The Newcomes

by William Makepeace Thackeray

every year in her cavern, in the Rue de Breda), had declared against him,

  and the poor Vicomte's pockets were almost empty when he came to London.

  He was amiably communicative regarding himself, and told us his virtues

  and his faults (if indeed a passion for play and for women could be

  considered as faults in a gay young fellow of two or three and forty),

  with a like engaging frankness. He would weep in describing his angel

  mother: he would fly off again into tirades respecting the wickedness,

  the wit, the extravagance, the charms of the young lady of the Varietes.

  He would then (in conversation) introduce us to Madame de Florac, nee

  Higg, of Manchesterre. His prattle was incessant, and to my friend Mr.

  Warrington especially he was an object of endless delight and amusement

  and wonder. He would roll and smoke countless paper cigars, talking

  unrestrainedly when we were not busy, silent when we were engaged; he

  would only rarely partake of our meals, and altogether refused all offers

  of pecuniary aid. He disappeared at dinner-time into the mysterious

  purlieus of Leicester Square, and dark ordinaries only frequented by

  Frenchmen. As we walked with him in the Regent Street precincts, he would

  exchange marks of recognition with many dusky personages, smoking bravos;

  and whiskered refugees of his nation.

  "That gentleman," he would say, "who has done me the honour to salute me,

  is a coiffeur of the most celebrated; he forms the deuces of our

  table-d'hote. 'Bon jour, mon cher monsieur!' We are friends, though not

  of the same opinion. Monsieur is a republican of the most distinguished;

  conspirator of profession, and at this time engaged in constructing an

  infernal machine to the address of His Majesty, Louis Philippe, King of

  the French." "Who is my friend with the scarlet beard and the white

  paletot? My good Warrington! you do not move in the world; you make

  yourself a hermit, my dear! Not know monsieur!--monsieur is secretary to

  Mademoiselle Caracoline, the lovely rider at the circus of Astley; I

  shall be charmed to introduce you to this amiable society some day at our

  table-d'hote."

  Warrington vowed that the company of Florac's friends would be infinitely

  more amusing than the noblest society ever chronicled in the Morning

  Post; but we were neither sufficiently familiar with the French language

  to make conversation in that tongue as pleasant to us as talking in our

  own; and so were content with Florac's description of his compatriots,

  which the Vicomte delivered in that charming French-English of which he

  was a master.

  However threadbare in his garments, poor in purse, and eccentric in

  morals our friend was, his manners were always perfectly gentlemanlike,

  and he draped himself in his poverty with the grace of a Spanish grandee.

  It must be confessed, that the grandee loved the estaminet where he could

  play billiards with the first comer; that he had a passion for the

  gambling-house; that he was a loose and disorderly nobleman: but, in

  whatever company he found himself, a certain kindness, simplicity, and

  politeness distinguished him always. He bowed to the damsel who sold him

  a penny cigar, as graciously as to a duchess; he crushed a manant's

  impertinence or familiarity as haughtily as his noble ancestors ever did

  at the Louvre, at Marli, or Versailles. He declined to obtemperer to his

  landlady's request to pay his rent, but he refused with a dignity which

  struck the woman with awe; and King Alfred, over the celebrated muffin

  (on which Gandish and other painters have exercised their genius), could

  not have looked more noble than Florac in a robe-de-chambre, once

  gorgeous, but shady now as became its owner's clouded fortunes; toasting

  his bit of bacon at his lodgings, when the fare even of his table-d'hote

  had grown too dear for him.

