and all sorts of things were discovered afterwards. The world said that
our silly little Duchess of Paris was partly the cause of the discovery.
Spies were put upon her, and to some people she would tell anything. M.
le Duc, on paying his annual visit to august exiles at Goritz, was very
badly received: Madame la Dauphine gave him a sermon. He had an awful
quarrel with Madame la Duchesse on returning to Paris. He provoked
Monsieur le Comte Tiercelin, le beau Tiercelin, an officer of ordonnance
of the Duke of Orleans, into a duel, a propos of a cup of coffee in a
salon; he actually wounded the beau Tiercelin--he sixty-five years of
age! his nephew, M. de Florac, was loud in praise of his kinsman's
bravery.
That pretty figure and complexion which still appear so captivating in M.
Dubufe's portrait of Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, have long existed--it
must be owned only in paint. "Je la prefere a l'huile," the Vicomte de
Florac said of his cousin. "She should get her blushes from Monsieur
Dubufe--those of her present furnishers are not near so natural."
Sometimes the Duchess appeared with these postiches roses, sometimes of a
mortal paleness. Sometimes she looked plump, on other occasions wofully
thin. "When she goes into the world," said the same chronicler, "ma
cousine surrounds herself with jupons--c'est pour defendre sa vertu: when
she is in a devotional mood, she gives up rouge, roast meat, and
crinoline, and fait maigre absolument." To spite the Duke her husband,
she took up with the Vicomte de Florac, and to please herself she cast
him away. She took his brother, the Abbe de Florac, for a director, and
presently parted from him. "Mon frere, ce saint homme ne parle jamais de
Madame la Duchesse, maintenant," said the Vicomte. "She must have
confessed to him des choses affreuses--oh, oui!--affreuses ma parole
d'honneur!"
The Duke d'Ivry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse must make
herself ultra-Philippiste. "Oh, oui! tout ce qu'il y a de plus Madame
Adelaide au monde!" cried Florac. "She raffoles of M. le Regent. She used
to keep a fast of the day of the supplice of Philippe Egalite, Saint and
Martyr. I say used, for to make to enrage her husband, and to recall the
Abbe my brother, did she not advise herself to consult M. le Pasteur
Grigou, and to attend the preach at his Temple? When this sheep had
brought her shepherd back, she dismissed the Pasteur Grigou. Then she
tired of M. l'Abbe again, and my brother is come out from her, shaking
his good head. Ah! she must have put things into it which astonished the
good Abbe! You know he has since taken the Dominican robe? My word of
honour! I believe it was terror of her that drove him into a convent. You
shall see him at Rome, Clive. Give him news of his elder, and tell him
this gross prodigal is repenting amongst the swine. My word of honour! I
desire but the death of Madame la Vicomtesse de Florac, to marry and
range myself!
"After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Madame d'Ivry must
take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers who believe in nothing, not
even in clean linen, eclecticism, republicanism, what know I? All her
changes have been chronicled by books of her composition. Les Demons,
poem Catholic; Charles IX. is the hero and the demons are shot for the
most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My good mother, all good
Catholic as she is, was startled by the boldness of this doctrine. Then
there came Une Dragonnade, par Mme. la Duchesse d'Ivry, which is all on
your side. That was of the time of the Pastor Grigou, that one. The last
was Les Dieux dechus, poeme en 20 chants, par Mme. la D---- d'I. Guard
yourself well from this Muse! If she takes a fancy to you she will never
leave you alone. If you see her often, she will fancy you are in love
with her, and tell her husband. She always tells my uncle--afterwards--
after she has quarrelled with you and grown tired of you! Eh, being in
London once, she had the idea to make herself a Quakre; wore the costume,
consulted a minister of that culte, and quarrelled with him as of rule.
It appears the Quakers do not beat themselves, otherwise my poor uncle
must have paid of his person.
"The turn of the philosophers then came, the chemists, the natural
historians, what know I? She made a laboratory in her hotel, and
rehearsed poisons like Madame de Brinvilliers--she spent hours in the
Jardin des Plantes. Since she has grown affreusenent maigre and wears
mounting robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea that she
resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and a little cap.
Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune. She calls her
lodgings Lochleven. Eh! I pity the landlord of Lochleven! She calls ce
gros Blackball, vous savez, that pillar of estaminets, that prince of
mauvais-ton, her Bothwell; little Mijaud, the poor little pianist, she
named her Rizzio; young Lord Greenhorn who was here with governor, a
Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley, and the Minister
Anglican, her John Knox! The poor man was quite enchanted! Beware of this
haggard siren, my little Clive!--mistrust her dangerous song! Her cave is
jonchee with the bones of her victims. Be you not one!"
Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these cautions very
likely would have made him only the more eager to make her acquaintance,
but that a much nobler attraction drew him elsewhere. At first, being
introduced to Madame d'Ivry's salon, he was pleased and flattered, and
behaved himself there merrily and agreeably enough. He had not studied
Horace Vernet for nothing; he drew a fine picture of Kew rescuing her
from the Arabs, with a plenty of sabres, pistols, burnouses, and
dromedaries. He made a pretty sketch of her little girl Antoinette, and a
wonderful likeness of Miss O'Grady, the little girl's governess, the
mother's dame de compagnie;--Miss O'Grady, with the richest Milesian
brogue, who had been engaged to give Antoinette the pure English accent.
But the French lady's great eyes and painted smiles would not bear
comparison with Ethel's natural brightness and beauty. Clive, who had
been appointed painter in ordinary to the Queen of Scots, neglected his
business, and went over to the English faction; so did one or two more of
the Princess's followers, leaving her Majesty by no means well pleased at
their desertion.
There had been many quarrels between M. d'Ivry and his next-of-kin.
Political differences, private differences--a long story. The Duke, who
had been wild himself, could not pardon the Vicomte de Florac for being
wild. Efforts at reconciliation had been made which ended unsuccessfully.
The Vicomte de Florac had been allowed for a brief space to be intimate
with the chief of his family, and then had been dismissed for being too
intimate. Right or wrong, the Duke was jealous of all young men who
approached the Duchesse. "He is suspicious," Madame de Florac indignantly
said, "because he remembers: and he thinks other men are like himself."
The Vicomte discreetly said, "My co
usin has paid me the compliment to be
jealous of me," and acquiesced in his banishment with a shrug.
During the emigration the old Lord Kew had been very kind to exiles, M.
d'Ivry amongst the number; and that nobleman was anxious to return to all
Lord Kew's family when they came to France the hospitality which he had
received himself in England. He still remembered or professed to remember
Lady Kew's beauty. How many women are there, awful of aspect, at present,
of whom the same pleasing legend is not narrated! It must be true, for do
not they themselves confess it? I know of few things more remarkable or
suggestive of philosophic contemplation than those physical changes.
When the old Duke and the old Countess met together and talked
confidentially, their conversation bloomed into a jargon wonderful to
hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses rose out of their graves,
and danced, and smirked, and gibbered again, like those wicked nuns whom
Bertram and Robert le Diable evoke from their sepulchres whilst the
bassoon performs a diabolical incantation. The Brighton Pavilion was
tenanted; Ranelagh and the Pantheon swarmed with dancers and masks;
Perdita was found again, and walked a minuet with the Prince of Wales.
Mrs. Clarke and the Duke of York danced together--a pretty dance. The old
Duke wore a jabot and ailes-de-pigeon, the old Countess a hoop, and a
cushion on her head. If haply the young folks came in, the elders
modified their recollections, and Lady Kew brought honest old King George
and good old ugly Queen Charlotte to the rescue. Her ladyship was sister
of the Marquis of Steyne: and in some respects resembled that lamented
nobleman. Their family had relations in France (Lady Kew had always a
pied-a-terre at Paris, a bitter little scandal-shop, where les bien
pensants assembled and retailed the most awful stories against the
reigning dynasty). It was she who handed over le petit Kiou, when quite a
boy, to Monsieur and Madame d'Ivry, to be lanced into Parisian
society. He was treated as a son of the family by the Duke, one of whose
many Christian names, his lordship, Francis George Xavier, Earl of Kew
and Viscount Walham, bears. If Lady Kew hated any one (and she could hate
very considerably) she hated her daughter-in-law, Walham's widow, and the
Methodists who surrounded her. Kew remain among a pack of psalm-singing
old women and parsons with his mother! Fi donc! Frank was Lady Kew's boy;
she would form him, marry him, leave him her money if he married to her
liking, and show him life. And so she showed it to him.
