The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they repaired to the
theatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Coningsby
a haughty, but not ungracious bow; which he returned, unconscious of
the person to whom he bent. She was, however, a striking person; not
beautiful, her face, indeed, at the first glance was almost repulsive,
yet it ever attracted a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished
her; her features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were
her eyes fine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of no
ordinary character or capacity. Her figure was as fine and commanding as
her face was void of charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immortality,
could have presented nothing more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she
swept along like a resistless Fate.
Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet
of the performance. It announced in striking characters the _début_ of
Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, came
forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to the
Grand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was
ready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were
following; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her
beau.
It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated here
and there; the painting just touched; a little gilding on a cornice.
There were no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended, was
carpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with a
new and rich curtain of green velvet.
They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied
by another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody
evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the
scene. In a moment the curtain will rise also.
‘Have you seen Lucretia?’ said the Princess to Coningsby. ‘She is so
anxious to resume her acquaintance with you.’
But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose.
The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward and maintained
a conversation with his housekeeper; not bad. The young woman who played
the grave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite,
and was ever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully
furnished; a table with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a
lap-dog on a cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially
the ladies; they like to recognise signs of _bon ton_ in the details of
the scene. A rather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was
greeted with even vehement approbation. Her agitation is extreme;
she curtseys and bows her head, as if to hide her face. The face was
pleasing, and pretty enough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and
rather graceful. Nothing could be more perfect than her costume; purely
white, but the fashion consummate; a single rose her only ornament. All
admitted that her hair was arranged to admiration.
At length she spoke; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution,
though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, and
nodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien,
that she instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not
long, but it was successful.
Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one
of the act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and
rather of an impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He
entered first on the stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed
with more spirit. You would not have given him five-and-twenty years; he
seemed redolent of youth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied
the most distinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had
outdone them all. The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great
connoisseur, a celebrated French nobleman, Count D’O----y, who had been
one of the guests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch
of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box.
Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not
seem, however, that in the interval she had gained courage; she looked
agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned.
She had to speak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to
confess that she loved another; her emotion was exquisitely performed,
the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout
the audience, a dead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of
the unrivalled artist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but
while they were fascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The
emotion was the disturbance of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of
her tones thrilled from the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with
all the exhaustion of woe; an expression of agony flitted over her
countenance; and she burst into tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and
carried, rather than led, her from the stage; the audience looking at
each other, some of them suspecting that this movement was a part of the
scene.
‘She has talent,’ said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress,
‘but wants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the
provinces.’
At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret
that the sudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it
impossible for the company to proceed with the piece; but that the
curtain would descend to rise again for the second and last piece
announced.
All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted the
heroines now came forward and disported most jocundly. The failure of
Flora had given fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed
the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in male
attire; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of
the field. She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his
grandpapa.
The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused,
chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to
the saloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances.
Nobody thought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her
in her grief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her
future. And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least,
thought one of the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd,
absorbed in their coming amusements.
Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with great
advantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from the
beginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound.
He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled from the cruelty
and the callousness that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy,
could leave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and
who was suffering for her trial.
He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora.
They pointed to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora was
sitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque was
there, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress in
which he had performed in the last piece.
‘I took the liberty,’ said Coningsby, ‘of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;’
and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, ‘I am sure
my grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for making
such exertions when you were suffering under so much indisposition.’
‘This is very amiable of you, sir,’ said the young lady, looking at him
with earnestness.
‘Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,’ said Villebecque, making an
observation by way of diversion.
‘And yet that must be the soul of fine acting,’ said Coningsby; ‘I look
forward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion on
which you will favour us.’
‘Never!’ said La Petite, in a plaintive tone; ‘oh, I hope, never!’
‘Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,’ said Coningsby, ‘how much
her talent is appreciated. I assure you, sir,’ he added, turning
to Villebecque, ‘I heard but one opinion, but one expression of
gratification at her feeling and her fine taste.’
‘The talent is hereditary,’ said Villebecque.
‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ said Coningsby.
‘Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much of
another this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir,
to reassure Mademoiselle.’
‘I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our sakes as well
as her own, her indisposition.’
‘It is not indisposition,’ said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyes
cast down.
‘Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a first
appearance,’ said Villebecque.
‘A last appearance,’ said La Petite: ‘yes, it must be the last.’ She
rose gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his
breast, and placed her arms round his neck, ‘My father, my best father,
yes, say it is the last.’
‘You are the mistress of your lot, Flora,’ said Villebecque; ‘but with
such a distinguished talent--’
‘No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am
not of those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still
life. I have no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to
me than the stage.’
‘But you hear what this gentleman says,’ said Villebecque, returning
her embrace. ‘He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I
believe, sir, that every one, that--’
‘Oh, no, no, no!’ said Flora, shaking her head. ‘He comes here because
he is generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe the
soul that he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for
me and before me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your
daughter have parted for ever.’
‘Nay, Mademoiselle,’ said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take her
hand, a soft hand, ‘make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque
can have no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me,
‘tis not I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must
respect you.’
‘I prefer respect to admiration,’ said Flora; ‘but I fear that respect
is not the appanage of such as I am.’
‘All must respect those who respect themselves,’ said Coningsby. ‘Adieu,
Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.’ He bowed
to Villebecque and retired.
In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very different
character from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to
brilliancy, groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, universal
content, and Russian dances!
‘And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?’ said
Madame Colonna.
‘I cannot dance at all,’ said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose his
pride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton he had thought it
spirited to despise.
‘Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you,’
said the Princess; ‘nothing will please her so much.’
On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in the
entertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in being
instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess
was all very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not
pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them
trying to put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every
other occasion, proved herself a more finished performer than even the
Russians themselves.
Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter.
They were people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man
of good estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey
was even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she
could sing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress
of the art of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had
taken care to call at Monmouth House the instant the _Morning Post_
apprised her he had arrived in England; the consequence was an
invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, in point of
variety, fancy, and fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and evening,
every day a new dress equally striking; and a riding habit that was the
talk and wonder of the whole neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created
far more sensation in the borough when she rode down the High Street,
than what the good people called the real Princesses.
At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her over
their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal
question, ‘Who is she?’ After dinner they formed always into polite
groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if
ever the Princess Colonna, impelled partly by goodnature, and partly
from having known her on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St.
Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was sure, by an adroit appeal
to Her Highness on some point which could not be decided without moving,
to withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted companion.
It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. Guy
Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing to
one’s self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at
prints, in a fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don’t speak
to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by
storm, was not to be driven out of its drawing-room by the tactics
even of a Lady St. Julians. Experience convinced her that all that was
required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her
quickness, her ever ready accomplishments, and her practised powers of
attraction. And she was right. She was always sure of an ally the moment
the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner
was only too happy to meet her again. More than once, too, she had
caught her noble host, though a whole garrison was ever on the watch to
prevent her, and he was greatly amused, and showed that he was greatly
amused by her society. Then she suggested plans to him to divert his
guests. In a country-house the suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow
or other, before a week passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of
everything, was always surrounded by a cluster of admirers, and with
what are called ‘the best men’ ever ready to ride with her, dance
with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The fine ladies found it
absolutely necessary to thaw: they began to ask her questions after
dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She was an adroit
flatterer, with a temper imperturbable, and gifted with a ceaseless
energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patterns for new
fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and what with
some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues and
salt for their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all.