-chair, and looked about me on all
these dear familiar objects. You 've varnished the Correggio, I think?”
“The Vandyk, my Lord.”
“To be sure the Vandyk. How stupid I am! Indeed, Lady Foxington said
that not all your culture would ever make anything of me.”
“How is Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, this being the familiar for
Lady F.
“Just as you saw her last. Thinner, perhaps, but looking admirably.”
“And the dear Duke how is he?”
“Gouty always gouty but able to be about.”
“I am so glad to hear it. It is so refreshing to talk of old friends.”
“They are always talking of you. I'm sure, 'Zoe' forgive me the liberty
Zoe Ricketts is an authority on every subject of taste and literature.”
“How did you come here, my Lord?” whispered Haggerstone.
“The new opera broke down, and there is no house open before twelve,”
was the hasty reply.
“Is Jemima married, my Lord?”
“No. There 's something or other wrong about the settlements. Who's the
foreigner, Haggy?”
“A Pole. Petrolaffsky.”
“No, no not a bit of it. _I_ know him,” said the other, rapidly; then,
turning to Mrs. Ricketts, he grew warmly interested in the private life
and adventures of the nobility, for all of whom she entertained a most
catholic affection.
It was, indeed, a grand field-day for the peerage; even to the
“Pensioners” all were under arms. It was a review such as she rarely
enjoyed, and certainly she “improved the occasion.” She scattered
about her noble personages with the profusion of a child strewing
wild-flowers. There were Dukes she had known from their cradles;
Marchionesses with whom she had disported in childhood; Earls and
Viscounts who had been her earliest playmates; not to speak of a more
advanced stage in her history, when all these distinguished individuals
were suppliants and suitors. To listen to her, you would swear that she
had never played shuttlecock with anything under an Earl, nor trundled
a hoop with aught below a Lord in Waiting! Norwood fooled her to the
top of her bent. To use his own phrase, “he left her easy hazards, and
everything on the balls.” It is needless to state that, in such pleasant
converse, she had no memory for the noble Viscount's own transgressions.
He might have robbed the Exchequer, or stolen the Crown jewels, for
anything that she could recollect! and when, by a seeming accident, he
did allude to Newmarket, and lament his most “unlucky book,” she smiled
complacently, as though to say that he could afford himself even the
luxury of being ruined, and not care for it.
“Florence is pretty much as it used to be, I suppose,” said he; “and one
really needs one's friends to rebut and refute foolish rumors, when they
get abroad. Now, you 'll oblige me by contradicting, if you ever hear,
this absurd story. I neither did win forty thousand from the Duke
of Stratton, nor shoot him in a duel for non-payment.” Both these
derelictions were invented on the moment. “You 'll hear fifty other
similar offences laid to my charge; and I trust to you and the Onslows
for the refutation. In fact, it is the duty of one's own class to defend
'their order.'”
Mrs. Ricketts smiled blandly, and bowed, bowed as though her gauze
turban had been a coronet, and the tinsel finery jewelled strawberry
leaves! To be coupled with the Onslows in the defence of a viscount was
a proud thought. What if it might be made a grand reality?
“Apropos of the Onslows, my Lord,” said she, insidiously, “you are very
intimate with them. How is it that we have seen so little of each other?
Are we not congenial spirits?”
“Good Heavens! I thought you were like sisters. There never were people
so made for each other. All your tastes, habits, associations forgive
me, if I say your very, antipathies are alike; for you both are
unforgiving enemies of vulgarity. Depend upon it, there has been some
underhand influence at work. Rely on 't, that evil tongues have kept you
apart.” This he said in a whisper, and with a sidelong glance towards
where Haggerstone sat at ecarte with the Pole.
“Do you really think so?” asked she, reddening with anger, as she
followed the direction of his eyes.
“I can hit upon no other solution of the mystery,” said he,
thoughtfully; “but know it I will, and must. You know, of course, that
they can't endure him?”
“No, I never heard that.”
“It is not mere dislike, it is actual detestation. I have striven to
moderate the feeling. I have said, 'True enough, the man is bad ton,
but you needn't admit him to anything like intimacy. Let him come and go
with the herd you receive at your large parties, and, above all, never
repeat anything after him, for he has always the vulgar version of every
incident in high life.'”
Mrs. Ricketts raised her arched eyebrows and looked astonished; but it
was a feeling in which acquiescence was beautifully blended, and the
Viscount marked it well.
