time altogether at Baden. I suppose the accident to Kew will put off his
marriage with Miss Newcome. They have been engaged, you know, ever so
long.--And--do, do write to me and tell me something about London. It's
best I should--should stay here and work this winter and the next. J. J.
has done a famous picture, and if I send a couple home, you'll give them
a notice in the Pall Mall Gazette--won't you?--for the sake of old times
and yours affectionately, Clive Newcome."
CHAPTER XXXVI
In which M. de Florac is promoted
However much Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry was disposed to admire and praise
her own conduct in the affair which ended so unfortunately for poor Lord
Kew, between whom and the Gascon her grace vowed that she had done
everything in her power to prevent a battle, the old Duke, her lord, was,
it appeared, by no means delighted with his wife's behaviour, nay,
visited her with his very sternest displeasure. Miss O'Grady, the
Duchesse's companion, and her little girl's instructress, at this time
resigned her functions in the Ivry family; it is possible that in the
recriminations consequent upon the governess's dismissal, the Miss
Irlandaise, in whom the family had put so much confidence, divulged
stories unfavourable to her patroness, and caused the indignation of the
Duke, her husband. Between Florac and the Duchesse there was also open
war and rupture. He had been one of Kew's seconds in the latter's affair
with the Vicomte's countryman. He had even cried out for fresh pistols,
and proposed to engage Castillonnes, when his gallant principal fell; and
though a second duel was luckily averted as murderous and needless, M. de
Florac never hesitated afterwards, and in all companies, to denounce with
the utmost virulence the instigator and the champion of the odious
original quarrel. He vowed that the Duchesse had shot le petit Kiou as
effectually as if she had herself fired the pistol at his breast.
Murderer, poisoner, Brinvilliers, a hundred more such epithets he used
against his kinswoman, regretting that the good old times were past--that
there was no Chambre Ardente to try her, and no rack and wheel to give
her her due.
The biographer of the Newcomes has no need (although he possesses the
fullest information) to touch upon the Duchesse's doings, further than as
they relate to that most respectable English family. When the Duke took
his wife into the country, Florac never hesitated to say that to live
with her was dangerous for the old man, and to cry out to his friends of
the Boulevards or the Jockey Club, "Ma parole d'honneur, cette femme le
tuera!"
Do you know, O gentle and unsuspicious readers, or have you ever reckoned
as you have made your calculation of society, how many most respectable
husbands help to kill their wives--how many respectable wives aid in
sending their husbands to Hades? The wife of a chimney-sweep or a
journeyman butcher comes shuddering before a police magistrate--her head
bound up--her body scarred and bleeding with wounds, which the drunken
ruffian, her lord, has administered: a poor shopkeeper or mechanic is
driven out of his home by the furious ill-temper of the shrill virago his
wife--takes to the public-house--to evil courses--to neglecting his
business--to the gin-bottle--to delirium tremens--to perdition. Bow
Street, and policemen, and the newspaper reporters, have cognisance and a
certain jurisdiction over these vulgar matrimonial crimes; but in politer
company how many murderous assaults are there by husband or wife--where
the woman is not felled by the actual fist, though she staggers and sinks
under blows quite as cruel and effectual; where, with old wounds yet
unhealed, which she strives to hide under a smiling face from the world,
she has to bear up and to be stricken down and to rise to her feet again,
under fresh daily strokes of torture; where the husband, fond and
faithful, has to suffer slights, coldness, insult, desertion, his
children sneered away from their love for him, his friends driven from
his door by jealousy, his happiness strangled, his whole life embittered,
poisoned, destroyed! If you were acquainted with the history of every
family in your street, don't you know that in two or three of the houses
there such tragedies have been playing? Is not the young mistress of
Number 20 already pining at her husband's desertion? The kind master of
Number 30 racking his fevered brains and toiling through sleepless nights
to pay for the jewels on his wife's neck, and the carriage out of which
she ogles Lothario in the Park? The fate under which man or woman falls,
blow of brutal tyranny, heartless desertion, weight of domestic care too
heavy to bear--are not blows such as these constantly striking people
down? In this long parenthesis we are wandering ever so far away from M.
le Duc and Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, and from the vivacious Florac's
statement regarding his kinsman, that that woman will kill him.
