M. Le Comte De Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card-party some
few weeks after the coming of Mr. Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates
were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half-past five all the
guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was
comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece.
"Now what comes to Philippe?" he inquired of no one in particular.
"Where is the child?"
"He was at the ball last night," said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his
ruffles. "He left early and in great haste." He raised his eyes
and they were twinkling. "The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de
Marcherand's right ear inspired him and he fled."
"Fled? Why?"
"I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour."
Saint-Dantin flung up his hands.
"May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it's
that that keeps him now."
Paul de Vangrisse turned his head.
"Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?"
"But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a
ballade to Julie de Marcherand's pearl."
De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling.
"Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him _en
déshabillé_, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to
some word which I have forgot. So I left him."
"Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?" asked De Bergeret
plaintively.
De Vangrisse shook his head.
"One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true _cavalier_; one
may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not
say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it."
"Oh, he believes it, _au fond_," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him
to pretend. Ah, here he is!"
Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a
rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with
a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the
parchment roll triumphantly.
Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him.
"But of a lateness, Philippe," he cried, holding out his hands.
"A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour
ago."
"A rondeau?" said De Vangrisse. "This morning it was a ballade!"
"This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a
sonnet!"
"_A Dieu ne plaise!_" exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly.
"Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three
this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this
morning, Paul?"
"You asked me for a rhyme," De Vangrisse reminded him.
"So I did! A rhyme for _tout_ and _fou_, and you gave me _chou_!"
"Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled."
"_Chou!_" repeated Philip with awful scorn. "_Chou!_"
Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him.
"You shall read it to us later," he promised. "But now you will dine."
"It goes well before meat," pleaded Philip.
He was answered by ribald protests.
"I'll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach," declared the
Vicomte. "Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups."
"You have no soul," said Philip sadly.
"But I have a stomach, _petit Anglais_, and it cries aloud for
sustenance."
"I weep for you," said Philip. "Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?"
Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door.
"_Parbleu_, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to
us at dinner."
* * * * *
Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded
across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty
argument with De Bergeret.
"_A propos_, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!"
"Which so dear friend?" asked Philip. "Jules, if you maintain in the
face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in
the matter of--"
"But attend!" insisted the Vicomte. "The Englishman--the
Bancroft--_peste_, what a name for my tongue!"
Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in
the candlelight.
"Bancroft? What does he say of me?"
"A great deal, if all I hear is true."
Philip set down his glass.
"Indeed! Now, what might you have heard, De Ravel?"
"It would appear that _ce cher_ Bancroft feels no love for you, _mon
pauvre_. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here.
He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad."
"Yes," said Philip. He frowned. "Very sad. But what does he say?"
"He divulges your close-guarded secret," said the Vicomte solemnly.
"Oh!" Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table.
"It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft.
Continue, Charles!"
"He speaks of a lady in 'Leetle Feeteldean' who has blue, blue eyes,
and--"
"Shall we pass over her eyes?" smiled Philip.
"But certainly! Her hair--"
"And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?"
"He is very much in love," loudly whispered De Bergeret.
Philip flashed a smile at him.
"Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte."
The Vicomte sipped his wine.
"M. Bancroft, he told of your--ah--infatuation. He described the
lady--oh, fully!"
The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly
compressed. Philip nodded.
"_Allons! Allons!_"
"Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-halls amuse you?" asked
Saint-Dantin sharply.
But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke.
"A pretty piece, he called her, but no more than a simple country
wench. By name--"
"Oh, have done!" exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently.
"But no!" Philip waved him aside. "I am very interested in what M'sieur
has to say."
"By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love
with him for his _beaux yeux_ and his so charming manner."
"Ah!" Philip's chin sank into his cupped palms. "_Et puis?_"
"It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with
his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this
M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, 'What of the pretty
Cleone?' he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he
wearied of her as of all others."
Saint-Dantin's crisp voice cut into the sudden silence.
"Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived
in his duel with Mardry last month. A--"
"I will ask Paul to show me that pass," said Philip. He leaned back
in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his
interrupted discussion with De Bergeret.
Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside.
"Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is
incorrigible!"
"On the contrary, I am grateful to him," replied Philip. "I might not
have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow's mouth."
"How?" asked Saint-Dantin blankly.
Philip made an imaginary pass in the air.
"Short of killing him," objected Saint-Dantin, "I don't see--"
"Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to--uphold me?"
"Of course. But what do you mean to do?"
"First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure
him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my
lady's name in public."
Saint-Dantin nodded.
"I'll vouch for those here to-night."
"Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send
François to administer a little beating. It is well."
The Comte laughed outright.
"Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cleone of so great
account?"
Philip drew himself up.
"She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife."
"_Comment?_ Your wife? _Ah, voyons! Cela change l'affaire!_ I did not
know that. Stop his talk, by all means."
"It's what I am going to do," said Philip. "_Scélérat!_"
"With a vile taste for pink, _hein_? You'll call upon me?"
"If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret."
"Saint-Dantin, a wager!" called De Vangrisse. "What are you talking of
so earnestly?"
"Of pink coats," answered Philip. "Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?"
"Devil take your rondeau!" cried the Vicomte. "Come and hazard a throw
with me."
"_A l'instant!_" Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread
out the parchment. "I insist that you shall listen to this product of
my brain!" He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and
left in mock solemnity. "To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.
"_Cette petite perle qui tremblotte_
_Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte_
_Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin._
_A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,_
_Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote._
"_A regarder c'est toute une gavotte_
_Où l'on s'avance, se penche, et pivote,_
_Lors que tu branles d'un movement fin_
_Cette petite perle._
"_C'est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte--_
_Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte--_
_Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin_
_M'attire, m'éblouit, m'égare--_"
Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a
flash interjected:
"_Enfin,_
_Elle m'embête--saperlipopette!--_
_Cette petite perle._"
Outraged, Philip threw the parchment at his head.