Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, was willing, he said, to do any thing in his power; but he could scarcely hope that they had the means of withdrawing from the double attraction of the faro-table and coquetry, a young man of that age and figure.
“Fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said the Abbé: “his head and his heart are more in our favour, trust me, than his age and his figure are against us. To begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much he was struck and edified by your reformation?”
“Ah! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for him, I should fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said Marmontel “but where shall he find such another in all Paris?”
“In his own country, perhaps, all in good time,” said the Abbé.
“In his own country? — True,” cried Marmontel, “now you recall it to my mind, how eager he grew in disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction between aimable and amiable. His description of an amiable woman, according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made con amore; and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, and which showed the heart was in England or Ireland.”
“Wherever his heart is, c’est bien placé,” said the Abbé. “I like him — we must get him into good company — he is worthy to be acquainted with your amiable and aimable Madame de Beauveau and Madame de Seran.”
“True,” said Marmontel; “and for the honour of Paris, we must convince him that he has taken up false notions, and that there is such a thing as conjugal fidelity and domestic happiness here.”
“Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of Les Contes Moraux,” said the Abbé.
It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Madame de Connal was, about this time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the country house of Madame de Clairville. During her absence, the good Abbé had time to put in execution all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young friend to some of the really good company of Paris. He pointed out to him at Madame Geoffrin’s, Madame de Tencin’s, Madame du Detfand’s, and Madame Trudaine’s, the difference between the society at the house of a rich farmer general — or at the house of one connected with the court, and with people in place and political power — and the society of mixed rank and literature. The mere passing pictures of these things, to one who was not to live in Paris, might not, perhaps, except as a matter of curiosity, be of much value; but his judicious friend led Ormond from these to make comparisons and deductions which were of use to him all his life afterwards.
CHAPTER XXX.
One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a person from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s confidential man of business.
“What news from Castle Hermitage?” cried Ormond, starting up in his bed, surprised at the sight of Patrickson.
“The best that can be — never saw Sir Ulick in such heart — he has a share of the loan, and—”
“And what news of the Annalys?” interrupted Ormond.
“I know nothing about them at all, sir,” said Patrickson, who was a methodical man of business, and whose head was always intent upon what he called the main chance. “I have been in Dublin, and heard no country news.”
“But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to Paris?”
“I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir — only I have so many ’tis hard to find,” said Patrickson, looking carefully over a parcel of letters in his pocket-book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner as put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid the letters on the bed one by one. “That’s not it — and that’s not it; that’s for Monsieur un tel, marchand, rue —— ; that packet’s from the Hamburgh merchants — What brings me over? — Why, sir, I have business enough, Heaven knows!”
Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick O’Shane, but by many Dublin merchants and bankers, to settle business for them with different houses on the continent. Ormond, without listening to the various digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile consequence to whom the letters were addressed, or from whom they were answers, pounced upon the letter in Sir Ulick’s handwriting directed to himself, and tore it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the Annalys. None — they were in Devonshire. The letter was merely a few lines on business — Sir Ulick had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out Ormond’s money in the loan most advantageously for him; but there had been an omission in the drawing up of his power of attorney, which had been done in such a hurry on Ormond’s leaving home. It gave power only to sell out of the Three per Cents.; whereas much of Ormond’s money was in the Four per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was necessary, and he had brought one for him to sign. Patrickson in his slow manner descanted upon the folly of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were getting into carriages, which was always the way with young gentlemen, he said. He took care that Ormond should do nothing in a hurry now; for he put on his spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a syllable of the law forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a few kind lines to Sir Ulick, and earnestly besought him to find out something more about the Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have appeared in the papers. What delayed the marriage? Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or accepted? — Where was he? — Ormond said he would be content if Sir Ulick could obtain an answer to that single plain question.
All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never stirred his forefinger from the spot where the signature was to be written at the bottom of the power of attorney.
“Pray,” said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, “pray, Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?”
“By the father’s side, I apprehend, sir — but my mother was English. Stay, sir, if you please — I must witness it.”
