It was during the latter years of the life of Louis the Fifteenth, and
during the reign of Madame du Barry, that Ormond was at Paris. The court
of Versailles was at this time in all its splendour, if not in all its
glory. At the souper du roi, Ormond beheld, in all the magnificence of
dress and jewels, the nobility, wealth, fashion, and beauty of France.
Well might the brilliancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh from Ireland,
when it amazed even old ambassadors, accustomed to the ordinary grandeur
of courts. When he recovered from his first astonishment, when his
eyes were a little better used to the light, and he looked round and
considered all these magnificently decorated personages, assembled for
the purpose of standing at a certain distance to see one man eat his
supper, it did appear to him an extraordinary spectacle; and the very
great solemnity and devotion of the assistants, so unsuited to the
French countenance, inclined him to smile. It was well for him, however,
that he kept his Irish risible muscles in order, and that no courtier
could guess his thoughts--a smile would have lost him his reputation.
Nothing in the world appeared to Frenchmen, formerly, of more importance
than their court etiquette, though there were some who began about this
time to suspect that the court order of things might not be co-existent
with the order of nature--though there were some philosophers and
statesmen who began to be aware, that the daily routine of the
courtier’s etiquette was not as necessary as the motions of the sun,
moon, and planets. Nor could it have been possible to convince half at
least of the crowd, who assisted at the king’s supper this night, that
all the French national eagerness about the health, the looks, the
words, of _le roi_, all the attachment, _le dévouement_, professed
habitually--perhaps felt habitually--for the reigning monarch, whoever
or whatever he might be, by whatever name--notre bon roi, or simply
notre roi de France--should in a few years pass away, and be no more
seen.
Ormond had no concern with the affairs of the nation, nor with
the future fate of any thing he beheld: he was only a spectator, a
foreigner; and his business was, according to Mademoiselle’s maxim, to
enjoy to-day and to reflect to-morrow. His enjoyment of this day was
complete: he not only admired, but was admired. In the vast crowd he was
distinguished: some nobleman of note asked who he was--another observed
_l’air noble_--another exclaimed, “_ Le bel Anglois_!” and his fortune
was made at Paris; especially as a friend of Madame du Barry’s asked
where he bought his embroidery.
He went afterwards, at least in Connal’s society, by the name of “_Le
bel Anglois_.” Half in a tone of raillery, yet with a look that showed
she felt it to be just, Madame de Connal first adopted the appellation,
and then changed the term to “_mon bel Irlandois_.” Invitations upon
invitations poured upon Ormond--all were eager to have him at their
parties--he was every where--attending Madame de Connal--and she, how
proud to be attended by Ormond! He dreaded lest his principles should
not withstand the strong temptation. He could not leave her, but he
determined to see her only in crowds; accordingly, he avoided every
select party: l’amie intime could never for the first three weeks get
him to one _petit comité_, though Madame de Connal assured him that
her friend’s _petit soupers_ “were charming, worth all the crowded
assemblies in Paris.” Still he pursued his plan, and sought for safety
in a course of dissipation.
“I give you joy,” said Connal to him one day, “you are fairly launched!
you are no distressed vessel to be _taken in tow_, nor a petty bark
to sail in any man’s _wake_. You have a gale, and are likely to have a
triumph of your own.” Connal was, upon all occasions, careful to impress
upon Ormond’s mind, that he left him wholly to himself, for he was
aware, that in former days, he had offended his independent spirit by
airs of protection. He managed better now--he never even invited him to
play, though it was his main object to draw him to his faro-table. He
made use of some of his friends or confederates, who played for him:
Connal occasionally coming to the table as an unconcerned spectator.
Ormond played with so much freedom, and seemed to have so gentlemanlike
an indifference whether he lost or won, that he was considered as an
easy dupe. Time only was necessary, M. de Connal thought, to lead him
on gradually and without alarm, to let him warm to the passion for play.
Meanwhile Madame de Connal felt as fully persuaded that Ormond’s passion
for her would increase. It was her object to _fix_ him at Paris; but she
should be content, perfectly happy with his friendship, his society, his
sentiments: her own _sentiment_ for him, as she confessed to Madame
de Clairville, was absolutely invincible; but it should never lead her
beyond the bounds of virtue. It was involuntary, but it should never be
a crime.
Madame de Clairville, who understood her business, and spoke with all
the fashionable _cant_ of sensibility, asked how it was possible that an
involuntary sentiment could ever be a crime?
As certainly as the novice among a band of sharpers is taught, by the
technical language of the gang, to conquer his horror of crime, so
certainly does the _cant of sentiment_ operate upon the female novice,
and vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice.
The allusion is coarse--so much the better: strength, not elegance, is
necessary on some occasions to make an impression. The truth will strike
the good sense and good feelings of our countrywomen, and unadorned,
they will prefer it to German or French sophistry. By such sophistry,
however, was Dora insensibly led on.
But Ormond did not yet advance in learning the language of sentiment--he
was amusing himself in the world--and Dora imagined that the dissipation
in which he lived prevented him from having time to think of his
passion: she began to hate the dissipation.
Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed that Ormond seemed to be
quite in his natural element in this sea of pleasure.
“Who would have thought it?” said Dora: “I thought Mr. Ormond’s taste
was more for domestic happiness and retirement.”
“Retirement at Paris!” said Ormond.
“Domestic happiness at Paris!” said Connal.
Madame de Connal sighed--No, it was Dora that sighed.
“Where do you go to-night?” said her husband.
“Nowhere--I shall stay at home. And you?” said she, looking up at Harry
Ormond.
