The month allowed by the notice expired, and Madame Bonaventure's day of
reckoning arrived.
No arrangement had been attempted in the interim, though abundant
opportunities of doing so were afforded her, as Sir Francis Mitchell
visited the Three Cranes almost daily. She appeared to treat the matter
very lightly, always putting it off when mentioned; and even towards the
last seemed quite unconcerned, as if entertaining no fear of the result.
Apparently, everything went on just as usual, and no one would have
supposed, from Madame Bonaventure's manner, that she was aware of the
possibility of a mine being sprung beneath her feet. Perhaps she fancied
she had countermined her opponents, and so felt secure. Her indifference
puzzled Sir Francis, who knew not whether to attribute it to
insensibility or over-confidence. He was curious to see how she would
conduct herself when the crisis came; and for that purpose repaired to
the tavern, about dinner-time, on the appointed day.
The hostess received him very graciously; trifled and jested with him as
was her custom, and looked all blandishments and smiles to him and
everybody else, as if nothing could possibly happen to disturb her
serenity. Sir Francis was more perplexed than ever. With the levity and
heedlessness of a Frenchwoman, she must have forgotten all about the
claim. What if he should venture to remind her of it? Better not. The
application would come soon enough. He was glad it devolved upon his
partner, and not on himself, to proceed to extremities with so charming
a person. He really could not do it. And yet all the while he chuckled
internally as he thought of the terrible dilemma in which she would be
speedily caught, and how completely it would place her at his mercy. She
must come to terms then. And Sir Francis rubbed his skinny hands
gleefully at the thought. On her part, Madame Bonaventure guessed what
was passing in his breast, and secretly enjoyed the idea of checkmating
him. With a captivating smile she left him to attend to her numerous
guests.
And very numerous they were on that day. More so than usual. Sir
Francis, who had brought a boat from Westminster, where he dwelt,
experienced some difficulty in landing at the stairs, invested as they
were with barges, wherries and watermen, all of whom had evidently
brought customers to the Three Cranes. Besides these, there were two or
three gilded pinnaces lying off the wharf, with oarsmen in rich
liveries, evidently belonging to persons of rank.
The benches and little tables in front of the tavern were occupied by
foreign merchants and traders, discussing their affairs over a stoop of
Bordeaux. Others, similarly employed, sat at the open casements in the
rooms above; each story projecting so much beyond the other that the old
building, crowned with its fanciful gables and heavy chimnies, looked
top-heavy, and as if it would roll over into the Thames some day.
Others, again, were seated over their wine in the pleasant little
chamber built over the porch, which, advancing considerably beyond the
door, afforded a delightful prospect, from its lantern-like windows, of
the river, now sparkling with sunshine (it was a bright May day), and
covered with craft, extending on the one hand to Baynard's Castle, and
on the other to the most picturesque object to be found then, or since,
in London--the ancient Bridge, with its towers, gateways, lofty
superstructures, and narrow arches through which the current dashed
swiftly; and, of course, commanding a complete view of the opposite
bank, beginning with Saint Saviour's fine old church, Winchester House,
the walks, gardens, and play-houses, and ending with the fine groves of
timber skirting Lambeth Marshes. Others repaired to the smooth and
well-kept bowling alley in the narrow court at the back of the house,
where there was a mulberry tree two centuries older than the tavern
itself--to recreate themselves with the healthful pastime there
afforded, and indulge at the same time in a few whiffs of tobacco,
which, notwithstanding the king's fulminations against it, had already
made its way among the people.
The ordinary was held in the principal room in the house; which was well
enough adapted for the purpose, being lofty and spacious, and lighted by
an oriel window at the upper end. Over the high carved chimney-piece
were the arms of the Vintners' Company, with a Bacchus for the crest.
The ceiling was moulded, and the wainscots of oak; against the latter
several paintings were hung. One of these represented the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew, and another the triumphal entry of Henri IV. into
rebellious Paris. Besides these, there were portraits of the reigning
monarch, James the First; the Marquis of Buckingham, his favourite; and
the youthful Louis XIII., king of France. A long table generally ran
down the centre of the room; but on this occasion there was a raised
cross-table at the upper end, with a traverse, or curtain, partially
drawn before it, proclaiming the presence of important guests. Here the
napery was finer, and the drinking-vessels handsomer, than those used at
the lower board. A grand banquet seemed taking place. Long-necked flasks
were placed in coolers, and the buffets were covered with flagons and
glasses. The table groaned beneath the number and variety of dishes set
upon it. In addition to the customary yeomen-waiters, there were a host
of serving-men in rich and varied liveries, but these attended
exclusively on their lords at the raised table, behind the traverse.
As Sir Francis was ushered into the eating-room, he was quite taken
aback by the unusually magnificent display, and felt greatly surprised
that no hint of the banquet had been given him, on his arrival, by the
hostess. The feast had already commenced; and all the yeomen-waiters and
trencher-scrapers were too busily occupied to attend to him. Cyprien,
who marshalled the dishes at the lower table, did not deign to notice
him, and was deaf to his demand for a place. It seemed probable he would
not obtain one at all; and he was about to retire, much disconcerted,
when a young man somewhat plainly habited, and who seemed a stranger to
all present, very good-naturedly made room for him. In this way he was
squeezed in.
