In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little
Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that
Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when
there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his _affaire_ had
blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came
to Paris in search of new pastimes.
It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting
was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de
Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry.
He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little
lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of
the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was
not unknown in Paris.
Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried
out, clapping her hands:
"_Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?_"
A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted,
perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee
before her.
"At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!"
Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss.
"And where have you been this long while, _vaurien_?"
Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.
"Languishing in outer darkness, _chérie_."
"The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin.
"Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!"
Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle's hand.
"Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?"
Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan.
"_Voyons!_ Have you finished with my hand?"
Instantly he turned back to her.
"I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am
much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And
one for the lovely whole. _Voilà!_"
"You are indeed a rogue," she told him. "For you care--not one jot!"
"If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve," he answered gaily.
"You don't deceive me, _le petit Philippe_!... So sweet, so amiable, so
great a flatterer--with no heart to lose!"
"Rumour hath it that 'tis already lost," smiled De Bergeret. "Eh,
Philippe?"
"Lost an hundred times," mourned Philip, "and retrieved never!"
"Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art,
and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!"
"Alack!" Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his
handkerchief. "I give you thanks, _mignonne_, 'twas very hard."
"But you do not say! How is she, la Pompadour?" cried De Salmy.
Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.
"La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not
black."
Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.
Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment
Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Bancroft. '"Tis never Mr. Jettan?"
"_Que lui dit-il?_" asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in
English.
Philip bowed distantly.
"M'sieur?"
"You've not forgotten me? Bancroft?"
"Ah--Mr. Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir." He bowed again.
"Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! _Nom de Dieu!_"
"Aha, that I understand!" said Mademoiselle relievedly. "It is one of
your friends, Philippe?" She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth,
and extended her hand. "_L'ami de Philippe_--ah, but you should have
said!"
Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip's friend, but he
bowed over Mademoiselle's hand with a good grace.
"I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we
met was--in a wood."
"Tell!" besought the lady.
Philip threw out his hands.
"Ah, no, _chérie_! That meeting was so disastrous to my vanity!"
"_Raison de plus_," decided Mademoiselle. "Tell me about it!"
"Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we
settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted."
"_You?_" cried Mademoiselle. "Impossible!"
"On the contrary, _bien aimée_; I was, in those days, a very sorry
spectacle, was I not, sir?"
"Not so long since," said Mr. Bancroft.
"Six months," nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de
Saint-Dantin.
Mademoiselle was still incredulous.
"A sorry spectacle? Philippe?"
"I scent an intrigue," said a little Vicomte. "Clothilde, make him
tell!"
"Of course," she said. "Philippe!"
Philip swung neatly round to face her.
"_Chère Clothilde?_"
"Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle.
If you refuse--_bien_! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!"
"Oh, I'll give away no man's secrets!" simpered Bancroft.
Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately.
Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.
"_Petite ange_, it's a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country,
and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of
my ways, and now--_me voici_!"
"I said that I scented an intrigue," said the Vicomte tranquilly.
"But wait, wait! _You_ in the country, Philippe? You jest!"
"On my honour, no, _chérie_! I came to Paris to learn the ways of
Polite Society."
"Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit?
You learned all this in so short a time?"
"I have a natural aptitude," smiled Philip. "Now are you satisfied?"
"_Je n'en reviendrai jamais!_" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically.
"_Jamais, jamais, jamais!_"
"I am not at all satisfied."
Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte.
"What more would you have?"
"I would know of what like she is."
"She?"
"The lady to whom your heart is lost."
"That's an hundred she's," replied Philip airily. "And they are all
different!"
"I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel," drawled Bancroft.
All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He
was smiling faintly.
"Proceed, _mon ami_. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?"
"Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!"
Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the
bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge.
"If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible
that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with
that lady's name," he said softly.
There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in
Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.
"The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be
permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is
roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.
"He is very fastidious," sneered Bancroft.
M. le Comte closed his snuff-box and stepped back. He became politely
bored.
"The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you
dance?"
Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.
"I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together
they walked away from the little group.
Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.
"Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out
la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.
"It's too fatiguing," said Philip. "I'll come."
"Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte,
when they were out of earshot.
"A creature of no importance," shrugged Philip.
"So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger?"
"Yes," admitted Philip. "I do not like the colour of his coat."
"You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like
anything about him. He was here before--last year. His conversation
lacks _finesse_. He is tolerated in London, _hein_?"
"I don't know. I trust not."
"_Hé, hé!_ So he interfered between you and the lady?"
Philip withdrew his arm.
"Saint-Dantin!"
"Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks--a
lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?"
"Am I cold?"
"At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?"
"Certainly it is so. It's unfashionable to possess a heart."
"Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue."
"So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest
indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the
title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one
and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject."
"Ah, no!" begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. "Your sonnets are vile,
Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you
can do, but, _sacré nom de Dieu_, your verse--!"
"Alas!" sighed Philip, "'tis my only ambition. I shall persevere."
Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the card-room.
"Your only ambition, Philippe?"
"For the moment," answered Philip sweetly. "All things pall on one
after a time."
"Save the greatest ambition?" Saint-Dantin's eyes were purely
mischievous.
"You are as inquisitive as a monkey," said Philip, and propelled him
into the card-room.
* * * * *
"For how long has that fellow lorded it here?" asked Bancroft of his
friend.