It must be confessed, that flattery comes mighty easily to one’s mouth
in the presence of royalty.--Letters of Stephen Montague.
‘Tis he.--How came he thence--what doth he here?--Lara.
I had received for that evening (my last at Paris) an invitation from
the Duchesse de B----. I knew that the party was to be small, and that
very few besides the royal family would compose it. I had owed the
honour of this invitation to my intimacy with the----s, the great
friends of the duchesse, and I promised myself some pleasure in the
engagement.
There were but eight or nine persons present when I entered the royal
chamber. The most distingue of these I recognized immediately as the--.
He came forward with much grace as I approached, and expressed his
pleasure at seeing me.
“You were presented, I think, about a month ago,” added the--, with a
smile of singular fascination; “I remember it well.”
I bowed low to this compliment.
“Do you propose staying long at Paris?” continued the--.
“I protracted,” I replied, “my departure solely for the honour this
evening affords me. In so doing, please your--, I have followed the wise
maxim of keeping the greatest pleasure to the last.”
The royal chevalier bowed to my answer with a smile still sweeter
than before, and began a conversation with me which lasted for several
minutes. I was much struck with the--‘s air and bearing. They possess
great dignity, without any affectation of its assumption. He speaks
peculiarly good English, and the compliment of addressing me in that
language was therefore as judicious as delicate. His observations owed
little to his rank; they would have struck you as appropriate, and the
air which accompanied them pleased you as graceful, even in a simple
individual. Judge, then, if they charmed me in the--. The upper part
of his countenance is prominent and handsome, and his eyes have much
softness of expression. His figure is slight and particularly well
knit; perhaps he is altogether more adapted to strike in private than
in public effect. Upon the whole, he is one of those very few persons
of great rank whom you would have had pride in knowing as an equal, and
have pleasure in acknowledging as a superior.
As the--paused, and turned with great courtesy to the Duc de--, I bowed
my way to the Duchesse de B--. That personage, whose liveliness and
piquancy of manner always make one wish for one’s own sake that her rank
was less exalted, was speaking with great volubility to a tall, stupid
looking man, one of the ministers, and smiled most graciously upon me as
I drew near. She spoke to me of our national amusements. “You are not,”
said she, “so fond of dancing as we are.”
“We have not the same exalted example to be at once our motive and our
model,” said I, in allusion to the duchesse’s well known attachment to
that accomplishment. The Duchesse D’A--came up as I said this, and
the conversation flowed on evenly enough till the--‘s whist party was
formed. His partner was Madame de la R--, the heroine of La Vendee. She
was a tall and very stout woman, singularly lively and entertaining, and
appeared to possess both the moral and the physical energy to accomplish
feats still more noble than those she performed.
I soon saw that it would not do for me to stay very long. I had already
made a favourable impression, and, in such cases, it is my constant
rule immediately to retire. Stay, if it be whole hours, until you have
pleased, but leave the moment after your success. A great genius should
not linger too long either in the salon or the world. He must quit each
with eclat. In obedience to this rule, I no sooner found that my court
had been effectually made than I rose to withdraw.
“You will return soon to Paris,” said the Duchesse de B--.
“I cannot resist it,” I replied. “Mon corps reviendra pour chercher mon
coeur.”
“We shall not forget you,” said the duchesse.
“Your Highness has now given me my only inducement not to return,” I
answered, as I bowed out of the room.
It was much too early to go home; at that time I was too young and
restless to sleep till long after midnight; and while I was deliberating
in what manner to pass the hours, I suddenly recollected the hotel in
the Rue St. Honore, to which Vincent and I had paid so unceremonious
a visit the night before. Impressed with the hope that I might be more
successful in meeting Warburton than I had then been, I ordered the
coachman to drive to the abode of the old Marquis--The salon was as
crowded as usual. I lost a few Napoleons at ecarte in order to pay my
entree, and then commenced a desultory flirtation with one of the fair
decoys. In this occupation my eye and my mind frequently wandered. I
could not divest myself of the hope of once more seeing Warburton
before my departure from Paris, and every reflection which confirmed my
suspicions of his identity redoubled my interest in his connection with
Tyrrell and the vulgar debauche of the Rue St. Dominique. I was making
some languid reply to my Cynthia of the minute, when my ear was suddenly
greeted by an English voice. I looked round, and saw Thornton in close
conversation with a man whose back was turned to me, but whom I rightly
conjectured to be Tyrrell.
“Oh! he’ll be here soon,” said the former, “and we’ll bleed him
regularly to-night. It is very singular that you who play so much better
should not have floored him yesterday evening.”
Tyrrell replied in a tone so low as to be inaudible, and a minute
afterwards the door opened, and Warburton entered. He came up instantly
to Thornton and his companion; and after a few words of ordinary
salutation, Warburton said, in one of those modulated tones so peculiar
to himself, “I am sure, Tyrrell, that you must be eager for your
revenge. To lose to such a mere Tyro as myself, is quite enough to
double the pain of defeat, and the desire of retaliation.”
