It was the night of the Countess Balderoni's weekly reception, and the
servants had just lighted up the handsome suite of rooms and disposed
the furniture in fitting order, when the Countess and Lady Augusta
Bramleigh entered to take a passing look at the apartment before the
arrival of the guests.
“It is so nice,” said Lady Augusta, in her peculiar languid way, “to
live in a country where the people are civilized enough to meet for
intercourse without being fed, or danced, or fiddled for. Now, I tried
this in London; but it was a complete failure. If you tell English
people you are 'at home' every Tuesday or every Thursday evening,
they will make a party some particular night and storm your salons
in hundreds, and you'll be left with three or four visitors for the
remainder of the season. Isn't that so?”
“I suspect it is. But you see how they fall into our ways here; and if
they do not adopt them at home, there may be something in the climate or
the hours which forbids it.”
“No, _cara_; it is simply their dogged material spirit, which says,
'We go out for a _déjeûné_, or a dinner, or a ball.' There must be
a substantial programme of a something to be eaten or to be done. I
declare I believe I detest our people.”
“How are you, then, to live amongst them?”
“I don't mean to I shall not go back. If I grow weary of Europe, I 'll
try Egypt, or I 'll go live at Lebanon. Do you know, since I saw Lear's
picture of the cedars, I have been dying to live there. It would be so
delightful to lie under the great shade of those glorious trees, with
one's 'barb' standing saddled near, and groups of Arabs in their white
burnouses scattered about. What's this? Here's a note for you?”
The Countess took the note from the servant, and ran her eyes hurriedly
over it.
“This is impossible,” murmured she, “quite impossible. Only think,
Gusta, here is the French Secretary of Legation, Baron de Limayrac,
asking my permission to present to me no less a person than Monsieur de
Pracontal.”
“Do you mean the Pracontal--the Pretender himself?”
“Of course. It can be no other. Can you imagine anything so
outrageously in bad taste? Limayrac must know who this man is, what
claims he is putting forward, who he assumes to be; and yet he proposes
to present him here. Of course I shall refuse him.”
“No, _cara_, nothing of the kind. Receive him by all means. You or
I have nothing to do with law or lawyers,--he does not come here to
prosecute his suit. On the contrary, I accept his wish to make our
acquaintance as an evidence of a true gentlemanlike instinct; and,
besides, I am most eager to see him.”
“Remember, Gusta, the Culduffs are coming here, and they will regard
this as a studied insult. I think I should feel it such myself in their
place.”
“I don't think they could. I am certain they ought not. Does any one
believe that every person in a room with four or five hundred is his
dear friend, devoted to him, and dying to serve him? If you do not
actually throw these people together, how are they more in contact in
your salon than in the Piazza del Popolo?”
“This note is in pencil, too,” went she on. “I suppose it was written
here. Where is the Baron de Limayrac?”
“In his carriage, my Lady, at the door.”
“You see, dearest, you cannot help admitting him.”
The Countess had but time to say a few hurried words to the servant,
when the doors were thrown open, and the company began to pour in.
Arrivals followed each other in rapid succession, and names of every
country in Europe were announced, as their titled owners--soldiers,
statesmen, cardinals, or ministers--passed on, and _grandes dames_ in
all the plenitude of splendid toilette, sailed proudly by, glittering
with jewels and filmy in costly lace.
While the Countess Balderoni was exchanging salutations with a
distinguished guest, the Baron de Limayrac stood respectfully waiting
his time to be recognized.
“My friend, Count Pracontal, madame,” said he, presenting the stranger,
and, though a most frigid bow from the hostess acknowledged the
presentation, Pracontal's easy assurance remained unabashed, and, with
the coolest imaginable air, he begged he might have the great honor of
being presented to Lady Augusta Bramleigh.
Lady Augusta, not waiting for her sister's intervention, at once
accepted the speech as addressed to herself, and spoke to him with much
courtesy.
“You are new to Rome, I believe?” said she.
“Years ago I was here; but not in the society. I knew only the artists,
and that Bohemian class who live with artists,” said he, quite easily.
“Perhaps I might have the same difficulty still, but Baron de Limayrac
and I served together in Africa, and he has been kind enough to present
me to some of his friends.”
