The Newcomes: Memoirs of a Most Respectable Family Part 49

Clive remarks that "the neighbouring hotel has curiously changed its destination. One of the members of the Directory had it; and, no doubt, in the groves of its garden, Madame Tallien, and Madame Recamier, and Madame Beauharnais have danced under the lamps. Then a Marshal of the Empire inhabited it. Then it was restored to its legitimate owner, Monsieur le Marquis de Bricquabracque, whose descendants, having a lawsuit about the Bricquabracque succession, sold the hotel to the Convent."

After some talk about nuns, Ethel says, "There were convents in England.

She often thinks she would like to retire to one;" and she sighs as if her heart were in that scheme.

Clive, with a laugh, says, "Yes. If you could retire after the season, when you were very weary of the b.a.l.l.s, a convent would be very nice.

At Rome he had seen San Pietro in Montorio and Sant Onofrio, that delightful old place where Ta.s.so died: people go and make a retreat there. In the ladies' convents, the ladies do the same thing--and he doubts whether they are much more or less wicked after their retreat, than gentlemen and ladies in England or France."

Ethel. Why do you sneer at all faith? Why should not a retreat do people good? Do you suppose the world is so satisfactory, that those who are in it never wish for a while to leave it'd (She heaves a sigh and looks down towards a beautiful new dress of many flounces, which Madame de Flouncival, the great milliner, has sent her home that very day.)

Clive. I do not know what the world is, except from afar off. I am like the Peri who looks into Paradise and sees angels within it. I live in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square: which is not within the gates of Paradise. I take the gate to be somewhere in Davies Street, leading out of Oxford Street into Grosvenor Square. There's another gate in Hay Hill: and another in Bruton Street, Bond----

Ethel. Don't be a goose.

Clive. Why not? It is as good to be a goose, as to be a lady--no, a gentleman of fas.h.i.+on. Suppose I were a Viscount, an Earl, a Marquis, a Duke, would you say Goose? No, you would say Swan.

Ethel. Unkind and unjust!--ungenerous to make taunts which common people make: and to repeat to me those silly sarcasms which your low Radical literary friends are always putting in their books! Have I ever made any difference to you? Would I not sooner see you than the fine people?

Would I talk with you, or with the young dandies most willingly? Are we not of the same blood, Clive; and of all the grandees I see about, can there be a grander gentleman than your dear old father? You need not squeeze my hand so.--Those little imps are look--that has nothing to do with the question. Viens, Leonore! Tu connois bien, monsieur, n'est-ce pas? qui te fait de si jolis dessins?

Leonore. Ah, oui! Vous m'en ferez toujours, n'est-ce pas Monsieur Clive?

des chevaux, et puis des pet.i.tes filles avec leurs gouvernantes, et puis des maisons--et puis--et puis des maisons encore--ou est bonne maman?

[Exit little LEONORE down an alley.

Ethel. Do you remember when we were children, and you used to make drawings for us? I have some now that you did--in my geography book, which I used to read and read with Miss Quigley.

Clive. I remember all about our youth, Ethel.

Ethel. Tell me what you remember?

Clive. I remember one of the days, when I first saw you, I had been reading the Arabian Nights at school--and you came in in a bright dress of shot silk, amber, and blue--and I thought you were like that fairy-princess who came out of the crystal box--because----

Ethel. Because why?

Clive. Because I always thought that fairy somehow must be the most beautiful creature in all the world--that is "why and because." Do not make me Mayfair curtsies. You know whether you are good-looking or not: and how long I have thought you so. I remember when I thought I would like to be Ethel's knight, and that if there was anything she would have me do, I would try and achieve it in order to please her. I remember when I was so ignorant I did not know there was any difference in rank between us.

Ethel. Ah, Clive!

Clive. Now it is altered. Now I know the difference between a poor painter and a young lady of the world. Why haven't I a t.i.tle and a great fortune? Why did I ever see you, Ethel; or, knowing the distance which it seems fate has placed between us, why have I seen you again?

Ethel (innocently). Have I ever made any difference between us? Whenever I may see you, am I not too glad? Don't I see you sometimes when I should not--no--I do not say when I should not; but when others, whom I am bound to obey, forbid me? What harm is there in my remembering old days? Why should I be ashamed of our relations.h.i.+p?--no, not ashamed--shy should I forget it? Don't do that, sir; we have shaken hands twice already. Leonore! Xavier!