Have you taken your children to the National Gallery in London, and shown
them the "Marriage a la Mode?" Was the artist exceeding the privilege of
his calling in painting the catastrophe in which those guilty people all
suffer? If this fable were not true, if many and many of your young men
of pleasure had not acted it, and rued the moral, I would tear the page.
You know that in our Nursery Tales there is commonly a good fairy to
counsel, and a bad one to mislead the young prince. You perhaps feel that
in your own life there is a Good Principle imploring you to come into its
kind bosom, and a Bad Passion which tempts you into its arms. Be of easy
minds good-natured people! Let us disdain surprises and coups-de-theatre
for once; and tell those good souls who are interested about him, that
there is a Good Spirit coming to the rescue of our young Lord Kew.
Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Reine Marie used
graciously to attend the play-table, where luck occasionally declared
itself for and against her Majesty. Her appearance used to create not a
little excitement in the Saloon of Roulette, the game which she
patronised, it being more "fertile of emotions" than the slower
trente-et-quarante. She dreamed of numbers, had favourite incantations by
which to conjure them: noted the figures made by peels of peaches and so
forth, the numbers of houses, on hackney-coaches--was superstitious comme
toutes les rimes poetiques. She commonly brought a beautiful agate
bonbonniere full of gold pieces, when she played. It was wonderful to see
her grimaces: to watch her behaviour: her appeals to heaven, her delight
and despair. Madame la Baronne de la Cruchecassee played on one side of
her, Madame la Comtesse de Schlanigenbad on the other. When she had lost
all her money her Majesty would condescend to borrow--not from those
ladies:--knowing the royal peculiarity, they never had any money; they
always lost; they swiftly pocketed their winnings and never left a mass on
the table, or quitted it, as courtiers will, when they saw luck was going
against their sovereign. The officers of her household were Count Punter,
a Hanoverian, the Cavaliere Spada, Captain Blackball of a mysterious
English regiment, which might be any one of the hundred and twenty in the
Army List, and other noblemen and gentlemen, Greeks, Russians, and
Spaniards. Mr. and Mrs. Jones (of England), who had made the princess's
acquaintance at Bagneres (where her lord still remained in the gout) and
perseveringly followed her all the way to Baden, were dazzled by the
splendour of the company in which they found themselves. Miss Jones wrote
such letters to her dearest friend Miss Thompson, Cambridge Square,
London, as caused that young person to crever with envy. Bob Jones, who
had grown a pair of mustachios since he left home, began to think
slightingly of poor little Fanny Thompson, now he had got into "the best
Continental society." Might not he quarter a countess's coat on his
brougham along with the Jones arms, or, more slap-up still, have the two
shields painted on the panels with the coronet over? "Do you know the
princess calls herself the Queen of Scots, and she calls me Julian
Avenel?" says Jones delighted, to Clive, who wrote me about the
transmogrification of our schoolfellow, an attorney's son, whom I
recollected a snivelling little boy at Grey Friars. "I say, Newcome, the
princess is going to establish an order," cried Bob in ecstasy. Every one
of her aides-de-camp had a bunch of orders at his button, excepting, of
course, poor Jones.
Like all persons who beheld her, when Miss Newcome and her party made
their appearance at Baden, Monsieur de Florac was enraptured with her
beauty. "I speak of it constantly before the Duchesse. I know it pleases
her," so the Vicomte said. "You should have seen her looks when your
friend M. Jones praised Miss Newcome! She ground her teeth with fury.