The unaffected tone and the air of good-breeding with which these few
words were uttered, went far to conciliate Lady Augusta in his favor;
and after some further talk together she left him, promising, at some
later period of the evening, to rejoin him and tell him something of the
people who were there.
“Do you know, _cara_, that he is downright charming?” whispered she to
her sister, as they walked together through the rooms. “Of course I mean
Pracontal; he is very witty, and not in the least ill-natured. I 'm so
sorry the Culduffs have not come. I 'd have given anything to present
Pracontal to his cousin--if she be his cousin. Oh, here they are: and is
n't she splendid in pearls?”
Lord and Lady Culduff moved up the salon as might a prince and princess
royal, acknowledging blandly but condescendingly the salutations that
met them. Knowing and known to every one, they distributed the little
graceful greetings with that graduated benignity great people or
would-be great people--for they are more alike than is generally
believed--so well understand.
Although Lady Augusta and Lady Culduff had exchanged cards, they had not
yet met at Rome, and now, as the proud peer moved along triumphant in
the homage rendered to his own claims and to his wife's beauty, Lady
Augusta stepped quietly forward, and in a tone familiarly easy said,
“Oh, we 've met at last, Marion. Pray make me known to Lord Culduff.” In
the little act of recognition which now passed between these two people,
an acute observer might have detected something almost bordering
on freemasonry. They were of the same “order,” and, though the
circumstances under which they met left much to explain, there was that
between them which plainly said, “_We_ at least play on 'the square'
with each other. _We_ are within the pale, and scores of little
misunderstandings that might serve to separate or estrange meaner folk,
with _us_ can wait for their explanations.” They chatted away pleasantly
for some minutes over the Lord Georges and Lady Georginas of their
acquaintance, and reminded each other of little traits of this one's
health or that one's temper, as though of these was that world they
belonged to made up and fashioned. And all this while Marion stood
by mute and pale with anger, for she knew well how Lady Augusta was
intentionally dwelling on a theme she could have no part in. It was
with a marked change of manner, so marked as to imply a sudden rush of
consciousness, that Lady Augusta, turning to her, said,--
“And how do you like Rome?”
A faint motion of the eyelids, and a half-gesture with the shoulders,
seeming to express something like indifference, was the reply.
“I believe all English begin in that way. It is a place to grow
into--its ways, its hours, its topics are all its own.”
“I call it charming,” said Lord Culduff, who felt appealed to.
“If you stand long on the brink here,” resumed she, “like a timid
bather, you 'll not have courage to plunge in. You must go at it at
once, for there are scores of things will scare you, if you only let
them.”
Marion stood impassive and fixed, as though she heard but did not heed
what was said, while Lord Culduff smiled his approval and nodded his
assent in most urbane fashion.
“What if you came and dined here to-morrow, Marion? My sister is
wonderfully 'well up' in the place. I warn you as to her execrable
dinner; for her cook is Italian, _pur sang_, and will poison you with
his national dishes; but we 'll be _en petit comité_.”
“I think we have something for to-morrow,” said Marion, coldly, and
looking to Lord Culduff.
“To-morrow--Thursday, Thursday?” said he, hesitating. “I can't remember
any engagement for Thursday.”
“There is something, I'm sure,” said Marion, in the same cold tone.
“Then let it be for Friday, and you 'll meet my brother-in-law; it 's
the only day he ever dines at home in the week.”
Lord Culduff bowed an assent, and Marion muttered something that
possibly meant acquiescence.
“I 've made a little dinner for you for Friday,” said Lady Augusta to
her sister. “The Culduff s and Monsignore Ratti--that, with Tonino and
ourselves, will be six; and I 'll think of another: we can't be an even
number. Marion is heart-broken about coming; indeed, I 'm not sure we
shall see her, after all.”
“Are we so very terrible then?” asked the Countess.
“Not _you_, dearest; it is _I_ am the dreadful one. I took that old
fop a canter into the peerage, and he was so delighted to escape from
Bramleighia, that he looked softly into my eyes, and held my hand so
unnecessarily long, that she became actually sick with anger. Now, I 'm
resolved that the old Lord shall be one of my adorers.”
