Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

I had only time to perceive that it was O’Grady who had come to the rescue, when the little old fellow, turning fully round, looked up in his protector’s face, and, without evincing any emotion of surprise or wonder or even of gratitude, croaked out —

‘And it’s standin’ looking on ye wor all the time, and I fighting my sowle out! Ugh! bad luck to service! Look at my coat and small-clothes! Ay, you might laugh, ye grinning bastes as ye are – and a basket of fresh eggs in smithereens, and this Friday!’

The convulsions of laughter which this apparition and the speech excited prevented our hearing more. The mob, too, without understanding a word, were fully sensible of the absurdity of the scene, and a perfect chorus of laughter rang through the street.

‘And my elegant beaver, see it now!’ said Corny – for we hope our reader recognises him – as he endeavoured to empty the batter from his head-piece, and restore it to shape. ‘Ugh! the Haythins! the Turks! see now, Master Phil, it’s warning I’m giving you this minit – here, where I stand. May the divil – Ah, if ye dare, ye eternal robber!’ This elegant exordium was directed to the poor Cossack, who, having regained his feet, was skulking away from the field, throwing as he went a lingering look at his red cap, which Mr. Delany still wore as a spoil of his victory.

We now made our way through the crowd, followed by Corny, whose angry looks on every side elicited peals of laughter; and thus accompanied we approached the massive porte cochère of a large hotel in the Place Vendôme, where a Swiss, in full costume of porter, informed us that Lady Charlotte Hinton resided. While I endeavoured to pass on, he interposed his burly person, informing me, in very short phrase, that her ladyship did not receive before four o’clock.

‘Arrah, hould your prate!’ cried Corny; sure it’s the woman’s son you’re talking to. Two pair of stairs to your left hand, and the first door in the passage. Look at the crowd there, the lazy craytures! that has nothing better to do than follow a respectable man. Be off! bad luck to yez! ye ought to be crying over the disgrace ye’re in. Be the light that shines! but you desarved it well.’

Leaving Corny to his oration before the mob, of which, happily for the safety of his own skin, they did not comprehend one word, I took the direction he mentioned, and soon found out the door, on which a visiting card with my mother’s name was fastened.

We were now introduced into a large and splendidly furnished saloon, with all that lightness and elegance of decoration which in a foreign apartment is the compensation – a poor one sometimes – for the more comfortable look of our English houses. The room was empty, but the morning papers and all the new publications of the day were scattered about with profusion. Consigning my friend for a short time to these, I followed the femme de chambre, who had already brought in my card to my mother, to her ladyship’s dressing-room. The door was opened noiselessly by the maid, who whispered my name. A gentle ‘Let him come in’ followed, and I entered.

My mother was seated before a glass, under the hands of a coiffeur, and dared not turn her head. As I approached she reached me her hand, however, which having kissed dutifully, I drew my chair, and sat down beside her. ‘My dear boy!’ said she, as her eyes turned towards me, and a tear fell from the lid and trickled down her cheek. In spite of the unnatural coldness of such a meeting, the words, the accents, and the look that accompanied them came home to my heart, and I was glad to hide my emotion by again pressing my lips to her hand. Having kindly informed me that the ceremony she was then submitting to was imperative, inasmuch as if she had not M. Dejoncourt then, she could not have him at all – that his time was so filled up, every moment of it, from eight in the morning till eleven at night, that the Emperor Alexander himself couldn’t obtain his services, if he wished for them – she proceeded to give me some details of my father, by which I could learn that the change in his circumstances had never been made known to her, and that she had gone on since we last met in her old career of extravagance and expense, the indulgence of which, and the cares of her ever-declining health, having given her abundant occupation.

As I looked at her beautiful features and delicately fair complexion, upon which time had scarcely laid a touch, I sighed to think at what a frightful sacrifice of feeling, of duty, and of happiness, too, such loveliness had been purchased. If the fine pencilling of that brow had never known a wrinkle, the heart had never throbbed to one high or holy thought; if the smile sat easily on the lip, it was the habitual garb of fashionable captivation, and not the indication of one kind thought or one affectionate feeling. I felt shocked, too, that I could thus criticise my mother; but in truth for a minute or two I forgot she was such.

‘And Julia,’ said I, at length – ‘what of her?’