  As we know from Gandish's work, that better times were in store for the

  wandering monarch, and that the officers came acquainting him that his

  people demanded his presence a grands cris, when of course King Alfred

  laid down the toast and resumed the sceptre; so in the case of Florac,

  two humble gentlemen, inhabitants of Lamb Court, and members of the Upper

  temple, had the good luck to be the heralds as it were, nay indeed, the

  occasion, of the rising fortunes of the Prince de Moncontour. Florac had

  informed us of the death of his cousin the Duc d'Ivry, by whose demise

  the Vicomte's father, the old Count de Florac, became the representative

  of the house of Ivry, and possessor, through his relative's bequest, of

  an old chateau still more gloomy and spacious than the count's own house

  in the Faubourg St. Germain--a chateau, of which the woods, domains, and

  appurtenances had been lopped off by the Revolution. "Monsieur le Comte,"

  Florac says, "has not wished to change his name at his age; he has

  shrugged his old shoulder, and said it was not the trouble to make to

  engrave a new card; and for me," the philosophical Vicomte added, "of

  what good shall be a title of prince in the position where I find

  myself?" It is wonderful for us who inhabit a country where rank is

  worshipped with so admirable a reverence, to think that there are many

  gentlemen in France who actually have authentic titles and do not choose

  to bear them.

  Mr. George Warrington was hugely amused with this notion of Florac's

  ranks and dignities. The idea of the Prince purchasing penny cigars; of

  the Prince mildly expostulating with his landlady regarding the rent; of

  his punting for half-crowns at a neighbouring hall in Air Street, whither

  the poor gentleman desperately ran when he had money in his pocket,

  tickled George's sense of humour. It was Warrington who gravely saluted

  the Vicomte, and compared him to King Alfred, on that afternoon when we

  happened to call upon him and found him engaged in cooking his modest

  dinner.

  We were bent upon an excursion to Greenwich, and on having our friend's

  company on that voyage, and we induced the Vicomte to forgo his bacon,

  and be our guest for once. George Warrington chose to indulge in a great

  deal of ironical pleasantry in the course of the afternoon's excursion.

  As we went down the river, he pointed out to Florac the very window in

  the Tower where the captive Duke of Orleans used to sit when he was an

  inhabitant of that fortress. At Greenwich, which palace Florac informed

  us was built by Queen Elizabeth, George showed the very spot where

  Raleigh laid his cloak down to enable Her Majesty to step over a puddle.

  In a word, he mystified M. de Florac; such was Mr. Warrington's

  reprehensible spirit.

  It happened that Mr. Barnes Newcome came to dine at Greenwich on the same

  day when our little party took place. He had come down to meet Rooster

  and one or two other noble friends whose names he took care to give us,

  cursing them at the same time for having thrown him over. Having missed

  his own company, Mr. Barnes condescended to join ours, Warrington gravely

  thanking him for the great honour which he conferred upon us by

  volunteering to take a place at our table. Barnes drank freely, and was />
  good enough to resume his acquaintance with Monsieur de Florac, whom he

  perfectly well recollected at Baden, but had thought proper to forget on

  the one or two occasions when they had met in public since the Vicomte's

  arrival in this country. There are few men who can drop and resume an

  acquaintance with such admirable self-possession as Barnes Newcome. When,

  over our dessert, by which time all tongues were unloosed and each man

  talked gaily, George Warrington feelingly thanked Barnes in a little mock

  speech, for his great kindness in noticing us, presenting him at the same

  time to Florac as the ornament of the City, the greatest banker of his

  age, the beloved kinsman of their friend Clive, who was always writing

  about him; Barnes said, with one of his accustomed curses, he did not

  know whether Mr. Warrington was "chaffing" him or not, and indeed could

  never make him out. Warrington replied that he never could make himself

  out: and if ever Mr. Barnes could, George would thank him for information

  on that subject.

  Florac, like most Frenchmen very sober in his potations, left us for a

  while over ours, which were conducted after the more liberal English

  manner, and retired to smoke his cigar on the terrace. Barnes then freely

  uttered his sentiments regarding him, which were not more favourable than

  those which the young gentleman generally emitted respecting gentlemen

  whose backs were turned. He had known a little of Florac the year before

  at Baden: he had been mixed up with Kew in that confounded row in which

  Kew was hit; he was an adventurer, a pauper, a blackleg, a regular Greek;

  he had heard Florac was of old family, that was true; but what of that?