Clive. At one moment you like me: and at the next you seem to repent it.

One day you seem happy when I come; and another day you are ashamed of me. Last Tuesday, when you came with those fine ladies to the Louvre, you seemed to blush when you saw me copying at my picture; and that stupid young lord looked quite alarmed because you spoke to me. My lot in life is not very brilliant; but I would not change it against that young man's--no, not with all his chances.

Ethel. What do you mean with all his chances?

Clive. You know very well. I mean I would not be as selfish or as dull, or as ill educated--I won't say worse of him--not to be as handsome, or as wealthy, or as n.o.ble as he is. I swear I would not now change my place against his, or give up being Clive Newcome to be my Lord Marquis of Farintosh, with all his acres and t.i.tles of n.o.bility.

Ethel. Why are you for ever harping about Lord Farintosh and his t.i.tles? I thought it was only women who were jealous--you gentlemen say so.--(Hurriedly.) I am going to-night with grandmamma to the Minister of the Interior, and then to the Russian ball; and to-morrow to the Tuileries. We dine at the Emba.s.sy first; and on Sunday, I suppose, we shall go to the Rue d'Aguesseau. I can hardly come here before Mon---.

Madam de Florac! Little Leonore is very like you--resembles you very much. My cousin says he longs to make a drawing of her.

Madame de Florac. My husband always likes that I should be present at his dinner. Pardon me, young people, that I have been away from you for a moment.

[Exeunt CLIVE, ETHEL, and Madame DE F. into the house.

CONVERSATION II.-SCENE I. Miss Newcome arrives in Lady Kew's carriage, which enters the court of the Hotel de Florac.

Saint Jean. Mademoiselle--Madame la Comtesse is gone out but madame has charged me to say, that she will be at home to the dinner of M. le Comte, as to the ordinary.

Miss Newcome. Madame de Preville is at home?

Saint Jean. Pardon me, madame is gone out with M. le Baron, and M.

Xavier, and Mademoiselle de Preville. They are gone, miss, I believe, to visit the parents of Monsieur le Baron; of whom it is probably to-day the fete: for Mademoiselle Leonore carried a bouquet--no doubt for her grandpapa. Will it please mademoiselle to enter? I think Monsieur the Count sounds me. (Bell rings.)

Miss Newcome. Madame la Prince--Madame la Vicomtesse is at home, Monsieur St. Jean?

Saint Jean. I go to call the people of Madame la Vicomtesse.

[Exit Old SAINT JEAN to the carriage: a Lackey comes presently in a gorgeous livery, with b.u.t.tons like little cheese plates.

The Lackey. The Princess is at home, miss, and will be most appy to see you, miss. (Miss trips up the great stair: a gentleman out of livery has come forth to the landing, and introduces her to the apartments of Madame la Princesse.)

The Lackey to the Servants on the box. Good morning, Thomas. How dy' do, old Backystopper?

Backystopper. How de do, Jim? I say, you couldn't give a feller a drink of beer, could yer, Muncontour? It was precious wet last night, I can tell you. 'Ad to stop for three hours at the Napolitum Emba.s.sy, when we was a dancing. Me and some chaps went into Bob Parsom's and had a drain.

Old Cat came out and couldn't find her carriage, not by no means, could she, Tommy? Blest if I didn't nearly drive her into a wegetable-cart.

I was so uncommon scruey! Who's this a-hentering at your pot-coshare?

Billy, my fine feller!

Clive Newcome (by the most singular coincidence). Madame la Princesse?

Lackey. We, munseer. (He rings a bell: the gentleman in black appears as before on the landing-place up the stair.)

[Exit Clive.

Backystopper. I say, Bill: is that young chap often a-coming about here?

They'd run pretty in a curricle, wouldn't they? Miss N. and Master N.

Quiet, old woman! Jest look to that mare's ead, will you, Billy? He's a fine young feller, that is. He gave me a covering the other night.

Whenever I sor him in the Park, he was always riding an ansum hanimal.

What is he? They said in our 'all he was a hartis. I can 'ardly think that. Why, there used to be a hartis come to our club, and painted two or three of my 'osses, and my old woman too.

Lackey. There's hartises and hartises, Backystopper. Why, there's some on 'em comes here with more stars on their coats than Dukes has got.

Have you never 'eard of Mossyer Verny, or Mossyer Gudang?

Backystopper. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss N.; which, I guess, I wish he may git it.

Tommy. He! he! he!