The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

between him and J. J. that two travelling artists have no right to such

  an aristocratic appendage; but he has bought a snug little britzska at

  Frankfort (the youth has very polite tastes, is already a connoisseur in

  wine, and has no scruple in ordering the best at the hotels), and the

  britzska travels in company with Lady Anne's caravan, either in its wake

  so as to be out of reach of the dust, or more frequently ahead of that

  enormous vehicle and its tender, in which come the children and the

  governess of Lady Anne Newcome, guarded by a huge and melancholy London

  footman, who beholds Rhine and Neckar, valley and mountain, village and

  ruin, with a like dismal composure. Little Alfred and little Egbert are

  by no means sorry to escape from Miss Quigley and the tender, and for a

  stage ride or two in Clive's britzska. The little girls cry sometimes to

  be admitted to that privilege. I dare say Ethel would like very well to

  quit her place in the caravan, where she sits, circumvented by mamma's

  dogs, and books, bags, dressing-boxes, and gimcrack cases, without which

  apparatus some English ladies of condition cannot travel; but Miss Ethel

  is grown up, she is out, and has been presented at Court, and is a person

  of too great dignity now to sit anywhere but in the place of state in the

  chariot corner. I like to think, for my part, of the gallant young fellow

  taking his pleasure and enjoying his holiday, and few sights are more

  pleasant than to watch a happy, manly English youth, free-handed and

  generous-hearted, content and good-humour shining in his honest face,

  pleased and pleasing, eager, active, and thankful for services, and

  exercising bravely his noble youthful privilege to be happy and to enjoy.

  Sing, cheery spirit, whilst the spring lasts; bloom whilst the sun

  shines, kindly flowers of youth! You shall be none the worse to-morrow

  for having been happy to-day, if the day brings no action to shame it. As

  for J. J., he too had his share of enjoyment; the charming scenes around

  him did not escape his bright eye, he absorbed pleasure in his silent

  way, he was up with the sunrise always, and at work with his eyes and his

  heart if not with his hands. A beautiful object too is such a one to

  contemplate, a pure virgin soul, a creature gentle, pious, and full of

  love, endowed with sweet gifts, humble and timid; but for truth's and

  justice's sake inflexible, thankful to God and man, fond, patient, and

  faithful. Clive was still his hero as ever, his patron, his splendid

  young prince and chieftain. Who was so brave, who was so handsome,

  generous, witty as Clive? To hear Clive sing, as the lad would whilst

  they were seated at their work, or driving along on this happy journey,

  through fair landscapes in the sunshine, gave J. J. the keenest pleasure;

  his wit was a little slow, but he would laugh with his eyes at Clive's

  sallies, or ponder over them and explode with laughter presently, giving

  a new source of amusement to these merry travellers, and little Alfred

  would laugh at J. J.'s laughing; and so, with a hundred harmless jokes to

  enliven, and the ever-changing, ever-charming smiles of nature to cheer

  and accompany it, the happy day's journey would come to an end.

  So they travelled by the accustomed route to the prettiest town of all

  places where Pleasure has set up her tents; and where the gay, the

  melancholy, the idle or occupied, grave or haughty, come for amusement,

  or business, or relaxation; where London beauties, having danced and

  flirted all the season, may dance and flirt a little more; where

  well-dressed rogues from all quarters of the world assemble; where I have

  seen severe London lawyers, forgetting their wigs and the Temple, trying

  their luck against fortune and M. Benazet; where wistful schemers

  conspire and prick cards down, and deeply meditate the infallible coup;

  and try it, and lose it, and borrow a hundred francs to go home; where

  even virtuous British ladies venture their little stakes, and draw up

  their winnings with trembling rakes, by the side of ladies who are not

  virtuous at all, no, not even by name; where young prodigals break the

  bank sometimes, and carry plunder out of a place which Hercules himself

  could scarcely compel; where you meet wonderful countesses and

  princesses, whose husbands are almost always absent on their vast

  estates--in Italy, Spain, Piedmont--who knows where their lordships'