  He was only one of those d----- French counts; everybody was a count in

  France confound 'em! The claret was beastly--not fit for a gentleman to

  drink!--He swigged off a great bumper as he was making the remark: for

  Barnes Newcome abuses the men and things which he uses, and perhaps is

  better served than more grateful persons.

  "Count!" cries Warrington, "what do you mean by talking about beggarly

  counts? Florac's family is one of the noblest and most ancient in Europe.

  It is more ancient than your illustrious friend, the barber-surgeon; it

  was illustrious before the house, ay, or the pagoda of Kew was in

  existence." And he went on to describe how Florac by the demise of his

  kinsman, was now actually Prince de Moncontour, though he did not choose

  to assume that title. Very likely the noble Gascon drink in which George

  had been indulging, imparted a certain warmth and eloquence to his

  descriptions of Florac's good qualities, high birth, and considerable

  patrimony; Barnes looked quite amazed and scared at these announcements,

  then laughed and declared once more that Warrington was chaffing him.

  "As sure as the Black Prince was lord of Acquitaine--as sure as the

  English were masters of Bordeaux--and why did we ever lose the country?"

  cries George, filling himself a bumper,--"every word I have said about

  Florac is true;" and Florac coming in at this juncture havin just

  finished his cigar, George turned round and made him a fine speech in the

  French language, in which he lauded his constancy and good-humour under

  evil fortune, paid him two or three more cordial compliments, and

  finished by drinking another great bumper to his good health.

  Florac took a little wine, replied "with effusion" to the toast which his

  excellent, his noble friend had just carried. We rapped our glasses at

  the end of the speech. The landlord himself seemed deeply touched by it

  as he stood by with a fresh bottle. "It is good wine--it is honest wine--

  it is capital wine" says George, "and honni soit qui mal y pence! What

  business have you, you little beggar, to abuse it? My ancestor drank the

  wine and wore the motto round his leg long before a Newcome ever showed

  his pale face in Lombard Street." George Warrington never bragged about

  his pedigree except under certain influences. I am inclined to think that

  on this occasion he really did find the claret very good.

  "You don't mean to say," says Barnes, addressing Florac in French, on

  which he piqued himself, "que vous avez un tel manche a votre nom, et que

  vous ne l'usez pas?"

  Florac shrugged his shoulders; he at first did not understand that

  familiar figure of English speech, or what was meant by "having a handle

  to your name." "Moncontour cannot dine better than Florac," he said.

  "Florac has two louis in his pocket, and Moncontour exactly forty

  shillings. Florac's proprietor will ask Moncontour to-morrow for five

  weeks' rent; and as for Florac's friends, my dear, they will burst out

  laughing to Moncontour's nose!" "How droll you English are!" this acute

  French observer afterwards said, laughing, and recalling the incident.

  Did you not see how that little Barnes, as soon as he knew my title of

  Prince, changed his manner and became all respect towards me? This,

  indeed, Monsieur de Florac's two friends remarked with no little

  amusement. Barnes began quite well to remember their pleasant days at

  Baden, and talked of their acquaintance there: Barnes offered the Prince

  the vacant seat in his brougham, and was ready to set him down anywhere

  that he wished in town.

  "Bah!" says Florac; "we came by the steamer, and I prefer the peniboat."

  But the hospitable Barnes, nevertheless, called upon Florac the next day.

  And now having partially explained how the Prince de Moncontour was

  present at Mr. Barnes Newcome's wedding, let us show how it was that

  Barnes's first-cousin, the Earl of Kew, did not attend that ceremony.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  Return to Lord Kew

