Lady Ellesmere had heard that all the French were great dancers, and she concluded that D’Alonville would be very happy at a ball. She talked therefore to him of this great event, as if it had been an affair of weight enought enough to interest all the world; and observed, albeit unused to observe, that he heard her without any expressions of satisfaction. She was still more surprised, when Ellesmere told her, his friend had no intention of going, not thinking it proper for a native of France to appear at a place of public entertainment, while so many of his countrymen were exposed to the greatest distress, and his sovereign arrigned arraigned before a tribunal of his subjects. Of these kind of sentiments Lady Ellesmere had no idea. She could not be made to understand, why a young man should shun an amusement, when his doing so could not remedy the evils he lamented: — she did not consider, that to a stranger, an assembly of people who he never saw before, and might never see again, was wholly indifferent — but thus it is, that those who are not in habits of reflecting, or of mingling in various scenes of life, nothing is so difficult as to enter into the sentiments of others, and consequently nothing so rare as to see people do as they would be done by. — Lady Ellesmere, though nothing would have alarmed her more than to suppose a young man situated as D’Alonville was, and of another country, and another religion, should presume to think of one of her daughters; yet was not pleased that he shewed no ambition to recommend himself to them. Miss Mary, though she would have preferred a young Ensign in the militia, who was heir to a good fortune, for a partner, was yet mortified that she should not have an opportunity of shewing the handsome foreigner to the neighbouring Misses, and of shewing too that her charms had equal influence on men of all nations. But being no more able to comprehend than her mother, that a man of D’Alonville’s age and figure would decline an amusement without some very good reason, she took it into her head that he had conceived partiality for her sister Theodora, and had an intention of passing the afternoon with her. Her indignation was roused by the very idea — and she determined, if such was his project, to defate it, by directing the servants to send the French gentleman supper in at eleven o’clock — and procuring from her mother a strict charge to the old woman, who had acted at once as nurse and governess in the family to the younger children, not to let Miss Theodora go down. D’Alonville handed the ladies into their carriage, and returned with great punctuality, the low bows and solemn apologies which Sir Maynard made for the indecorum of leaving him — while he shook his friend Edward by the hand, and in French, in an half whisper, he bade him try to find in the fortune of the young heiress, about whom his sisters had been rallying him, a panacea for the wound which he had received from a certain pair of dark eyes in the woods of Bohemia. When the carriages drove away, D’Alonville returned melancholy and pensive to his friend’s little book-room, where he desired he might pass the evening. It was the first time he had been alone for some weeks, for he could hardly fancy himself so in the noise and hurry of London, where, though nothing amused him, every thing distracted his attention. He felt relieved by being now for a few hours left to his own reflections: for the extreme civility of Sir Maynard, the questions of the ladies, and even the attentions of his friend, were sometimes oppressive to him; and since his three days residence at Eddisbury-hall, he had once or twice almost involuntarily repeated, “Encore si je pouvois libre dans mon malheur,”
“Par des larmes au moins, soulager ma douleur.”
He was no sooner alone, than he drew from his pocket a letter he had that day received from the Abbé de St. Remi. It gave a most melancholy account of the situation of many French with whom D’Alonville was acquainted, and particularly of the unfortunate de Touranges, who had written to him, the Abbé, in a manner so expressive of the state of his mind, “that I am,” said the good man, more than ever uneasy about him; and though I possess her the tranquillity which I cannot hope for, if I return again to the seat of war, it seems to me, my dear Chevalier, to be my duty to follow the fate of my unhappy pupil. He has been engaged from the faults of a temper naturally impetuous, and now irritated by misfortune and disappointment, in two or three quarrels, which are not only of very ill consequence to himself, but injurious to the emigrant French in general — who are every where received with suspicion and mistrust, and who cannot be too careful not to offend even the prejudices of the nations whose hospitality they claim — you will not suspect me of a disposition to blame my own nation, yet less to discover faults in the character of a man, to the forming of whose youth I have dedicated so many years of my life, and of whose maturity I formed such sanguine hopes; but adversity so unexpected and so heavy, how few can sustain? You, my dear Chevalier, are one of those that, disappointed as I am, in beholding the ravage it makes on the mind of de Touranges, I still believe will nobly sustain the severest trails — and to you, assured of being heard, I will say, in the words of Cicero,
“I would not omit this opportunity of entreating and exhorting you to bear your afflictions as becomes a man of your distinguished spirit and fortitude: in other words, let me conjure you to support with resolution those common vicissitudes of fortune, which no prudence can prevent, and for which no mortal is answerable.”