  possessions are?--while trains of suitors surround those wandering

  Penelopes their noble wives; Russian Boyars, Spanish Grandees of the

  Order of the Fleece, Counts of France, and Princes Polish and Italian

  innumerable, who perfume the gilded halls with their tobacco-smoke, and

  swear in all languages against the black and the red. The famous English

  monosyllable by which things, persons, luck, even eyes, are devoted to

  the infernal gods, we may be sure is not wanting in that Babel. Where

  does one not hear it? "D--- the luck," says Lord Kew, as the croupier

  sweeps off his lordship's rouleaux. "D--- the luck," says Brown the

  bagman, who has been backing his lordship with five-franc pieces. "Ah,

  body of Bacchus!" says Count Felice, whom we all remember a courier. "Ah,

  sacre coup," cries M. le Vicomte de Florac, as his last louis parts

  company from him--each cursing in his native tongue. Oh, sweet chorus!

  That Lord Kew should be at Baden is no wonder. If you heard of him at the

  Finish, or at Buckingham Palace ball, or in a watch-house, or at the

  Third Cataract, or at a Newmarket meeting, you would not be surprised. He

  goes everywhere; does everything with all his might; knows everybody.

  Last week he won who knows how many thousand louis from the bank (it

  appears Brown has chosen one of the unlucky days to back his lordship).

  He will eat his supper as gaily after a great victory as after a signal

  defeat; and we know that to win with magnanimity requires much more

  constancy than to lose. His sleep will not be disturbed by one event or

  the other. He will play skittles all the morning with perfect

  contentment, romp with children in the forenoon (he is the friend of half

  the children in the place), or he will cheerfully leave the green table

  and all the risk and excitement there, to take a hand at sixpenny whist

  with General Fogey, or to give the six Miss Fogeys a turn each in the

  ballroom. From H.R.H. the Prince Royal of ----, who is the greatest guest

  at Baden, down to Brown the bagman, who does not consider himself the

  smallest, Lord Kew is hail fellow with everybody, and has a kind word

  from and for all.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  In which Clive begins to see the World

  In the company assembled at Baden, Clive found one or two old

  acquaintances; among them his friend of Paris, M. de Florac, not in quite

  so brilliant a condition as when Newcome had last met him on the

  Boulevard. Florac owned that Fortune had been very unkind to him at

  Baden; and, indeed, she had not only emptied his purse, but his

  portmanteaus, jewel-box, and linen-closet--the contents of all of which

  had ranged themselves on the red and black against Monsieur Benazet's

  crown-p
ieces: whatever side they took was, however, the unlucky one.

  "This campaign has been my Moscow, mon cher," Florac owned to Clive. "I

  am conquered by Benazet; I have lost in almost every combat. I have lost

  my treasure, my baggage, my ammunition of war, everything but my honour,

  which, au reste, Mons. Benazet will not accept as a stake; if he

  would, there are plenty here, believe me, who would set it on the

  trente-et-quarante. Sometimes I have had a mind to go home; my mother,

  who is an angel all forgiveness, would receive her prodigal, and kill the

  fatted veal for me. But what will you? He annoys me--the domestic veal.

  Besides, my brother the Abbe, though the best of Christians, is a Jew

  upon certain matters; a Benazet who will not troquer absolution except

  against repentance; and I have not for a sou of repentance in my pocket!

  I have been sorry, yes--but it was because odd came up in place of even,

  or the reverse. The accursed apres has chased me like a remorse, and when

  black has come up I have wished myself converted to red. Otherwise I have

  no repentance--I am joueur--nature has made me so, as she made my brother

  devot. The Archbishop of Strasbourg is of our parents; I saw his grandeur

  when I went lately to Strasbourg, on my last pilgrimage to the Mont de

  Piete. I owned to him that I would pawn his cross and ring to go play:

  the good prelate laughed, and said his chaplain should keep an eye on

  them. Will you dine with me? The landlord of my hotel was the intendant

  of our cousin, the Duc d'Ivry, and will give me credit to the day of

  judgment. I do not abuse his noble confidence. My dear! there are covers

  of silver put upon my table every day with which I could retrieve my

  fortune, did I listen to the suggestions of Satanas; but I say to him,

  Vade retro. Come and dine with me--Duluc's kitchen is very good."