“Witness away,” said Ormond; and after having signed this paper, empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000l. out of the Four per cents., Ormond lay down, and wishing him a good journey, settled himself to sleep; while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately said, “He hoped to be in London in short; but that he should go by Havre de Grace, and that he should be happy to execute any commands for Mr. Ormond there or in Dublin.” More he would have said, but finding Ormond by this time past reply, he left the room on tiptoe. The next morning Madame de Connal returned from the country, and sent Ormond word that she should expect him at her assembly that night.
Every body complimented Madame de Connal upon the improvement which the country air had made in her beauty — even her husband was struck with it, and paid her his compliments on the occasion; but she stood conversing so long with Ormond, that the faro-players grew impatient: she led him to the table, but evidently had little interest herself in the game. He played at first with more than his usual success, but late at night his fortune suddenly changed; he lost — lost — till at last he stopped, and rising from table, said he had no more money, and he could play no longer. Connal, who was not one of the players, but merely looking on, offered to lend him any sum he pleased. “Here’s a rouleau — here are two rouleaus — what will you have?” said Connal.
Ormond declined playing any more: he said that he had lost the sum he had resolved to lose, and there he would stop. Connal did not urge him, but laughing said, that a resolution to lose at play was the most extraordinary he had ever heard.
“And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond.
“Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win,” said Connal, “and no doubt you will keep that as well — I prophesy that you will; and you will give fortune fair play to-morrow night.” Ormond simply repeated that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was a matter of no consequence to him — that he had done exactly what he had determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this mon
ey he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed.
“But you shall not lose your money,” said Dora; “when next you play it shall be on my account as well as your own — you know this is not only a compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages — and it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you,” continued Madame de Connal—”they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may speak in English at our ease — I must explain to you, that a good portion of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal — my aunt, you know, has also a good fortune — we are partners, and put a considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing to do with that. If you would take my advice,” continued she, speaking in a very persuasive tone, “instead of forswearing play, as you seem inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces with us; you cannot imagine that I would advise you to any thing which I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you — you little know how much I am interested.” She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and hurried on—”you have no ties in Ireland — you seem to like Paris — where can you spend your time more agreeably?”
“More agreeably — nowhere upon earth!” cried Ormond. Her manner, tone, and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir — the company had risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them departed. Connal was gone — only a few remained in a distant apartment, listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse — her intimacy with him was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal paré at the Spanish ambassador’s for the ensuing night — but she had more inclination to go to a bal masqué, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak, because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted his apprehensions.
Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered, gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness — and she immediately yielded her will, her fantaisie, to his better judgment. This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted with Dora — she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive.
“Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed.
“Call me Dora,” said she: “I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh! Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real happiness since we parted.”
Tears filled her fine eyes — no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger.
“My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!”
That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed.
“Dora, whose gray hair is this?”
“My father’s,” said Dora, in a tremulous voice.
“Your father!” cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed upon his heart.
“And is this the return I make! — Oh, if he could see us at this instant!”
“And if he could,” cried Dora, “oh! how he would admire and love you, Ormond, and how he would—”
Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both her hands.
“He would see you, Dora, without a guide, protector, or friend; surrounded with admirers, among profligate men, and women still more profligate, yet he would see that you have preserved a reputation of which your father would be proud.”
“My father! oh, my poor father!” cried Dora: “Oh! generous, dear, ever generous Ormond!”
Bursting into tears — alternate passions seizing her — at one moment the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her imagination.
At this instant the noise of some one approaching recalled them both to their senses. They were found in earnest conversation about a party of pleasure that was to be arranged for the next day. Madame de Connal made Ormond promise that he would come the next morning, and settle every thing with M. de Connal for their intended expedition into the country.
The next day, as Ormond was returning to Madame de Connal’s, with the firm intention of adhering to the honourable line of conduct he had traced out for himself, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one ran full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom in the streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in crowds with magical celerity and address, he looked back, and at the same instant the person who had passed looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight could not have surprised Ormond more than the sight of this person. “Could it be — could it possibly be Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris?”