‘Very handsome indeed – strikingly so. Beulwitz, the emperor’s aide-de-camp, admires her immensely. I am sincerely glad that you are come, dear John. You know Julia’s fortune has all been saved: but of that another time. The first point now is to secure you a ticket for this ball; and how to do it, I’m sure I know not.’

‘My dear mother, believe me I have not the slightest desire – ’

‘How very unkind you are to think we could separate from you after such an absence! Besides, Julia would be seriously offended, and I think with cause. But the ticket – let’s consider about that. Dejoncourt, is it true that the Princesse de Nassau was refused a card for the ball?’

‘Oui, miladi. The King of Prussia has sent her one of his, and is to take her; and Madame la Duchesse de St. Bieve was so angry at being left out that she tried to get up an alarm of conspiracy in the faubourg, to prevent the sovereigns from going.’

‘But they will go, surely – won’t they?’

‘Ah, to be sure. Pardieu, they would say to-morrow that they had been omitted too, if they didn’t appear.’

‘What are we to do?’ said her ladyship with energy. ‘Grammont can be of no use here; for unfortunately these people are not French.’

‘What then,’ said I, ‘is it some of the crowned heads who are the entertainers?’

‘Oh, no! Indeed, I don’t know who they are; nor do I know any one who does. The only fact of importance is that this is their third fête– the first two were the most brilliant things ever given in Paris; that the Emperor of Russia always dances there; that the King of Prussia makes his whist-party; that Blucher takes the head of one of the supper-tables; and, in a word, Talleyrand himself has employed more diplomacy to secure an extra ticket than he has often dispensed in carving out a new monarchy.’

My mother handed me a splendidly embossed card, as she spoke, upon which, in letters of pale burnished gold, were inscribed the following words: ‘Madame de Roni, née Cassidy de Kilmainham, prie honneur,’ etc. A burst of laughter at the absurdity of the title stopped my reading further.

‘She’s an Italian, possibly,’ said my mother.

‘I should think not,’ I replied; ‘the “née Cassidy de Kilmainham” smacks of something nearer home. What think you of Ireland?’

‘Ireland! Are these people Irish?’ said she, starting with horror at the thought. ‘I trust, my dear John, you would not think it proper to jest on such a subject.’

‘My dear mother, I never heard of them before; the only thing that strikes me is the name. “Cassidy” is assuredly more Milesian than Roman.’

‘But she has birth – that’s certain,’ replied my mother proudly.

Not caring to argue the point, which after all resolved itself into the question that the lady was the child of somebody, and that somebody was called ‘Cassidy,’ I began to meditate on the singularity of such a phase in life as the entertainers of sovereigns, kaisers, kings, princes, archdukes, and ambassadors being a person utterly unknown.

‘But here’s Grammont,’ said my mother, as a gentle tap was heard at the door and the Count entered – the only change in his appearance since last I saw him being the addition of another cordon to his blue coat, and a certain springiness in his walk, which I afterwards remarked as common among all the returned émigrés at the restoration.

‘Que diable faut il faire,’ said the Count, entering, ‘with this Madame de Roni? She refuses all the world. Ah, Jack, mon cher, how do you do? – safe and sound from all the perils of these terrible French, who cut you all to pieces in the Peninsula? But only think, miladi, no card for la Duchesse de Tavenne; Madame de Givry left out! Sapristi! I hope there is nothing against ce pauvre Roi de Prusse.’

‘Well, and here is John,’ said my mother; ‘what are we to do about him?’

My renewed disclaimer of any wish in the matter was cut short by a look of reproof, and I waited the whole discussion with patience.

‘Never was there such a difficulty,’ said the Count, musing. ‘There is certainly nothing to be done through the worthy husband of Madame. Dejoncourt and two or three more gave him a diner en gourmand at Very’s, to seduce him; and after his fifth flask of champagne he frankly confessed he was sorry he could not return their civilities as he wished. I ‘ll entertain you here, and have Blucher and Platon, Fouché, and any one else you like to meet you. I’ll introduce you to old Prussia and the Czar whenever you please; you shall have permission to shoot at Fontainebleau any day you mention; but as to Madame de Roni, she is devilish exclusive. I really cannot manage that for you.’