I did not hear Tyrrell’s reply, but the trio presently moved towards
the door, which till then I had not noticed, and which was probably the
entrance to our hostess’s boudoir. The soi-disant marquise opened it
herself, for which kind office Thornton gave her a leer and a wink,
characteristic of his claims to gallantry. When the door was
again closed upon them, I went up to the marquise, and after a few
compliments, asked whether the room Messieurs les Anglois had entered,
was equally open to all guests?
“Why,” said she, with a slight hesitation, “those gentlemen play for
higher stakes than we usually do here, and one of them is apt to get
irritated by the advice and expostulations of the lookers on; and so
after they had played a short time in the salon last night, Monsieur
Thornton, a very old friend of mine,” (here the lady looked down) “asked
me permission to occupy the inner room; and as I knew him so well, I
could have no scruple in obliging him.”
“Then, I suppose,” said I, “that, as a stranger, I have not permission
to intrude upon them?”
“Shall I inquire?” answered the marquise.
“No!” said I, “it is not worth while;” and accordingly I re-seated
myself, and appeared once more occupied in saying des belles choses
to my kind-hearted neighbour. I could not, however, with all my
dissimulation, sustain a conversation from which my present feelings
were so estranged, for more than a few minutes; and I was never more
glad than when my companion, displeased with my inattention, rose, and
left me to my own reflections.
What could Warburton (if he were the person I suspected) gain by the
disguise he had assumed? He was too rich to profit by any sums he could
win from Tyrrell, and too much removed from Thornton’s station in
life, to derive any pleasure or benefit from his acquaintance with that
person. His dark threats of vengeance in the Jardin des Plantes, and his
reference to the two hundred pounds Tyrrell possessed, gave me, indeed,
some clue as to his real object; but then--why this disguise! Had he
known Tyrrell before, in his proper semblance, and had anything passed
between them, which rendered this concealment now expedient?--this,
indeed, seemed probable enough; but, was Thornton entrusted with the
secret?--and, if revenge was the object, was that low man a partaker
in its execution?--or was he not, more probably, playing the traitor
to both? As for Tyrrell himself, his own designs upon Warburton were
sufficient to prevent pity for any fall into the pit he had dug for
others.
Meanwhile, time passed on, the hour grew late, and the greater part of
the guests were gone; still I could not tear myself away; I looked from
time to time at the door, with an indescribable feeling of anxiety. I
longed, yet dreaded, for it to open; I felt as if my own fate were in
some degree implicated in what was then agitating within, and I could
not resolve to depart, until I had formed some conclusions on the
result.
At length the door opened; Tyrrell came forth--his countenance was
perfectly hueless, his cheek was sunk and hollow, the excitement of two
hours had been sufficient to render it so. I observed that his teeth
were set, and his hand clenched, as they are when we idly seek, by the
strained and extreme tension of the nerves, to sustain the fever and the
agony of the mind. Warburton and Thornton followed him; the latter with
his usual air of reckless indifference--his quick rolling eye glanced
from the marquis to myself, and though his colour changed slightly,
his nod of recognition was made with its wonted impudence and ease; but
Warburton passed on, like Tyrrell, without noticing or heeding any thing
around. He fixed his large bright eye upon the figure which preceded
him, without once altering its direction, and the extreme beauty of his
features, which, not all the dishevelled length of his hair and whiskers
could disguise, was lighted up with a joyous but savage expression,
which made me turn away, almost with a sensation of fear.
Just as Tyrrell was leaving the room, Warburton put his hand upon his
shoulder--“Stay,” said he, “I am going your way, and will accompany
you.” He turned round to Thornton (who was already talking with the
marquis) as he said this, and waved his hand, as if to prevent his
following; the next moment, Tyrrell and himself had left the room.
I could not now remain longer. I felt a feverish restlessness, which
impelled me onwards. I quitted the salon, and was on the escalier before
the gamesters had descended. Warburton was, indeed, but a few steps
before me; the stairs were but very dimly lighted by one expiring lamp;
he did not turn round to see me, and was probably too much engrossed to
hear me.
“You may yet have a favourable reverse,” said he to Tyrrell.
“Impossible!” replied the latter, in a tone of such deep anguish, that
it thrilled me to the very heart. “I am an utter beggar--I have nothing
in the world--I have no expectation but to starve!”
While he was saying this, I perceived by the faint and uncertain light,
that Warburton’s hand was raised to his own countenance.
“Have you no hope--no spot wherein to look for comfort--is beggary your
absolute and only possible resource from famine?” he replied, in a low
and suppressed tone.
At that moment we were just descending into the court-yard. Warburton
was but one step behind Tyrrell: the latter made no answer; but as he
passed from the dark staircase into the clear moonlight of the court, I
caught a glimpse of the big tears which rolled heavily and silently down
his cheeks. Warburton laid his hand upon him.
“Turn,” he cried, suddenly, “your cup is not yet full--look upon me--and
remember!”
I pressed forward--the light shone full upon the countenance of the
speaker--the dark hair was gone--my suspicions were true--I discovered
at one glance the bright locks and lofty brow of Reginald Glanville.
Slowly Tyrrell gazed, as if he were endeavouring to repel some terrible
remembrance, which gathered, with every instant, more fearfully upon
him; until, as the stern countenance of Glanville grew darker and darker
in its mingled scorn and defiance, he uttered one low cry, and sank
senseless upon the earth.