There is this at least to be said, that if the Duc d'Ivry did die he was
a very old gentleman, and had been a great viveur for at least threescore
years of his life. As Prince de Moncontour in his father's time before
the Revolution, during the Emigration, even after the Restoration, M. le
Duc had vecu with an extraordinary vitality. He had gone through good and
bad fortune: extreme poverty, display and splendour, affairs of love--
affairs of honour,--and of one disease or another a man must die at the
end. After the Baden business--and he had dragged off his wife to
Champagne--the Duke became greatly broken; he brought his little daughter
to a convent at Paris, putting the child under the special guardianship
of Madame de Florac, with whom and with whose family in these latter days
the old chief of the house effected a complete reconciliation. The Duke
was now for ever coming to Madame de Florac; he poured all his wrongs and
griefs into her ear with garrulous senile eagerness. "That little
Duchesse is a monstre, a femme d'Eugene Sue," the Vicomte used to say;
"the poor old Duke he cry--ma parole d'honneur, he cry and I cry too when
he comes to recount to my poor mother, whose sainted heart is the asile
of all griefs, a real Hotel Dieu, my word the most sacred, with beds for
all the afflicted, with sweet words, like Sisters of Charity, to minister
to them:--I cry, mon bon Pendennis, when this vieillard tells his stories
about his wife and tears his white hairs to the feet of my mother."
When the little Antoinette was separated by her father from her mother,
the Duchesse d'Ivry, it might have been expected that that poetess would
have dashed off a few more cris de l'ame, shrieking according to her
wont, and baring and beating that shrivelled maternal bosom of hers, from
which her child had been just torn. The child skipped and laughed to go
away to the convent. It was only when she left Madame de Florac that she
used to cry; and when urged by that good lady to exhibit a little
decorous sentiment in writing to her mamma, Antoinette would ask, in her
artless way
, "Pourquoi? Mamma used never to speak to me except sometimes
before the world, before ladies, that understands itself. When her
gentleman came, she put me to the door; then she gave me tapes, o oui,
she gave me tapes! I cry no more; she has so much made to cry M. le Duc,
that it is quite enough of one in a family." So Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry
did not weep, even in print, for the loss of her pretty little
Antoinette; besides, she was engaged, at that time, by other sentimental
occupations. A young grazier of their neighbouring town, of an aspiring
mind and remarkable poetic talents, engrossed the Duchesse's platonic
affections at this juncture. When he had sold his beasts at market, he
would ride over and read Rousseau and Schiller with Madame la Duchesse,
who formed him. His pretty young wife was rendered miserable by all these
readings, but what could the poor little ignorant countrywoman know of
Platonism? Faugh! there is more than one woman we see in society smiling
about from house to house, pleasant and sentimental and formosa superne
enough; but I fancy a fish's tail is flapping under her fine flounces,
and a forked fin at the end of it!
Finer flounces, finer bonnets, more lovely wreaths, more beautiful lace,
smarter carriages, bigger white bows, larger footmen, were not seen,
during all the season of 18--, than appeared round about St. George's,
Hanover Square, in the beautiful month of June succeeding that September
when so many of our friends the Newcomes were assembled at Baden. Those
flaunting carriages, powdered and favoured footmen, were in attendance
upon members of the Newcome family and their connexions, who were
celebrating what is called a marriage in high life in the temple within.