‘I wish you could prevail on yourself to be serious,’ said my mother, in nowise pleased with the jocular spirit the Count’s anecdote had excited. ‘But here is Julia – what does she advise?’

As my mother spoke, the door opened, and my cousin appeared. Her figure had more of the roundness of womanhood, and her face, though paler, was fuller, and its expression had assumed a more decided character than when I last saw her. Her winning smile and her graceful carriage were all unchanged; and her low soft voice never struck me as more fascinating than when she held out her hand and said —

‘My dear cousin, how happy it makes me to see you again!’

Her dark-blue eyes were tearful as she spoke, and her lip – that haughty lip – trembled. A strange wild thrill crept through my heart as I pressed her hand within both of mine – a vague feeling which I dared not suffer to dwell in my mind, and yet feared lest when it should depart that I had lost my chance of happiness. Yes, there are times when a man without the admixture of any coxcombry in the feeling, without a particle of vanity – nay, with a deep sense of his own un worthiness – can ask himself, ‘Does this woman like me?’ And at such moments, if his own heart give not the ready answer, it were far better that he sought not the reply from his reason.

It was only when my mother asked, for the second time, what was to be done about John’s ticket, that Julia seemed aware of the question – a slight, a very slight, curving of her lip showing the while the sense she entertained of such an inquiry after long years of separation; and at last, as if unable to repress the indignation of the moment, she said abruptly —

‘But, of course, as we shall not think of going tonight – ’

‘We not go! Eh, pardieu! why not?’ said the Count.

‘The Colonel below-stairs begs to say that he will call somewhat later,’ said the femme de chambre at this juncture.

‘The Colonel! Whom does she mean?’

‘Oh, my friend O’Grady. Poor fellow! I have been forgetting him all this while. So allow me to join him, and well wait for your appearance in the drawing-room.’

‘I remember him perfectly,’ said my mother – ‘an agreeable person, I think. So take Julia and the Count with you, and I’ll follow as soon as I can.’

Julia blushed deeply, and as suddenly grew pale again as my mother spoke. I knew that she had always treated my friend with hauteur and reserve, without any assignable reason, and had long determined that when an opportunity arose I would endeavour to get rid of the unjust impression she had somehow conceived of my warmest, truest friend. This was not, however, the time for explanations; and I merely said, as I offered my arm —

‘Poor O’Grady has been badly wounded; but I think he’s now getting on favourably.’

She said something in reply, but the words were lost in the noise of descending the stairs. Just as we reached the landing I caught a glimpse of my friend issuing from the porte cochère, and only in time to call him by his name —

‘Holloa, Phil! Don’t go away.’

As he turned back towards the drawing-room, he cried out —

‘It’s only this instant, Jack, I remembered how very awkward it was of me to come here with you at this hour. You have, of course, so much to say and hear after your absence – ’

The sight of my fair cousin cut short his speech, as she stood near the door with her hand out to receive him. As O’Grady took her taper fingers within his own, there was an air of cold distance in his manner that actually offended me. Bowing deeply, he said a few brief words in a tone of gravity and stiffness quite unusual with him; and then, turning to Grammont, he shook the Count’s hand with a warmth and cordiality most markedly different. I only dared to glance at Julia; but as I did so I could mark an expression of haughty displeasure that settled on her brow, while her heightened colour made her turn away towards the window.

I was myself so much annoyed by the manner in which O’Grady had received advances which I had never seen made to any one before, that I was silent. Even Grammont saw the awkwardness of all parties so much in need of his intervention that he at once opened the whole negotiation of the ball to O’Grady, describing with a Frenchman’s volubility and sarcasm the stratagems and devices which were employed to obtain invitations, the triumph of the successful, the despairing malice of the unfortunate – heightening his narrative by the mystery of the fair hostess, who, herself unknown and unheard of till now, was at this moment at the pinnacle of fashion, dictating the laws and distributing the honours of the beau monde to the greatest sovereigns of Europe.

‘She is very beautiful, no doubt?’ asked O’Grady.

‘Oui, pas mal,’ said Grammont, with that all-explaining shrug of the shoulders by which a foreigner conveys so much.

‘Very rich, perhaps?’

‘Millionaire!’ said the Frenchman, in a tone of exultation that bespoke his full acquiescence in that surmise at least.