Tiens ce petit sournois de Kiou! He always spoke of her as a mere sac
d'argent that he was about to marry--an ingot of the cite--une fille de
Lord Maire. Have all English bankers such pearls of daughters? If the
Vicomtesse de Florac had but quitted the earth, dont elle fait
l'ornement--I would present myself to the charmante meess and ride a
steeple-chase with Kiou!" That he should win it the Viscount never
doubted.
When Lady Anne Newcome first appeared in the ballroom at Baden, Madame la
Duchesse d'Ivry begged the Earl of Kew (notre filleul, she called him) to
p
resent her to his aunt miladi and her charming daughter. "My filleul had
not prepared me for so much grace," she said, turning a look towards Lord
Kew, which caused his lordship some embarrassment. Her kindness and
graciousness were extreme. Her caresses and compliments never ceased all
the evening. She told the mother and the daughter too that she had never
seen any one so lovely as Ethel. Whenever she saw Lady Anne's children in
the walks she ran to them (so that Captain Blackball and Count Punter,
A.D.C., were amazed at her tenderness), she etouffed them with kisses.
What lilies and roses! What lovely little creatures! What companions for
her own Antoinette. "This is your governess, Miss Quigli; mademoiselle,
you must let me present you to Miss O'Gredi, your compatriot, and I hope
your children will be always together." The Irish Protestant governess
scowled at the Irish Catholic--there was a Boyne Water between them.
Little Antoinette; a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions.
"Mamma kisses me on the promenade," she told them in her artless way.
"She never kisses me at home!" One day when Lord Kew with Florac and Clive
were playing with the children, Antoinette said, "Pourquoi ne venez-vous
plus chez nous, M. de Kew? And why does mamma say you are a lache? She
said so yesterday to ces messieurs. And why does mamma say thou art only
a vaurien, mon cousin? Thou art always very good for me. I love thee
better than all those messieurs. Ma tante Florac a ete bonne pour moi a
Paris aussi--Ah! qu'elle a ete bonne!"
"C'est que les anges aiment bien les petits cherubins, and my mother is
an angel, seest thou," cries Florac, kissing her.
"Thy mother is not dead," said little Antoinette, "then why dost thou
cry, my cousin?" And the three spectators were touched by this little
scene and speech.
Lady Anne Newcome received the caresses and compliments of Madame la
Duchesse with marked coldness on the part of one commonly so very
good-natured. Ethel's instinct told her that there was something wrong in
this woman, and she shrank from her with haughty reserve. The girl's
conduct was not likely to please the French lady, but she never relaxed
in her smiles and her compliments, her caresses, and her professions of
admiration. She was present when Clara Pulleyn fell; and, prodigal of
calineries and consolation, and shawls and scent-bottles, to the unhappy
young lady, she would accompany her home. She inquired perpetually after
the health of cette pauvre petite Miss Clara. Oh, how she railed against
ces Anglaises and their prudery! Can you fancy her and her circle, the
tea-table set in the twilight that evening, the court assembled, Madame
de la Cruchecassee and Madame de Schlangenbad; and their whiskered humble
servants, Baron Punter and Count Spada, and Marquis Iago, and Prince
Iachimo, and worthy Captain Blackball? Can you fancy a moonlight
conclave, and ghouls feasting on the fresh corpse of a reputation:--the
gibes and sarcasms, the laughing and the gnashing of teeth? How they tear
the dainty limbs, and relish the tender morsels!
"The air of this place is not good for you, believe me, my little Kew; it
is dangerous. Have pressing affairs in England; let your chateau burn
down; or your intendant run away, and pursue him. Partez, mon petit Kiou;
partez, or evil will come of it." Such was the advice which a friend of
Lord Kew gave the young nobleman.
CHAPTER XXXII
Barnes's Courtship
Ethel had made various attempts to become intimate with her future
sister-in-law; had walked, and ridden, and talked with Lady Clara before
Barnes's arrival. She had come away not very much impressed with respect
for Lady Clara's mental powers; indeed, we have said that Miss Ethel was
rather more prone to attack women than to admire them, and was a little
hard upon the fashionable young persons of her acquaintance and sex. In
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