“The time must come, my friend, when heaven shall avenge its cause. — Dark as our prospects now are, the clouds will disappear — even the cruel persecution of our unhappy monarch, will produce a favorable change in our affairs — the power usurped and abused, that has brought him to a trial, must, whether it acquits of condemns him, find it has gone too far. They will find it impossible to imprison him and his family for their lives; and that they dare not consummate their crime by taking his life, lest the indignation of the people should conquer their fears; for be assured that by terror only the populace has been restrained, and that the atrocities that have been committed have so astonished and intimidated them, that they have suffered pass as their actions, the villainy of a hired bandits . That calm dignity with which Louis XVI. endures the unworthy treatment these monsters load him with; and their failing, as they evidently do, in supporting the most material of those charges which in this mockery of a trial they bring against him, will have its effects.
Our king has been sometimes ill advised — The softness, or if you will, the mild indolence of his temper, occasioned his yielding too easily to the judgement of people, whose understanding was inferior to his own; and to opinions given almost always from interested, and generally from wicked motives; but to repeat an expression, which an Englishman used to me the other day from his favourite Shakespeare, he is “A man more sinned against than sinning.”He never meant ill to the people; he was no tyrant, as he has been absurdly called. — The fortitude with which he has borne reverse of fortune beyond example, proves that his conscience acquits him — for what, my friend, can in such bitter moments lend courage to the sufferer, but the consciousness of not having merited the evils under which we suffer? I quote on this occasion some lines from an author; do not love, but they are applicable.”Quand le ciel en colere
“De ceux qu’il persecute a comble la misere
“Il les foutient souvent dans le sein des douleurs
“Et leur donne uncourage egal a leur malheurs.”
After all this, my young friend, which should serve as a preparation against the worst news you can hear as an individual, I venture to tell you that I know from undoubted authority, your brother, who ought to bear the respectable name of De Fayolles, and to be any where rather than where he is, is now one one of the most violent leaders of the faction who are deluging with blood our unhappy country, and appears under the name of La Fosse. These are times when men of sense must make up their minds to bear domestic as well as public misfortunes. Alas! the former are almost always the necessary consequence of the latter.
“I believe you have regard enough for me to bear with a little egotism; I will tell you, then, that after some deliberation, I have determined to rejoin my unhappy pupil de Touranges, and even to follow him back to
our devoted country, if thither he persists in returning. Though, if it be attended with danger to him, I, who probably shall still less escape danger, my say, “Neque vero tum ignorabat, se ad crudelissimum hostem, et ad supplicia prolisicisci . Write to me immediately, my friend, and give mean account of yourself and our fellow travellers, whose liberality of sentiment and amiable manners, have left on my mind the most favourable impressions. I cannot conclude my letter more properly than by recommending to your constant recollection, these often quoted, and admirable lines of our great poet .”Celui qui met frein a la furent des flots,
“Scait aussi des mechans, arreter les complots
“Soumis avec respect à sa volonté sainte
Je crains Dieu cher Abner, et, n’ai point d’autre erainte.”
Notwithstanding the excellent doctrines of fortitude and resignation which this letter contained, D’Alonville found his heart sink under the reflections it occasioned. His brother’s apostasy, above all, disturbed him, and all his father had suffered from it arising forcibly to his recollection, gave him now a much pain as when it had first happened. He felt sensibly for the unhappy de Touranges; while the disinterested and preserving friendship of the Abbe de St. Remi, strengthened all those sentiments of respect and affection which he had, from their first acquaintance, felt for that excellent man. — He sat down to write to him, and that employment engaged himself till a late hour; not at all suspecting that his declining to join in the gay scene of the evening, had created in the mind of one of his friends’ sisters, suspicions and dislike: and that his coldness and been construed into designs which never once entered his imagination.