‘And her rank?’

‘Ah, I don’t read riddles. All I know is, her house is the best thing at Paris; she has secured old Cambaceres’ chef de cuisine; has bought up the groom of the chambers of the ex-Emperor; keeps an estafette going on the Strasbourg road for pâtés de foie gras; and is on such terms with the sovereigns that she has their private bands to play at all her parties. Que voulez-vous?’

‘Nothing more, indeed!’ said O’Grady, laughing. ‘Such admirable supremacy in the world of bon ton it would be rank heresy to question further, and I no longer wonder at the active canvass for her invitations.’

‘Oui, parbleu!’ said the Frenchman gaily. ‘If Monsieur the Comte d’Artois does not exert himself, people will be more proud of a ticket to these balls than of the Croix de St. Louis. For my own part, I think of wearing mine over the cordon.’

As he spoke, he flourished his card of invitation in the air, and displayed it in his bosom.

‘Madame de Roni, née Cassidy de Kilmainham,’ said O’Grady, bursting into a perfect roar of laughter. ‘This is glorious, Jack! Did you see this?’

‘See! eh? to be sure; and what then?’

But O’Gradys mirth had burst all bounds, and he sat back in an arm-chair laughing immoderately. To all our questions he could give no other reply than renewed bursts of merriment, which, however enjoyed by himself, were very provoking to us.

‘He knows her,’ whispered Grammont in my ear; ‘be assured he knows Madame.’

‘Jack, where shall we meet in half an hour?’ said Phil at length, jumping up and wiping his eyes.

‘Here, if you like,’ said I. ‘I shall not leave this till you return.’

‘Be it so,’ said he; and then with a bow to my cousin and an easy nod to Grammont, O’Grady took his hat and departed.

Grammont now looked at his watch, and remembering some half-dozen very important appointments, took his leave also, leaving me once more, after so long an interval, tête-à-tête with Julia.

There were so many things to talk over since we had met, so many reminiscences which each moment called up, that I never thought of the hours as they ran over; and it was only by Lady Charlotte’s appearance in the drawing-room that we were apprised it was already past four o’clock, and that the tide of her morning visitors would now set in, and break up all hopes of continuing our colloquy.

‘Where is your friend?’ said my mother, as she carried her eyes languidly round the spacious apartment.

‘Gone some hours ago; but he promised to take me up here. We shall see him soon, I suspect.’

‘Colonel O’Grady,’ said a servant; and my cousin had just time to leave the room by one door as he entered by another.

Advancing to my mother with a manner of respectful ease which he possessed in perfection, O’Grady contrived in a few brief words to resume the ground he had formerly occupied in her acquaintance, throwing out as he went an occasional compliment to her looks, so naturally and unaffectedly done as not to need acknowledgment or reply, but yet with sufficient empressement to show interest.

‘I have heard since my arrival that you were interested about this ball, and took the opportunity to secure you some tickets, which, though late, some of your friends may care for.’

He presented my mother as he spoke with several blank cards of invitation, who, as she took them, could not conceal her astonishment nor repress the look of curiosity, which she could scarcely repel in words, as to how he had accomplished a task the highest people in Paris had failed in. I saw what was passing in her mind, and immediately said —

‘My mother would like to know your secret about these same cards, O’Grady; for they have been a perfect subject of contention here for the last three weeks.’

‘Her ladyship must excuse me – at least for the present – if I have one secret I cannot communicate to her,’ said O’Grady, smiling. ‘Let me only assure her that no one shall know it before she herself does.’

‘And there is a secret?’ said Lady Charlotte eagerly.

‘Yes, there is a secret,’ replied O’Grady, with a most ludicrous gravity of tone.

‘Well, at least we have profited by it, and so we may wait in patience. Your friend Colonel O’Grady will give us the pleasure of his company at dinner, I hope,’ continued my mother, with her most winning smile.

O’Grady declined, having already accepted the invitation of the Adjutant-General, but begged he might be permitted to join our party at the ball – which being graciously acceded to by my mother, we both made our bows, and sauntered out to see more of the sights of Paris.

‘Come, Phil,’ said I, when we were once more alone, ‘what is the secret? Who is Madame de Roni?’

‘Not even to you, Jack,’ was his answer, and we walked on in silence.