Pelham — Complete
Page 21
CHAPTER XXI.
This is a notable couple--and have met But for some secret knavery.--The Tanner of Tyburn.
I had now been several weeks in Paris, and I was not altogetherdissatisfied with the manner in which they had been spent. I had enjoyedmyself to the utmost, while I had, as much as possible, combined profitwith pleasure; viz. if I went to the Opera in the evening, I learnedto dance in the morning; if I drove to a soiree at the Duchesse dePerpignan's, it was not till I had fenced an hour at the Salon desAssauts d'Armes; and if I made love to the duchess herself it was sureto be in a position I had been a whole week in acquiring from my masterof the graces; in short, I took the greatest pains to complete myeducation. I wish all young men who frequented the Continent for thatpurpose, could say the same.
One day (about a week after the conversation with Vincent, recordedin my last CHAPTER) I was walking slowly along one of the paths in theJardin des Plantes, meditating upon the various excellencies of theRocher de Cancale and the Duchesse de Perpignan, when I perceived a tallman, with a thick, rough coat, of a dark colour (which I recognized longbefore I did the face of the wearer) emerging from an intersecting path.He stopped for a few moments, and looked round as if expecting some one.Presently a woman, apparently about thirty, and meanly dressed, appearedin an opposite direction. She approached him; they exchanged a fewwords, and then, the woman taking his arm, they struck into anotherpath, and were soon out of sight. I suppose that the reader has alreadydiscovered that this man was Thornton's companion in the Bois deBoulogne, and the hero of the Salon de Jeu, in the Palais Royal. I couldnot have supposed that so noble a countenance, even in its frowns, couldever have wasted its smiles upon a mistress of that low station to whichthe woman who had met him evidently belonged. However, we all have ourlittle foibles, as the Frenchman said, when he boiled his grandmother'shead in a pipkin.
I myself was, at that time, the sort of person that is always taken bya pretty face, however coarse may be the garments which set it off; andalthough I cannot say that I ever stooped so far as to become amorous ofa chambermaid, yet I could be tolerably lenient to any man under thirtywho did. As a proof of this gentleness of disposition, ten minutes afterI had witnessed so unsuitable a rencontre, I found myself following apretty little bourgeoise into a small sort of cabaret, which was, atthe time I speak of (and most probably still is), in the midst of thegardens. I sat down, and called for my favourite drink of lemonade; thelittle grisette, who was with an old woman, possibly her mother, and unbeau gros garcon, probably her lover, sat opposite, and began, with allthe ineffable coquetries of her country, to divide her attention betweenthe said garcon and myself. Poor fellow, he seemed to be very littlepleased by the significant glances exchanged over his right shoulder,and, at last, under pretence of screening her from the draught of theopen window, placed himself exactly between us. This, however ingenious,did not at all answer his expectations; for he had not sufficientlytaken into consideration, that I also was endowed with the powerof locomotion; accordingly I shifted my chair about three feet, andentirely defeated the countermarch of the enemy.
But this flirtation did not last long; the youth and the old womanappeared very much of the same opinion as to its impropriety; andaccordingly, like experienced generals, resolved to conquer by aretreat; they drank up their orgeat--paid for it--placed the waveringregiment in the middle, and left me master of the field. I was not,however, of a disposition to break my heart at such an occurrence, andI remained by the window, drinking my lemonade, and muttering to myself,"After all, women are a great bore."
On the outside of the cabaret, and just under my window, was a bench,which for a certain number of sous, one might appropriate to the entireand unparticipated use of one's self and party. An old woman (so atleast I suppose by her voice, for I did not give myself the trouble oflooking, though, indeed as to that matter, it might have been theshrill treble of Mr. Howard de Howard) had been hitherto engrossing thissettlement with some gallant or other. In Paris, no women are too old toget an amant, either by love or money. In a moment of tenderness, thiscouple paired off, and were immediately succeeded by another. The firsttones of the man's voice, low as they were, made me start from my seat.I cast one quick glance before I resumed it. The new pair were theEnglishman I had before noted in the garden, and the female companionwho had joined him.
"Two hundred pounds, you say?" muttered the man; "we must have it all."
"But," said the woman, in the same whispered voice, "he says, that hewill never touch another card."
The man laughed. "Fool," said he, "the passions are not so easilyquelled--how many days is it since he had this remittance from England?"
"About three," replied the woman.
"And it is absolutely the very last remnant of his property?"
"The last."
"I am then to understand, that when this is spent there is nothingbetween him and beggary?"
"Nothing," said the woman, with a half sigh.
The man laughed again, and then rejoined in an altered tone, "Then, thenwill this parching thirst be quenched at last. I tell you, woman, thatit is many months since I have known a day--night--hour, in which mylife has been as the life of other men. My whole soul has been melteddown into one burning, burning thought. Feel this hand--ay, you may wellstart--but what is the fever of the frame to that within?"
Here the voice sunk so low as to be inaudible. The woman seemed as ifendeavouring to sooth him; at length she said--"But poor Tyrrell--youwill not, surely, suffer him to die of actual starvation?"
The man paused for a few moments, and then replied--"Night and day, Ipray to God, upon my bended knees, only one unvarying, unceasing prayer,and that is--'When the last agonies shall be upon that man--when, sickwith weariness, pain, disease, hunger, he lies down to die--when thedeath-gurgle is in the throat, and the eye swims beneath the last dullfilm--when remembrance peoples the chamber with Hell, and his cowardicewould falter forth its dastard recantation to Heaven--then--may I bethere?"
There was a long pause, only broken by the woman's sobs, which sheappeared endeavouring to stifle. At last the man rose, and in a toneso soft that it seemed literally like music, addressed her in the mostendearing terms. She soon yielded to their persuasion, and replied tothem with interest. "Spite of the stings of my remorse," she said,"as long as I lose not you, I will lose life, honour, hope, even soulitself!"
They both quitted the spot as she said this.
O, that woman's love! how strong is it in its weakness! how beautiful inits guilt!