  We do not propose to describe at length or with precision the

  circumstances of the duel which ended so unfortunately for young Lord

  Kew. The meeting was inevitable: after the public acts and insult of the

  morning, the maddened Frenchman went to it convinced that his antagonist

  had wilfully outraged him, eager to show his bravery upon the body of an

  Englishman, and as proud as if he had been going into actual war. That

  commandment, the sixth in our decalogue, which forbids the doing of

  murder, and the injunction which directly follows on the same table, have

  been repealed by a very great number of Frenchmen for many years past;

  and to take the neighbour's wife, and his life subsequently, has not been

  an uncommon practice with the politest people in the world. Castillonnes

  had no idea but that he was going to the field of honour; stood with an

  undaunted scowl before his enemy's pistol; and discharged his own and

  brought down his opponent with a grim satisfaction, and a comfortable

  conviction afterwards that he had acted en galant homme. "It was well for

  this milor that he fell at the first shot, my dear," the exemplary young

  Frenchman remarked; "a second might have been yet more fatal to him;

  ordinarily I am sure of my coup, and you conceive that in an affair so

  grave it was absolutely necessary that one or other should remain on the

  ground." Nay, should M. de Kew recover from his wound, it was M. de

 
Castillonnes' intention to propose a second encounter between himself and

  that nobleman. It had been Lord Kew's determination never to fire upon

  his opponent, a confession which he made not to his second, poor scared

  Lord Rooster, who bore the young Earl to Kehl, but to some of his nearest

  relatives, who happened fortunately to be not far from him when he

  received his wound, and who came with all the eagerness of love to watch

  by his bedside.

  We have said that Lord Kew's mother, Lady Walham, and her second son were

  staying at Hombourg, when the Earl's disaster occurred. They had proposed

  to come to Baden to see Kew's new bride, and to welcome her; but the

  presence of her mother-in-law deterred Lady Walham, who gave up her

  heart's wish in bitterness of spirit, knowing very well that a meeting

  between the old Countess and herself could only produce the wrath, pain,

  and humiliation which their coming together always occasioned. It was

  Lord Kew who bade Rooster send for his mother, and not for Lady Kew; and

  as soon as she received those sad tidings, you may be sure the poor lady

  hastened to the bed where her wounded boy lay.

  The fever had declared itself, and the young man had been delirious more

  than once. His wan face lighted up with joy when he saw his mother; he

  put his little feverish hand out of the bed to her--"I knew you would

  come, dear," he said, "and you know I never would have fired upon the

  poor Frenchman." The fond mother allowed no sign of terror or grief to

  appear upon her face, so as to disturb her first-born and darling; but no

  doubt she prayed by his side as such loving hearts know how to pray, for

  the forgiveness of his trespass, who had forgiven those who sinned

  against him. "I knew I should be hit, George," said Kew to his brother

  when they were alone; "I always expected some such end as this. My life

  has been very wild and reckless; and you, George, have always been

  faithful to our mother. You will make a better Lord Kew than I have been,

  George. God bless you." George flung himself down with sobs by his

  brother's bedside, and swore Frank had always been the best fellow, the

  best brother, the kindest heart, the warmest friend in the world. Love--

  prayer--repentance, thus met over the young man's bed. Anxious and humble

  hearts, his own the least anxious and the most humble, awaited the dread

  award of life or death; and the world, and its ambition and vanities,

  were shut out from the darkened chamber where the awful issue was being

  tried.

  Our history has had little to do with characters resembling this lady. It

  is of the world, and things pertaining to it. Things beyond it, as the

  writer imagines, scarcely belong to the novelist's province. Who is he,

  that he should assume the divine's office; or turn his desk into a

  preacher's pulpit? In that career of pleasure, of idleness, of crime we

  might call it (but that the chronicler of worldly matters had best be

  chary of applying hard names to acts which young men are doing in the

  world every day), the gentle widowed lady, mother of Lord Kew, could but

  keep aloof, deploring the course upon which her dear young prodigal had

  entered; and praying with that saintly love, those pure supplications,

  with which good mothers follow their children, for her boy's repentance

  and return. Very likely her mind was narrow; very likely the precautions

  which she had used in the lad's early days, the tutors and directors she

  had set about him, the religious studies and practices to which she would

  have subjected him, had served only to vex and weary the young pupil, and

  to drive his high spirit into revolt. It is hard to convince a woman

  perfectly pure in her life and intentions, ready to die if need were for

  her own faith, having absolute confidence in the instruction of her

  teachers, that she and they (with all their sermons) may be doing harm.