While he was occupied in expressing to the Abbe what he felt at the situation of his king, his country, and his friends, some of the domestics of Sir Maynard were giving their opinions of the foreign gentlemen. — An old butler, who acted also as house steward, and was high in the favor of Sir Maynard, was chief orator. The young ladies maid, who had lived just long enough in London to make her unfit for the country, began the conversation, as she took her tea in the housekeeper’s room, by declaring, that “she must say, that if the gentleman was not a foreigner, and such like, she should think him an handsome genteel person” — an opinion to which, without any reservation, the housemaid, who was that evening admitted to the party subscribed. “Why, what do you know Martha,” said the butler, “of handsome and genteel? Do you consider, child, that this here young fellow is, as one may say, a natural born enemy to us, and our king and country? What d’ye talk of handsome and genteel. Did any body ever see a Frenchman like one of us? No, never I’ll answer for it. For my part, what I wonder at is this: that my master, Sir Maynard, encourages master Edward in his liking of these here people not natives of Great Britain, for what is the upshot? Why, by little and little he gets into such a fancy for ’em that he gives them a preference before his natural countrymen, which never can do him no good: seeing it is his own countrymen, honest heart of oak Englishmen, he is to live among, and not these soup-meager chaps, who only come here now, as far as I can find, to live upon us, because they’ve made their own country too hot to hold them. For my part, I always had, from a boy, the greatest dislike in the world to them, and I can’t abide to heart Master Edward and this here Mounseer gabble together; for somehow, though I don’t understand it, I always think they are talking about we English. Aye they’ll spoil our young master if he gets so much among ’em — for I’ve heard tell, that they are all as treacherous as so many devils, and have the art and the cunning of Belzebub himself.”
“When I lived with the Honorables Mrs. Compton, in Welheck-street, near Cavendish square,” said Miss Ellesmere’s maid, “you must know we had a French Vally-de-Chamber, and my lady and master never spoke English when they was together; so that I might have learned the French tongue, I believe, especially as Bruffy, the vally, was always a wanting to teach me. — But I used to laugh so at the queer words he made me repeat, and he had so many odd ways, just like a monkey, that I never could help being ready to die a laughing when he began — So, I made nothing of it, which I have been sorry for since; for I find ladies like to have their women speak Erench French , and I might have got better wages and a higher place, perhaps. Indeed the Honorable Mrs. Compton would have taken me abroad with her, when she went to Rome, in Italy, if I could have spoke the language; but she told me she must have a person that could; so she hired a Swish young woman, as Madam Gaggleganni, the Genese Ambassador’s lady, and Miss Milsington together, recommended to her, and by that means I lost my place, and so I was obliged to take” —
An old upright virgin, who had waited on Lady Ellesmere from a girl, heard this harangue with great disgust. She had already taken two pinches of snuff while it lasted, with an air of disdain, and now sniffed up the third with uncommon vehemence; while speaking through her nose she interrupted the orator—” obliged to take, indeed! Truly you may think it a happy thing to be received in such a respectable family as this. — I should not have thought, indeed! I’m sure many young gentlewomen of good patronage and education, would be happy to be situated as well; and as to French, and such sort of things, I’m sure people in your station, Mrs. Kitty, may well dispense with it. — No good comes of over knowledged, or of high notions. — I’d have you remember, Ma’am, that Sir Maynard Ellesmere’s family is as respectable as any of your Honorable mistresses this and that, that you’re always telling of — people that live away for a little while and never pays, and then away they go to France and Italy. Those that ar’nt content in a good Baronet’s family, like ours, had better have gone with them.” The asperity with which Mrs. Kitty (who deeply resented the disrespect of not being called by her surname,) was about to answer, was happily, for the peace of the house put an end to by the entrance of Miss Theodora herself, who, gliding down from her solitary room, while her old Duenna dosed after her tea, which was usually qualified with a few spoonfuls of brandy, to prevent its affecting her nerves, entered with a mournful and languid step, and addressing herself to Mrs. Packer, her