  These easy confessions were uttered by a gentleman who was nearly forty

  years of age, and who had indeed played the part of a young man in Paris

  and the great European world so long, that he knew or chose to perform no

  other. He did not want for abilities; had the best temper in the world;

  was well bred and gentlemanlike always; and was gay even after Moscow.

  His courage was known, and his character for bravery and another kind of

  gallantry probably exaggerated by his bad reputation. Had his mother not

  been alive, perhaps he would have believed in the virtue of no woman. But

  this one he worshipped, and spoke with tenderness and enthusiasm of her

  constant love and patience and goodness. "See her miniature!" he said, "I

  never separate myself from it--oh, never! It saved my life in an affair

  about--about a woman who was not worth the powder which poor Jules and I

  burned for her. His ball struck me here, upon the waistcoat, bruising my

  rib and sending me to my bed, which I never should have left alive but

  for this picture. Oh, she is an angel, my mother! I am sure that Heaven

  has nothing to deny that saint, and that her tears wash out my sins."

  Olive smiled. "I think Madame de Florac must weep a good deal," he said.

  "Enormement, my friend! My faith! I do not deny it! I give her cause,

  night and evening. I am possessed by demons! This little Affenthaler wine

  of this country has a little smack which is most agreeable. The passions

  tear me, my young friend! Play is fatal, but play is not so fatal as

  woman. Pass me the ecrevisses, they are most succulent. Take warning by

  me, and avoid both. I saw you roder round the green tables, and marked

  your eyes as they glistened over the heaps of gold, and looked at some of

  our beauties of Baden. Beware of such sirens, young man! and take me for

  your Mentor; avoiding what I have done--that understands itself. You have

  not played as yet? Do not do so; above all avoid a martingale, if you do.

  Play ought not to be an affair of calculation, but of inspiration. I have

  calculated infallibly, and what has been the effect? Gousset empty,

  tiroirs empty, necessaire parted for Strasbourg! Where is my fur pelisse,

  Frederic?"

  "Parbleu, vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte," says

  Frederic, the domestic, who was waiting on Clive and his friend.

  "A pelisse lined with true sable, and, worth three thousand francs, that

  I won of a little Russian at billiards. That pelisse at Strasbourg (where

  the infamous worms of the Mount of Piety are actually gnawing her). Two

  hundred francs and this reconnaissance, which Frederic receive, are all

  that now represent the pelisse. How many chemises have I, Frederic?"

  "Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons toujours

  vingt-quatre chemises," says Frederic, grumbling.

  Monsieur le Vicomte springs up shrieking from the dinner-table.

  "Twenty-four shirts," says he, "and I have been a week without a louis in

  my pocket! Belitre! Nigaud!" He flings open one drawer after another, but

  there are no signs of that--superfluity of linen of which the domestic

  spoke, whose countenance now changes from a grim frown to a grim smile.

  "Ah, my faithful Frederic, I pardon thee! Mr. Newcome will understand my

  harmless supercherie. Frederic was in my company of the Guard, and

  remains with me since. He is Caleb Balderstone and I am Ravenswood. Yes,

  I am Edgard. Let us have coffee and a cigar, Balderstone."

  "Plait-il, Monsieur le Vicomte?" says the French Caleb.

  "Thou comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Valtare Scott, thou!"

  cries the master. "I was recounting to Monsieur Newcome thy history and

  my misfortunes. Go seek coffee for us, nigaud." And as the two gentlemen

  partake of that exhilarating liquor, the elder confides gaily to his

  guest the reason why he prefers taking coffee at the hotel to the coffee

  at the great Cafe of the Redoute, with a duris urgens in rebus egestass!

  pronounced in the true French manner.

  Clive was greatly amused by the gaiety of the Viscount after his

  misfortunes and his Moscow; and thought that one of Mr. Baines's circular

  notes might not be ill laid out in succouring this hero. It may have been

  to this end that Florac's confessions tended; though, to do him justice,

  the incorrigible young fellow would confide his adventures to any one who

  would listen; and the exact state of his wardrobe, and the story of his

  pawned pelisse, dressing-case, rings and watches, were known to all

  Baden.

