and so great was the confidence and intimacy subsisting between
these two young people, that the reader will be glad to hear that
Mrs. Polly accepted every shilling of the money which Tom Billings
had received from his mamma the day before; nay, could with
difficulty be prevented from seizing upon the cut-velvet breeches
which he was carrying to the nobleman for whom they were made.
Having paid his adieux to Mrs. Polly, Mr. Billings departed to visit
his father.
CHAPTER IX. INTERVIEW BETWEEN COUNT GALGENSTEIN AND MASTER THOMAS
BILLINGS, WHEN HE INFORMS THE COUNT OF HIS PARENTAGE.
I don't know in all this miserable world a more miserable spectacle
than that of a young fellow of five or six and forty. The British
army, that nursery of valour, turns out many of the young fellows I
mean: who, having flaunted in dragoon uniforms from seventeen to
six-and-thirty; having bought, sold, or swapped during that period
some two hundred horses; having played, say, fifteen thousand games
at billiards; having drunk some six thousand bottles of wine; having
consumed a reasonable number of Nugee coats, split many dozen pairs
of high-heeled Hoby boots, and read the newspaper and the army-list
duly, retire from the service when they have attained their eighth
lustre, and saunter through the world, trailing from London to
Cheltenham, and from Boulogne to Paris, and from Paris to Baden,
their idleness, their ill-health, and their ennui. "In the morning
of youth," and when seen along with whole troops of their
companions, these flowers look gaudy and brilliant enough; but there
is no object more dismal than one of them alone, and in its
autumnal, or seedy state. My friend, Captain Popjoy, is one who has
arrived at this condition, and whom everybody knows by his title of
Father Pop. A kinder, simpler, more empty-headed fellow does not
exist. He is forty-seven years old, and appears a young,
good-looking man of sixty. At the time of the Army of Occupation he
really was as good-looking a man as any in the Dragoons. He now
uses all sorts of stratagems to cover the bald place on his head, by
combing certain thin grey sidelocks over it. He has, in revenge, a
pair of enormous moustaches, which he dyes of the richest
blue-black. His nose is a good deal larger and redder than it used
to be; his eyelids have grown flat and heavy; and a little pair of
red, watery eyeballs float in the midst of them: it seems as if the
light which was once in those sickly green pupils had extravasated
into the white part of the eye. If Pop's legs are not so firm and
muscular as they used to be in those days when he took such leaps
into White's buckskins, in revenge his waist is much larger. He
wears a very good coat, however, and a waistband, which he lets out
after dinner. Before ladies he blushes, and is as silent as a
schoolboy. He calls them "modest women." His society is chiefly
among young lads belonging to his former profession. He knows the
best wine to be had at each tavern or cafe, and the waiters treat
him with much respectful familiarity. He knows the names of every
one of them; and shouts out, "Send Markwell here!" or, "Tell
Cuttriss to give us a bottle of the yellow seal!" or, "Dizzy voo,
Monsure Borrel, noo donny shampang frappy," etc. He always makes
the salad or the punch, and dines out three hundred days in the
year: the other days you see him in a two-franc eating-house at
Paris, or prowling about Rupert Street, or St. Martin's Court, where
you get a capital cut of meat for eightpence. He has decent
lodgings and scrupulously clean linen; his animal functions are
still tolerably well preserved, his spiritual have evaporated long
since; he sleeps well, has no conscience, believes himself to be a
respectable fellow, and is tolerably happy on the days when he is
asked out to dinner.
Poor Pop is not very high in the scale of created beings; but, if
you fancy there is none lower, you are in egregious error. There
was once a man who had a mysterious exhibition of an animal, quite
unknown to naturalists, called "the wusser." Those curious
individuals who desired to see the wusser were introduced into an
apartment where appeared before them nothing more than a little lean
shrivelled hideous blear-eyed mangy pig. Everyone cried out
"Swindle!" and "Shame!" "Patience, gentlemen, be heasy," said the
showman: "look at that there hanimal; it's a perfect phenomaly of
hugliness: I engage you never see such a pig." Nobody ever had
seen. "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I'll keep my promise, has per
bill; and bad as that there pig is, look at this here" (he showed
another). "Look at this here, and you'll see at once that it's A
WUSSER." In like manner the Popjoy breed is bad enough, but it
serves only to show off the Galgenstein race; which is WUSSER.