“By the blessing, then, it’s the man himself — Master Harry! — though I didn’t know him through the French disguise. Oh! master, then, I’ve been tried and cast, and all but hanged — sentenced to Botany — transported any way — for a robbery I didn’t commit — since I saw you last. But your honour’s uneasy, and it’s not proper, I know, to be stopping a jantleman in the street; but I have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a minute.”
Ormond’s surprise and curiosity increased — he desired Moriarty to follow him.
“And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?”
“It is a long story, then, please your honour. I was transported to Botany, though innocent. But first and foremost for what consarns your honour first.”
“First,” said Ormond, “if you were transported, how came you here?”
“Because I was not transported, plase your honour — only sentenced — for I escaped from Kilmainham, where I was sent to be put on board the tender; but I got on board of an American ship, by the help of a friend — and this ship being knocked against the rocks, I came safe ashore in this country on one of the sticks of the vessel: so when I knowed it was France I was in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in Paris, I thought if I could just make my way any hows to Paris, she’d befriend me in case of need.
“But, dear master,” said Moriarty, interrupting, “it’s a folly to talk — I’ll not tell you a word more of myself till you hear the news I have for you. The worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear of the breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank!”
“The breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank? I heard from him the day before yesterday.”
“May be you did; but the captain of the American ship in which I came was complaining of his having been kept two hours at that bank, where they were paying large sums in small notes, and where there was the greatest run upon the house that ever was seen.”
Ormond instantly saw his danger — he recollected the power of attorney he had signed two days before. But Patrickson was to go by Havre de Grace — that would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by setting out instantly might get to London time enough to save his property. He went directly and ordered post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to pay, but for his stables and lodg
ing. He had a faithful servant, whom he could leave behind, to make all necessary arrangements.
“You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry,” said Carroll. “But sure you won’t leave poor Moriarty behind ye here in distress, when he has no friend in the wide world but yourself?”
“Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?”
“Upon my conscience, master, I am perfectly innocent as the child unborn, both of the murder and the robbery. If your honour will give me leave, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“That will be a long affair, Moriarty, if you talk out of the face, as you used to do. I will, however, find an opportunity to hear it all. But, in the meantime, stay where you are till I return.”
Ormond went instantly to Connal’s, to inform him of what had happened. His astonishment was obviously mixed with disappointment. But to do him justice, besides the interest which he really had in the preservation of the fortune, he felt some personal regard for Ormond himself.
“What shall we do without you?” said he. “I assure you, Madame and I have never been so happy together since the first month after our marriage as we have been since you came to Paris.”
Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond say, that if he were time enough in London to save his fortune, he proposed returning immediately to Paris, intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy.
Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris.
Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle were out — Connal did not know where they were gone. Ormond was glad to tear himself away with as few adieus as possible. He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on the box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, that he might relate his history at leisure.
“Plase your honour,” said Moriarty, “Mr. Marcus never missed any opportunity of showing me ill-will. The supercargo of the ship that was cast away, when you were with Sir Herbert Annaly, God rest his soul! came down to the sea-side to look for some of the things that he had lost: the day after he came, early in the morning, his horse, and bridle, and saddle, and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the place where we lived, and the supercargo was never heard any more of. Suspicion fell upon many — the country rung with the noise that was made about this murder — and at last I was taken up for it, because people had seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would not believe it was with money your honour sent me by the good parson — for the parson was gone out of the country, and I had nobody to stand my friend; for Mr. Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was his friend, and Sir Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. Howsomdever, after a long trial, which lasted the whole day, a ‘cute lawyer on my side found out that there was no proof that any body had been murdered, and that a man might lose his horse, his saddle, and his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt: so that the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. They then tried me for the robbery; and sure enough that went again me: for a pair of silver-mounted pistols, with the man’s name engraved upon them, was found in my house. They knew the man’s name by the letters in the big coat. The judge asked me what I had to say for myself: ‘My lard,’ says I, ‘those pistols were brought into my house about a fortnight ago, by a little boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them in a punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.’
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