  "You tell me to marry and range myself," said Clive (to whom the Viscount

  was expatiating upon the charms of the superbe young Anglaise with whom

  he had seen Clive walking on the promenade). "Why do you not marry and

  range yourself too?"

  "Eh, my dear! I am married already. You do not know it? I am married

  since the Revolution of July. Yes. We were poor in those days, as poor we

  remain. My cousins the Duc d'Ivry's sons and his grandson were still

  alive. Seeing no other resource and pursued by the Arabs, I espoused the

  Vicomtesse de Florac. I gave her my name, you comprehend, in exchange for

  her own odious one. She was Miss Higg. Do you know the family Higg of

  Manchesterre in the comte of Lancastre? She was then a person of a ripe

  age. The Vicomtesse is now--ah! it is
fifteen years since, and she dies

  not. Our union was not happy, my friend--Madame Paul de Florac is of the

  reformed religion--not of the Anglican Church, you understand--but a

  dissident I know not of what sort. We inhabited the Hotel de Florac for a

  while after our union, which was all of convenience, you understand. She

  filled her salon with ministers to make you die. She assaulted my poor

  father in his garden-chair, whence he could not escape her. She told my

  sainted mother that she was an idolatress--she who only idolatrises her

  children! She called us other poor Catholics who follow the rites of our

  fathers, des Romishes; and Rome, Babylon; and the Holy Father--a scarlet

  --eh! a scarlet abomination. She outraged my mother, that angel; essayed

  to convert the antechamber and the office; put little books in the Abbe's

  bedroom. Eh, my friend! what a good king was Charles IX., and his mother

  what a wise sovereign! I lament that Madame de Florac should have escaped

  the St. Barthelemi, when no doubt she was spared on account of her tender

  age. We have been separated for many years; her income was greatly

  exaggerated. Beyond the payment of my debts I owe her nothing. I wish I

  could say as much of all the rest of the world. Shall we take a turn of

  promenade? Mauvais sujet! I see you are longing to be at the green

  table."

  Clive was not longing to be at the green table: but his companion was

  never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning, losing, M. de Florac

  said, was the best sport--next to losing, looking on. So he and Clive

  went down to the Redoute, where Lord Kew was playing with a crowd of

  awestruck amateurs and breathless punters admiring his valour and

  fortune; and Clive, saying that he knew nothing about the game, took out

  five Napoleons from his purse, and besought Florac to invest them in the

  most profitable manner at roulette. The other made some faint attempts at

  a scruple: but the money was speedily laid on the table, where it

  increased and multiplied amazingly too; so that in a quarter of an hour

  Florac brought quite a handful of gold pieces to his principal. Then

  Clive, I dare say blushing as he made the proposal, offered half the

  handful of Napoleons to M. de Florac, to be repaid when he thought fit.

  And fortune must have been very favourable to the husband of Miss Higg

  that night; for in the course of an hour he insisted on paying back

  Clive's loan; and two days afterwards appeared with his shirt-studs (of

  course with his shirts also), released from captivity, his watch, rings,

  and chains, on the parade; and was observed to wear his celebrated fur

  pelisse as he drove back in a britzska from Strasbourg. "As for myself,"

  wrote Clive, "I put back into my purse the five Napoleons with which I

  had begun; and laid down the whole mass of winnings on the table, where

  it was doubled and then quadrupled, and then swept up by the croupiers,

  greatly to my ease of mind. And then Lord Kew asked me to supper and we

  had a merry night."

  This was Mr. Clive's first and last appearance as a gambler. J. J. looked

  very grave when he heard of these transactions. Clive's French friend did

  not please his English companion at all, nor the friends of Clive's

  French friend, the Russians, the Spaniards, the Italians, of sounding

  titles and glittering decorations, and the ladies who belonged to their

  society. He saw by chance Ethel, escorted by her cousin Lord Kew, passing

  through a crowd of this company one day. There was not one woman there

  who was not the heroine of some discreditable story. It was the Comtesse

  Calypso who had been jilted by the Duc Ulysse. It was the Marquise Ariane

  to whom the Prince Thesee had behaved so shamefully, and who had taken to

  Bacchus as a consolation. It was Madame Medee, who had absolutely killed

  her old father by her conduct regarding Jason: she had done everything