Galgenstein had led a very gay life, as the saying is, for the last
fifteen years; such a gay one, that he had lost all capacity of
enjoyment by this time, and only possessed inclinations without
powers of gratifying them. He had grown to be exquisitely curious
and fastidious about meat and drink, for instance, and all that he
wanted was an appetite. He carried about with him a French cook,
who could not make him eat; a doctor, who could not make him well; a
mistress, of whom he was heartily sick after two days; a priest, who
had been a favourite of the exemplary Dubois, and by turns used to
tickle him by the imposition of penance, or by the repetition of a
tale from the recueil of Noce, or La Fare. All his appetites were
wasted and worn; only some monstrosity would galvanise them into
momentary action. He was in that effete state to which many
noblemen of his time had arrived; who were ready to believe in
ghost-raising or in gold-making, or to retire into monasteries and
wear hair-shirts, or to dabble in conspiracies, or to die in love
with little cook-maids of fifteen, or to pine for the smiles or at
the frowns of a prince of the blood, or to go mad at the refusal of
a chamberlain's key. The last gratification he remembered to have
enjoyed was that of riding bareheaded in a soaking rain for three
hours by the side of his Grand Duke's mistress's coach; taking the
pas of Count Krahwinkel, who challenged him, and was run through the
body for this very dispute. Galgenstein gained a rheumatic gout by
it, which put him to tortures for many months; and was further
gratified with the post of English Envoy. He had a fortune, he
asked no salary, and could look the envoy very well. Father
O'Flaherty did all the duties, and furthermore acted as a spy over
the ambassador--a sinecure post, for the man had no feelings,
wishes, or opinions--absolutely none.
"Upon my life, father," said this worthy man, "I care for nothing.
You have been talking for an hour about the Regent's death, and the
Duchess of Phalaris, and sly old Fleury, and what not; and I care
just as much as if you told me that one of my bauers at Galgenst
ein
had killed a pig; or as if my lacquey, La Rose yonder, had made love
to my mistress."
"He does!" said the reverend gentleman.
"Ah, Monsieur l'Abbe!" said La Rose, who was arranging his master's
enormous Court periwig, "you are, helas! wrong. Monsieur le Comte
will not be angry at my saying that I wish the accusation were
true."
The Count did not take the slightest notice of La Rose's wit, but
continued his own complaints.
"I tell you, Abbe, I care for nothing. I lost a thousand guineas
t'other night at basset; I wish to my heart I could have been vexed
about it. Egad! I remember the day when to lose a hundred made me
half mad for a month. Well, next day I had my revenge at dice, and
threw thirteen mains. There was some delay; a call for fresh bones,
I think; and would you believe it?--I fell asleep with the box in my
hand!"
"A desperate case, indeed," said the Abbe.
"If it had not been for Krahwinkel, I should have been a dead man,
that's positive. That pinking him saved me."
"I make no doubt of it," said the Abbe. "Had your Excellency not
run him through, he, without a doubt, would have done the same for
you."
"Psha! you mistake my words, Monsieur l'Abbe" (yawning). "I
mean--what cursed chocolate!--that I was dying for want of
excitement. Not that I cared for dying; no, d---- me if I do!"
"WHEN you do, your Excellency means," said the Abbe, a fat
grey-haired Irishman, from the Irlandois College at Paris.
His Excellency did not laugh, nor understand jokes of any kind; he
was of an undeviating stupidity, and only replied, "Sir, I mean what
I say. I don't care for living: no, nor for dying either; but I
can speak as well as another, and I'll thank you not to be
correcting my phrases as if I were one of your cursed schoolboys,
and not a gentleman of fortune and blood."