“You must tell me something of this Miss Dalton,” said he, drawing his
chair closer; “they affect a kind of mystery about her. Who is she? What
is she?”
“There are various versions of her story abroad,” said Mrs. Ricketts,
who now spoke like the Chief Justice delivering a charge. “Some say that
she is a natural daughter of Sir Stafford's; some aver that she is
the last of a distinguished family whose fortune was embezzled by the
Onslows; others assert that she is a half-sister of Lady Hester's own;
but who ought to know the truth better than you, my Lord?”
“I know absolutely nothing. She joined them in Germany; but where, when,
and how, I never heard.”
“I 'll soon be able to inform you, my Lord, on every detail of the
matter,” said she, proudly. “Our kind friend, yonder, Mr. Foglass, has
undertaken to discover everything. Mr. F., will you touch his arm forme,
Martha?” and, the gentleman being aroused to consciousness, now arose,
and approached Mrs. Ricketts's chair, “may I be permitted to take a
glance at your note-book?” This speech was accompanied by a pantomimic
gesture which he quickly understood. “I wish to show you, my Lord,” said
she, addressing the Viscount, “that we proceed most methodically in our
searches after title, as I sometimes call it ha, ha, ha! Now, here is
the precious little volume, and this will explain the degree of accuracy
such an investigation demands. This comes of living abroad, my Lord,”
added she, with a smile. “One never can be too cautious, never too
guarded in one's intimacies. The number of dubious people one meets
with, the equivocal characters that somehow obtain a footing in society
here, I really must ask you to decipher these ingenious hieroglyphics
yourself.” And she handed the book to his Lordship.
He took it courteously at the spot she opened it; and as his eyes fell
upon the page, a slight very slight flush rose to his cheek, while
he continued to read the lines before him more than once over. “Very
explicit, certainly!” said he, while a smile of strange meaning curled
his lip; and then, closing the book, he returned it to the lady's hand;
not, however, before he had adroitly torn out the page he had been
looking at, and which contained the following words: “Norwood's affair
the precise story of the N. M. business if cut in England, and scratched
at the 'Whip.'”
“I cannot sufficiently commend either your caution or your tact, Mrs.
Ricketts,” said he, bowing urbanely. “Without a little scrutiny of this
kind our salons would be overrun with blacklegs and bad characters!”
It was now late, late enough for Lady Hester, and the Viscount rose
to take his leave. He was perfectly satisfied with the results of his
visit. He had secretly enjoyed all the absurdities of his hostess, and
even stored up some of her charming flights for repetition elsewhere.
He had damaged Haggerstone, whose evil-speaking he dreaded, and, by
impugning his good breeding, had despoiled him of all credit. He had
seen the Polish Count in a society which, even such as it was, was
many degrees above his pretensions; and although they met without
recognition, a masonic glance of intelligence had passed between them;
and, lastly, he had made an ally of the dear Zoe herself, ready to
swear to his good character, and vouch for the spotless honor of all his
dealings on turf or card-table.
“Has he explained the Newmarket affair, madam?” said Haggerstone, as the
door closed on the Viscount's departure.
“Perfectly, Colonel; there is not the shadow of a suspicion against
him.”
“And so he was not scr-scr-scratched at the 'Whip'?” cried Purvis,
emerging from his leafy retreat.
“Nothing of the kind, Scroope.”
“A scratch, but not a wound, perhaps,” said Haggerstone, with a grin of
malice.
“I am ver happy please ver moosh,” said the Count, “for de sake of de
order. I am republiquecain, but never forget I 'm de noble blood!”
“Beautiful sentiment!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, enthusiastically.
“Martha, did you hear what the Count said? General, I hope you didn't
lose it?”
“I was alway for de cause of de people,” said the Count, throwing back
his hair wildly, and seeming as if ready to do battle at a moment's
warning.
“For an anti-monarchist, he turns up the king wonderfully often at
ecarte” said Haggerstone, in a low muttering, only overheard by Martha.
“I don't think the demo-demo-demo” But before Purvis had finished his
polysyllabic word, the company had time to make their farewell speeches
and depart. Indeed, as the servant came to extinguish the lamps, he
found the patient Purvis very red in the face, and with other signs of
excitement, deeply seated in a chair, and as if struggling against an
access of suffocation.
What the profound sentiment which he desired to enunciate might
therefore be, is lost to history, and this true narrative is unable to
record.