Part 49 (1/2)

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.