Herewith the Count, who had uttered four sentences about himself (he
never spoke of anything else), sunk back on his pillows again, quite
exhausted by his eloquence. The Abbe, who had a seat and a table by
the bedside, resumed the labours which had brought him into the room
in the morning, and busied himself with papers, which occasionally
he handed over to his superior for approval.
Presently Monsieur la Rose appeared.
"Here is a person with clothes from Mr. Beinkleider's. Will your
Excellency see him, or shall I bid him leave the clothes?"
The Count was very much fatigued by this time; he had signed three
papers, and read the first half-a-dozen lines of a pair of them.
"Bid the fellow come in, La Rose; and, hark ye, give me my wig: one
must show one's self to be a gentleman before these scoundrels."
And he therefore mounted a large chestnut-coloured, orange-scented
pyramid of horsehair, which was to awe the new-comer.
He was a lad of about seventeen, in a smart waistcoat and a blue
riband: our friend Tom Billings, indeed. He carried under his arm
the Count's destined breeches. He did not seem in the least awed,
however, by his Excellency's appearance, but looked at him with a
great degree of curiosity and boldness. In the same manner he
surveyed the chaplain, and then nodded to him with a kind look of
recognition.
"Where have I seen the lad?" said the father. "Oh, I have it! My
good friend, you were at the hanging yesterday, I think?"
Mr. Billings gave a very significant nod with his head. "I never
miss," said he.
"What a young Turk! And pray, sir, do you go for pleasure, or for
business?"
"Business! what do you mean by business?"
"Oh, I did not know whether you might be brought up to the trade, or
your relations be undergoing the operation."
"My relations," said Mr. Billings, proudly, and staring the Count
full in the face, "was not made for no such thing. I'm a tailor
now, but I'm a gentleman's son: as good a man, ay, as his lordship
there: for YOU a'n't his lordship--you're the Popish priest you
are; and we were very near giving you a touch of a few Protestant
stones, master."
The Count began to be a little amused: he was pleased to see the
Abbe look alarmed, or even foolish.
"Egad, Abbe," said he, "you turn as white as a sheet."
"I don't fancy being murdered, my Lord," said the Abbe, hastily;
"and murdered for a good work. It was but to be useful to yonder
poor Irishman, who saved me as a prisoner in Flanders, when
Marlborough would have hung me up like poor Macshane himself was
yesterday."
"Ah!" said the Count, bursting out with some energy, "I was thinking
who the fellow could be, ever since he robbed me on the Heath. I
recollect the scoundrel now: he was a second in a duel I had here
in the year six."
"Along with Major Wood, behind Montague House," said Mr. Billings.
"I'VE heard on it." And here he looked more knowing than ever.
"YOU!" cried the Count, more and more surprised. "And pray who the
devil ARE you?"
"My name's Billings."
"Billings?" said the Count.
"I come out of Warwickshire," said Mr. Billings.
"Indeed!"
"I was born at Birmingham town."
"Were you, really!"
"My mother's name was Hayes," continued Billings, in a solemn voice.
"I was put out to a nurse along with John Billings, a blacksmith;
and my father run away. NOW do you know who I am?"
"Why, upon honour, now," said the Count, who was amused,--"upon
honour, Mr. Billings, I have not that advantage."
"Well, then, my Lord, YOU'RE MY FATHER!"
Mr. Billings when he said this came forward to the Count with a
theatrical air; and, flinging down the breeches of which he was the
bearer, held out his arms and stared, having very little doubt but
that his Lordship would forthwith spring out of bed and hug him to
his heart. A similar piece of naivete many fathers of families
have, I have no doubt, remarked in their children; who, not caring
for their parents a single doit, conceive, nevertheless, that the
latter are bound to show all sorts of affection for them. His
lordship did move, but backwards towards the wall, and began pulling
at the bell-rope with an expression of the most intense alarm.
"Keep back, sirrah!--keep back! Suppose I AM your father, do you
want to murder me? Good heavens! how the boy smells of gin and
tobacco! Don't turn away, my lad; sit down there at a proper
distance. And, La Rose, give him some eau-de-Cologne, and get a cup
of coffee. Well, now, go on with your story. Egad, my dear Abbe, I
think it is very likely that what the lad says is true."