“To Madame de la Tour’s.”
“That’s the affair of half an hour--only to appear--”
“Afterwards to the opera,” said Ormond.
“And after the opera--can’t you sup here?” said Madame de Connal.
“With the utmost pleasure--but that I am engaged to Madame de la Brie’s
ball.”
“That’s true,” cried Madame de Connal, starting up--“I had forgot it--so
am I this fortnight--I may as well go to the opera, too, and I can carry
you to Madame de la Tour’s--I owe her a five minutes’ sitting--though
she is un peu precieuse. And what can you find in that little cold
Madame de la Brie--do you like ice?”
“He like to break de ice, I suppose,” said Mademoiselle. “Ma foi, you
must then take a hatchet there!”
“No occasion; I had rather slide upon the ice than break it. My business
at Paris is merely, you know, to amuse myself,” said he, looking at
Connal--“Glissez, mortels, n’appuyez pas.”
“But if de ice should melt of itself,” said Mademoiselle, “what would
you do den? What would become of him, den, do you think, my dear niece?”
It was a case which she did not like to consider--Dora blushed--no
creature was so blind as Mademoiselle, with all her boasted quickness
and penetration.
From this time forward no more was heard of Madame de Connal’s taste for
domestic life and retirement--she seemed quite convinced, either by her
husband, or by Mr. Ormond, or both, that no such thing was practicable
at Paris. She had always liked le grand monde--she liked it better now
than ever, when she found Ormond in every crowded assembly, every
place of public amusement--a continual round of breakfasts, dinners,
balls--court balls--bal masqué--bal de l’opera--plays--grand
entertainments--petits soupers--fêtes at Versailles--pleasure in every
possible form and variety of luxury and extravagance succeeded day
after day, and night after night--and Ormond, le bel Irlandois, once
in fashion, was every where, and every where admired; flattered by the
women, who wished to draw him in to be their partners at play--still
more flattered by those who wished to engage him as a lover--most of all
flattered by Dora. He felt his danger. Improved in coquetry by Parisian
practice and power, Dora tried her utmost skill--she played off with
great dexterity her various admirers to excite his jealousy: the Marquis
de Beaulieu, the witty marquis, and the Count de Belle Chasse, the
irresistible count, were dangerous rivals. She succeeded in exciting
Ormond’s jealousy; but in his noble mind there were strong opposing
principles to withstand his selfish gratification. It was surprising
with what politeness to each other, with how little love, all the
suitors carried on this game of gallantry and competition of vanity.
Till Ormond appeared, it had been the general opinion that before the
end of the winter or the spring, the Count de Belle Chasse would be
triumphant. Why Ormond did not enter the lists, when there appeared
to all the judges such a chance of his winning the prize, seemed
incomprehensible to the spectators, and still more to the rival
candidates. Some settled it with the exclamation “Inouï!” Others
pronounced that it was English bizarrerie. Every thing seemed to smooth
the slippery path of temptation--the indifference of her husband--the
imprudence of her aunt, and the sophistry of Madame de Clairville--the
general customs of French society--the peculiar profligacy of the
society into which he happened to be thrown--the opinion which he
saw prevailed, that if he withdrew from the competition a rival
would immediately profit by his forbearance, conspired to weaken his
resolution.
Many accidental circumstances concurred to increase the danger. At these
balls, to which he went originally to avoid Dora in smaller parties,
Madame de Connal, though she constantly appeared, seldom danced. She did
not dance well enough to bear comparison with French dancers; Ormond was
in the same situation. The dancing which was very well in England would
not do in Paris--no late lessons could, by any art, bring them to an
equality with French nature.
“Ah, il ne danse pas!--He dances like an Englishman.” At the first ball
this comforted the suitors, and most the Comte de Belle Chasse; but this
very circumstance drew Ormond and Dora closer together--she pretended
headaches, and languor, and lassitude, and, in short, sat still.
But it was not to be expected that the Comte de Belle Chasse could give
up dancing: the Comte de Belle Chasse danced like le dieu de la danse,
another Vestris; he danced every night, and Ormond sat and talked to
Dora, for it was his duty to attend Madame when the little Abbé was out
of the way.
The spring was now appearing, and the spring is delightful in Paris, and
the _promenades_ in the Champs Elysées, and in the Bois de Boulogne, and
the promenade in Long-Champ, commenced. Riding was just coming into high
fashion with the French ladies; and, instead of riding in men’s clothes,
and like a man, it was now the ambition de monter à cheval à l’Angloise:
to ride on a side-saddle and in an English riding habit was now the
ambition. Now Dora, though she could not dance as well, could ride
better than any French woman; and she was ambitious to show herself and
her horsemanship in the Bois de Boulogne: but she had no horse that she
liked. Le Comte de Belle Chasse offered to get one broke for her at the
king’s riding-house--this she refused: but fortunately Ormond, as was
the custom with the English at that time, had, after his arrival, some
English horses brought over to him at Paris. Among these was the horse
he had once broke for Dora.
For this an English side-saddle was procured--she was properly equipped
and mounted.
And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, as they persisted in calling
Ormond, and la belle Irlandoise, and their horses, and their
horsemanship, were the admiration of the promenade.
The Comte de Belle Chasse sent to London for an English horse at any
price. He was out of humour--and Ormond in the finest humour imaginable.
Dora was grateful; her horse was a beautiful, gentle-spirited creature:
it was called Harry--it was frequently patted and caressed, and told how
much it was valued and loved.
Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt himself secure that he
was only a friend--_l’ami de la maison_.