Shall we set down a catalogue of the dukes, marquises, earls, who were
present; cousins of the lovely bride? Are they not already in the Morning
Herald and Court Journal, as well as in the Newcome Chronicle and
Independent, and the Dorking Intelligencer and Chanticleer Weekly
Gazette? There they are, all printed at full length sure enough; the name
the Earl and Countess of Dorking; of the beautiful bridesmaids, the
Ladies Henrietta, Belinda, Adelaide Pulleyn, Miss Newcome, Miss Alice
Newcome, Miss Maude Newcome, Miss Anna Maria (Hobson) Newcome; and all
the other persons engaged in the ceremony. It was performed by the Right
Honourable Viscount Gallowglass, Bishop of Ballyshannon, brother-in-law
to the bride, assisted by the Honourable and Reverend Hercules O'Grady,
his lordship's chaplain, and the Reverend John Bulders, Rector of St.
Mary's, Newcome. Then follow the names of all the nobility who were
present, and of the noble and distinguished personages who signed the
book. Then comes an account of the principal dresses, chefs-d'oeuvre of
Madame Crinoline; of the bride's coronal of brilliants, supplied by
Messrs. Morr and Stortimer;--of the veil of priceless Chantilly lace, the
gift of the Dowager Countess of Kew. Then there is a description of the
wedding-breakfast at the house of the bride's noble parents, and of the
cake, decorated by Messrs. Gunter with the most delicious taste and the
sweetest hymeneal allusions.
No mention was made by the fashionable chronicler of a slight disturbance
which occurred at St. George's, and which was indeed out of the province
of such a genteel purveyor of news. Before the marriage service began, a
woman of vulgar appearance and disorderly aspect, accompanied by two
scared children who took no part in the disorder occasioned by their
mother's proceeding, except by their tears and outcries to augment the
disquiet, made her appearance in one of the pews of the church, was noted
there by persons in the vestry, was requested to retire by a beadle, and
was finally induced to quit the sacred precincts of the building by the
very strongest persuasion of a couple of policemen; X and Y laughed at
one another, and nodded their heads knowingly as the poor wretch with her
whimpering boys was led away. They understood very well who the personage
was who had come to disturb the matrimonial ceremony; it did not commence
until Mrs. De Lacy (as this lady chose to be called) had quitted this
temple of Hymen. She slunk through the throng of emblazoned carriages,
and the press of footmen arrayed as splendidly as Solomon in his glory.
John jeered at Thomas, William turned his powdered head, and signalled
Jeames, who answered with a corresponding grin, as the woman with sobs,
and wild imprecations, and frantic appeals, made her way through the
splendid crowd escorted by her aides-de-camp in blue. I dare say her
little history was discussed at many a dinner-table that day in the
basement story of several fashionable houses. I know that at clubs in St.
James's the facetious little anecdote was narrated. A young fellow came
to Bays's after the marriage breakfast and mentioned the circumstance
with funny comments; although the Morning Post, in describing this affair
in high life, naturally omitted all mention of such low people as Mrs. De
Lacy and her children.
Those people who knew the noble families whose union had been celebrated
by such a profusion of grandees, fine equipages, and footmen, brass
bands, brilliant toilets, and wedding favours, asked how it was that Lord
Kew did not assist at Barnes Newcome's marriage; other persons in society
inquired waggishly why Jack Belsize was not present to give Lady Clara
away.
As for Jack Belsize, his clubs had not been ornamented by his presence
for a year past. It was said he had broken the bank at Hombourg last
autumn; had been heard of during the winter at Milan, Venice, and Vienna;
and when, a few months after the marriage of Barnes Newcome and Lady
Clara, Jack's elder brother died, and he himself became the next in
succession to the title and estates of Highgate, many folks said it was a
pity little Barney's marriage had taken place so soon. Lord Kew was not
present, because Kew was still abroad; he had had a gambling duel with a
Frenchman, and a narrow squeak for his life. He had turned Roman
Catholic, some men said; others vowed that he had joined the Methodist
persuasion. At all events Kew had given up his wild courses, broken with
the turf, and sold his stud off; he was delicate yet, and his mother was
taking care of him; between whom and the old dowager of Kew, who had made
up Barney's marriage, as everybody knew, there was no love lost.