mother’s woman, entreated that some of the maids might go up and play cards with her. “’Tis so dull,” said the poor girl, “to be shut up with old Griffin, from one day’s end to another, when mama and my sisters are gone out; and I do so think of the ball! Height-ho! I was ten times better off when I was quite a child; for then I used to be suffered to go to Mr. Boulanger’s ball once a year, but now — never, never am I allowed to go out of the house.” Mrs. Packer answered, with a very sour face, that it was not for her to interfere with Mrs. Griffin’s business. — If she chose to have the maids up, ’twas very well; but she knew what her lady’s orders were, and therefore would have nothing to do with it. She then walked away very majestically, and Theodora exerted her eloquence with so much effect on Mrs. Kitty, otherwise Mrs. Parry, that she persuaded her to go with her to a game of all-fours. Their was lay up a stair-case, which led through a long passage by the room where D’Alonville sat, which was the study of his friend. “Lord,” cried she, what fun it would be to rap at the door and frighten the Frenchman! How he’d jump! Perhaps he’d think it was a spirit.” “For heaven’s sake don’t!” said Theodora, “Mama would never forgive such a thinking.” “There would not be the least harm in it, though,” cried Kitty; “I’ve a good mind to peep through the keyhole to see what he is about. — I wonder what he’s thinking of now — It would be much more polite, methinks, if he’d come and play at cards with us, and I dare say he’d be amazing pleased if we were to ask him.”
Theodora, though not very prudent, and having certainly received, by being left at home with the servants, impressions far less eligible than might have been given at a country assembly, that there would be a great indecorum in what Mrs. Parry proposed; and with some difficulty prevailed on her to go quietly to her room, where they found Theodora had not been missed by good Mrs. Griffin; and where they passed their time in yawning over a pack of dirty cards, or listening at intervals to some of Kitty’s stories of pra
nks played by “young Mr. Compton from Westminster school, when he used to come visit his brother the honorable Mr. Compton in Welbeck-street, near Cavendish-square,” till the hour arrived when Mrs. Griffin, being heartily tired of herself, saw her young charge to the chamber within her own, where poor Theodora, unable to sleep, lay listening for the return of the happy party from the assembly, and longing to hear who her sisters danced with, and whether Miss such a one, and Miss such a one, and her cousins from Warwick, were there, and whether Miss Ann had a partner, and how she was dressed. For all this interesting information she was under the hard necessity of waiting will the next morning.
It has been said of prisoners long accustomed to darkness, that the eye at length becoming habituated to want of light, they can distinguish objects around them without it, and feel an interest in the habits of the animals or reptiles that inhabit their dungeon. Thus it seems to be with the human mind. People who from choice or necessity live very remote from capitals, where knowledge is more amply diffused, and science is surrounded with all its splendors, form around them a world of their own, and become as seriously interested in the history of the next market town, as those of more enlarged views are in that of the universe — Of this order of beings was Lady Ellesmere; who while she could never give more than “poor man,” or “very astonishing indeed!” to the monarch whose melancholy fate she heard every body deprecating, or the kingdom of France so strongly convulsed, could enter with the liveliest interest into the history of Mr. Samuel Harrison, an attorney, who had been discarded by Miss Fanny Pinkney, an apothecary’s daughter; and wonder for an hour, that Mrs. Grisby, or the doctor, should suffer the Miss Grisbys to dance with those two officers, both of whom were strangers, and one of them an Irishman. These important points, and many others of the like nature; such as the dress and conversation of the evening, furnished ample matter for discourse at breakfast the next morning, to Lady Ellesmere and her two eldest daughters, and continued during the following days, long enough to disgust Edward Ellesmere, who, though he loved his mother extremely, was though he loved his mother extremely, was often put half out of humour by her attachment to insignificant things and insignificant people; and the little attention gave to D’Alonville, who, as he could not enter into their amusement, soon sunk into a cypher, hastened his visit to an uncle who was partial to him, and who longed to see him after his return from abroad.
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