"If it is a family conversation," said the Abbe, "I had better leave
you."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, no! I could not stand the boy alone. Now,
Mister ah!--What's-your-name? Have the goodness to tell your
story."
Mr. Billings was woefully disconcerted; for his mother and he had
agreed that as soon as his father saw him he would be recognised at<
br />
once, and, mayhap, made heir to the estates and title; in which
being disappointed, he very sulkily went on with his narrative, and
detailed many of those events with which the reader has already been
made acquainted. The Count asked the boy's mother's Christian name,
and being told it, his memory at once returned to him.
"What! are you little Cat's son?" said his Excellency. "By heavens,
mon cher Abbe, a charming creature, but a tigress--positively a
tigress. I recollect the whole affair now. She's a little fresh
black-haired woman, a'n't she? with a sharp nose and thick eyebrows,
ay? Ah yes, yes!" went on my Lord, "I recollect her, I recollect
her. It was at Birmingham I first met her: she was my Lady
Trippet's woman, wasn't she?"
"She was no such thing," said Mr. Billings, hotly. "Her aunt kept
the 'Bugle Inn' on Waltham Green, and your Lordship seduced her."
"Seduced her! Oh, 'gad, so I did. Stap me, now, I did. Yes, I
made her jump on my black horse, and bore her off like--like Aeneas
bore his wife away from the siege of Rome! hey, l'Abbe?"
"The events were precisely similar," said the Abbe. "It is
wonderful what a memory you have!"
"I was always remarkable for it," continued his Excellency. "Well,
where was I,--at the black horse? Yes, at the black horse. Well, I
mounted her on the black horse, and rode her en croupe, egad--ha,
ha!--to Birmingham; and there we billed and cooed together like a
pair of turtle-doves: yes--ha!--that we did!"
"And this, I suppose, is the end of some of the BILLINGS?" said the
Abbe, pointing to Mr. Tom.
"Billings! what do you mean? Yes--oh--ah--a pun, a calembourg. Fi
donc, M. l'Abbe." And then, after the wont of very stupid people,
M. de Galgenstein went on to explain to the Abbe his own pun.
"Well, but to proceed," cries he. "We lived together at Birmingham,
and I was going to be married to a rich heiress, egad! when what do
you think this little Cat does? She murders me, egad! and makes me
manquer the marriage. Twenty thousand, I think it was; and I wanted
the money in those days. Now, wasn't she an abominable monster,
that mother of yours, hey, Mr. a--What's-your-name?"
"She served you right!" said Mr. Billings, with a great oath,
starting up out of all patience.
"Fellow!" said his Excellency, quite aghast, "do you know to whom
you speak?--to a nobleman of seventy-eight descents; a count of the
Holy Roman Empire; a representative of a sovereign? Ha, egad!
Don't stamp, fellow, if you hope for my protection."
"D--n your protection!" said Mr. Billings, in a fury. "Curse you
and your protection too! I'm a free-born Briton, and no ---- French
Papist! And any man who insults my mother--ay, or calls me feller--
had better look to himself and the two eyes in his head, I can tell
him!" And with this Mr. Billings put himself into the most approved
attitude of the Cockpit, and invited his father, the reverend
gentleman, and Monsieur la Rose the valet, to engage with him in a
pugilistic encounter. The two latter, the Abbe especially, seemed
dreadfully frightened; but the Count now looked on with much
interest; and, giving utterance to a feeble kind of chuckle, which
lasted for about half a minute, said,--
"Paws off, Pompey! You young hangdog, you--egad, yes, aha! 'pon
honour, you're a lad of spirit; some of your father's spunk in you,
hey? I know him by that oath. Why, sir, when I was sixteen, I used
to swear--to swear, egad, like a Thames waterman, and exactly in
this fellow's way! Buss me, my lad; no, kiss my hand. That will
do"--and he held out a very lean yellow hand, peering from a pair of
yellow ruffles. It shook very much, and the shaking made all the
rings upon it shine only the more.
"Well," says Mr. Billings, "if you wasn't a-going to abuse me nor
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