Then who was the Prince de Moncontour, who, with his princess, figured at
this noble marriage? There was a Moncontour, the Duc d'Ivry's son, but he
Bays's, Major Pendennis, General Tufto, old Cackleby--the old fogies, in
a word--remembered the Duke of Ivry when he was here during the
Emigration, and when he was called Prince de Moncontour, the title of the
eldest son of the family. Ivry was dead, having buried his son before
him, and having left only a daughter by that young woman whom he married,
and who led him such a life. Who was this present Moncontour?
He was a gentleman to whom the reader has already been presented, though
when we lately saw him at Baden he did not enjoy so magnificent a title.
Early in the year of Barnes Newcome's marriage, there came to England,
and to our modest apartment in the Temple, a gentleman bringing a letter
of recommendation from our dear young Clive, who said that the bearer,
the Vicomte de Florac, was a great friend of his, and of the Colonel's,
who had known his family from boyhood. A friend of our Clive and our
Colonel was sure of a welcome in Lamb Court; we gave him the hand of
hospitality, the best cigar in the box, the easy-chair with only one
broken leg; the dinner in chambers and at the club, the banquet at
Greenwich (where, ma foi, the little whites baits elicited his profound
satisfaction); in a word, did our best to honour that bill which our
young Clive had drawn upon us. We considered the young one in the light
of a nephew of our own; we took a pride in him, and were fond of him; and
as for the Colonel, did we not love and honour him; would we not do our
utmost in behalf of any stranger who came recommended to us by Thomas
Newcome's good word? So Florac was straightway admitted to our
companionship. We showed him the town, and some of the modest pleasures
thereof; we introduced him to the Haunt, and astonished him by the
company which he met there. Between Brent's "Deserter" and Mark Wilder's
"Garryowen," Florac sang--
Tiens voici ma pipe, voila mon bri--quet;
Et quand la Tulipe fait le noir tra--jet
Que tu sois la seule dans le regi--ment
Avec la brule-gueule de ton cher z'a--mant;
to the delight of Tom Sarjent, who, though he only partially comprehended
the words of the song, pronounced the singer to be a rare gentleman, full
of most excellent differences. We took our Florac to the Derby; we
presented him in Fitzroy Square, whither we still occasionally went, for
Clive's and our dear Colonel's sake.
The Vicomte pronounced himself strongly in favour of the blanche misse
little Rosey Mackenzie, of whom we have lost sight for some few chapters.
Mrs. Mac he considered, my faith, to be a woman superb. He used to kiss
the tips of his own fingers, in token of his admiration for the lovely
widow; he pronounced her again more pretty than her daughter; and paid
her a thousand compliments, which she received with exceeding
good-humour. If the Vicomte gave us to understand presently that Rosey
and her mother were both in love with him, but that for all the world he
would not meddle with the happiness of his dear little Clive, nothing
unfavourable to the character or constancy of the before-mentioned ladies
must be inferred from M. de Florac's speech; his firm conviction being,
that no woman could pass many hours in his society without danger to her
subsequent peace of mind.
For some little time we had no reason to suspect that our French friend
was not particularly well furnished with the current coin of the realm.
Without making any show of wealth, he would, at first, cheerfully engage
in our little parties: his lodgings in the neighbourhood of Leicester
Square, though dingy, were such as many noble foreign exiles have
inhabited. It was not until he refused to join some pleasure-trip which
we of Lamb Court proposed, honestly confessing his poverty, that we were
made aware of the Vicomte's little temporary calamity; and, as we became
more intimate with him, he acquainted us, with great openness, with the
history of all his fortunes. He described energetically that splendid run
of luck which had set in at Baden with Clive's loan: his winnings, at
that fortunate period, had carried him through the winter with
considerable brilliancy, but bouillotte and Mademoiselle Atala, of the
Varietes (une ogresse, mon cher, who devours thirty of our young men