Sir Francis then cast a look round to ascertain who were present; but he
was so inconveniently situated, and the crowd of serving-men was so
great at the upper table, that he could only imperfectly distinguish
those seated at it; besides which, most of the guests were hidden by the
traverse. Such, however, as he could make out were richly attired in
doublets of silk and satin, while their rich velvet mantles, plumed and
jewelled caps, and long rapiers, were carried by their servants.
Two or three turned round to look at him as he sat down; and amongst
these he remarked Sir Edward Villiers, whose presence was far from
agreeable to him,--for though Sir Edward was secretly connected with him
and Sir Giles, and took tithe of their spoliations, he disowned them in
public, and would assuredly not countenance any open display of their
rapacious proceedings.
Another personage whom he recognised, from his obesity, the peculiarity
of his long flowing periwig, and his black velvet Parisian pourpoint,
which contrasted forcibly with the glittering habiliments of his
companions, was Doctor Mayerne-Turquet, the celebrated French professor
of medicine, then so high in favour with James, that, having been loaded
with honours and dignities, he had been recently named the King's first
physician. Doctor Mayerne's abilities were so distinguished, that his
Protestant faith alone, prevented him from occupying the same eminent
position in the court of France that he did in that of England. The
doctor's presence at the banquet was unpropitious; it was natural he
should befriend a countrywoman and a Huguenot like himself, and,
possessing the royal ear, he might make such representations as he
pleased to the King of what should occur. Sir Francis hoped he would be
gone before Sir Giles appeared.
But there was yet a third person, who gave the usurious knight more
uneasiness than the other two. This was a handsome young man, with fair
hair and delicate features, whose slight elegant figure was arrayed in
a crimson-satin doublet, slashed with white, and hose of the same
colours and fabric. The young nobleman in question, whose handsome
features and prematurely-wasted frame bore the impress of cynicism and
debauchery, was Lord Roos, then recently entrapped into marriage
with the daughter of Sir Thomas Lake, Secretary of State: a
marriage productive of the usual consequences of such imprudent
arrangements--neglect on the one side, unhappiness on the other. Lord
Roos was Sir Francis's sworn enemy. Like many other such gay moths, he
had been severely singed by fluttering into the dazzling lights held up
to him, when he wanted money, by the two usurers; and he had often vowed
revenge against them for the manner in which they had fleeced him. Sir
Francis did not usually give any great heed to his threats, being too
much accustomed to reproaches and menaces from his victims to feel alarm
or compunction; but just now the case was different, and he could not
help fearing the vindictive young lord might seize the opportunity of
serving him an ill turn,--if, indeed, he had not come there expressly
for the purpose, which seemed probable, from the fierce and disdainful
glances he cast at him.
An angry murmur pervaded the upper table on Sir Francis's appearance;
and something was said which, though he could not gather its precise
import did not sound agreeably to his ears. He felt he had unwittingly
brought his head near a hornet's nest, and might esteem himself lucky if
he escaped without stinging. However, there was no retreating now; for
though his fear counselled flight, very shame restrained him.
The repast was varied and abundant, consisting of all kinds of
fricassees, collops and rashers, boiled salmon from the Thames, trout
and pike from the same river, boiled pea-chickens, and turkey-poults,
and florentines of puff paste, calves-foot pies, and set custards.
Between each guest a boiled salad was placed, which was nothing more
than what we should term a dish of vegetables, except that the
vegetables were somewhat differently prepared; cinnamon, ginger, and
sugar being added to the pulped carrots, besides a handful of currants,
vinegar, and butter. A similar plan was adopted with the salads of
burrage, chicory, marigold leaves, bugloss, asparagus, rocket, and
alexanders, and many other plants discontinued in modern cookery, but
then much esteemed; oil and vinegar being used with some, and spices
with all; while each dish was garnished with slices of hard-boiled eggs.
A jowl of sturgeon was carried to the upper table, where there was also
a baked swan, and a roasted bustard, flanked by two stately venison
pasties. This was only the first service; and two others followed,
consisting of a fawn, with a pudding inside it, a grand salad, hot olive
pies, baked neats' tongues, fried calves' tongues, baked Italian
puddings, a farced leg of lamb in the French fashion, orangeado pie,
buttered crabs, anchovies, and a plentiful supply of little made dishes,
and _quelquechoses_, scattered over the table. With such a profusion of
good things, it may appear surprising that Sir Francis should find very
little to eat; but the attendants all seemed in league against him, and
whenever he set his eye upon a dish, it was sure to be placed out of
reach. Sir Francis was a great epicure, and the Thames salmon looked
delicious; but he would have failed in obtaining a slice of it, if his
neighbour (the young man who had made room for him) had not given him
the well-filled trencher intended for himself. In the same way he
secured the wing of a boiled capon, larded with preserved lemons, the
sauce of which was exquisite, as he well knew, from experience. Cyprien,
however, took care he should get none of the turkey poults, or the
florentines, but whipped off both dishes from under his very nose; and a
like fate would have attended a lumbar pie but for the interference of
his good-natured neighbour, who again came to his aid, and rescued it
from the clutches of the saucy Gascon, just as it was being borne away.