“Oh, Gusta!”
“Yes. I say it calmly and advisedly; that young woman must be taught
better manners than to pat the ground impatiently with her foot and to
toss her head away when one is talking to her husband. Oh, there's that
poor Count Pracontal waiting for me, and looking so piteously at me; I
forgot I promised to take him a tour through the rooms, and tell him who
everybody is.”
The company began to thin off soon after midnight, and by one o'clock
the Countess and her sister found themselves standing by a fireplace in
a deserted salon, while the servants passed to and fro extinguishing the
lights.
“Who was that you took leave of with such emphatic courtesy a few
minutes ago?” asked Lady Augusta, as she leaned on the chimney-piece.
“Don't you know; don't you remember him?”
“Not in the least.”
“It was Mr. Temple Bramleigh.”
“What, _mon fils_ Temple! Why didn't he come and speak to me?”
“He said he had been in search of you all the evening, and even asked me
to find you out.”
“These Sevigné curls do that; no one knows me. Monsignore said he
thought I was a younger sister just come out, and was going to warn
me of the dangerous rivalry. And that was Temple? His little bit of
moustache improves him. I suppose they call him good-looking?”
“Very handsome--actually handsome.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed the other, wearily; “one likes these gatherings, but
it's always pleasant when they're over; don't you find that?” And not
meeting a reply, she went on: “That tiresome man, Sir Marcus Cluff, made
a descent upon me, to talk of--what do you think?--the church at Albano.
It seems our parson there has nothing to live on during the winter
months, and he is expected to be alive and cheery when spring comes
round; and Sir Marcus says, that though seals do this, it 's not so
easy for a curate; and so I said, 'Why does n't he join the other army?
There's a cardinal yonder will take him into his regiment;' and Sir
Marcus could n't stand this, and left me.” She paused, and seemed lost
in a deep reverie, and then half-murmured rather than said, “What a
nice touch he has on the piano; so light and so liquid withal.”
“Sir Marcus, do you mean?”
“Of course I don't,” said she, pettishly. “I'm talking of Pracontal. I
'm sure he sings--he says not, or only for himself; and so I told him he
must sing for me, and he replied, 'Willingly, for I shall then be beside
myself with happiness.' Just fancy a Frenchman trying to say a smart
thing in English. I wonder what the Culduffs will think of him?”
“Are they likely to have an opportunity for an opinion?”
“Most certainly they are. I have asked him for Friday. He will be the
seventh at our little dinner.”
“Not possible, Gusta! You could n't have done this!”
“I have, I give you my word. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?”
“All the reason in the world. You ask your relatives to a little
dinner, which implies extreme intimacy and familiarity; and you invite
to meet them a man whom, by every sentiment of self-interest, they must
abhor.”
“_Cara mia_, I can't listen to such a vulgar argument. Monsieur de
Pracontal has charming personal qualities. I chatted about an hour with
him, and he is delightfully amusing; he 'll no more obtrude his claims
or his pretensions than Lord Culduff will speak of his fifty years of
diplomatic service. There is no more perfect triumph of good-breeding
than when it enables us to enjoy each other's society irrespective of
scores of little personal accidents, political estrangements, and the
like; and to show you that I have not been the inconsiderate creature
you think me, I actually did ask Pracontal if he thought that meeting
the Culduffs would be awkward or unpleasant for him, and he said he
was overjoyed at the thought; that I could not have done him a favor he
would prize more highly.”
“_He_, of course, is very vain of the distinction. It is an honor he
never could have so much as dreamed of.”
“I don't know that. I half suspect he is a gentleman who does not take a
depreciatory estimate of either himself or his prospects.”
“At all events, Gusta, there shall be no ambuscade in the matter, that
I 'm determined on. The Culduffs shall know whom they are to meet. I 'll
write a note to them before I sleep.”
“How angry you are for a mere nothing! Do you imagine that the people
who sit round a dinner-table have sworn vows of eternal friendship
before the soup?”
“You are too provoking, too thoughtless,” said the other, with much
asperity of voice; and taking up her gloves and her fan from the
chimney-piece, she moved rapidly away and left the room.