Part 23 (1/2)
'For a comrade so dear,' I remark, 'I gladly employ the most expensive of a.s.sa.s.sins.' Yet before the face of such magnanimity you grumble.” The Duc de Puysange spread out his shapely hands. ”I murder you! My adored Jean, I had as lief make love to my wife.”
Ormskirk struck his finger-tips upon the table. ”Faith, I knew there was something I intended to ask of you, I want you to get me a wife.”
”In fact,” de Puysange observed, ”warfare being now at an end, it is only natural that you should resort to matrimony. I can a.s.sure you it is an admirable subst.i.tute. But who is the lucky Miss, my little villain?”
”Why, that is for you to settle,” Ormskirk said. ”I had hoped you might know of some suitable person.”
”_Ma foi_, my friend, if I were arbiter and any wife would suit you, I would cordially desire you to take mine, for when a woman so incessantly resembles an angel in conduct, her husband inevitably desires to see her one in reality.”
”You misinterpret me, Gaston. This is not a jest. I had always intended to marry as soon as I could spare the time, and now that this treaty is disposed of, my opportunity has beyond doubt arrived. I am practically at leisure until the autumn. At latest, though, I must marry by August, in order to get the honeymoon off my hands before the convocation of Parliament. For there will have to be a honeymoon, I suppose.”
”It is customary,” de Puysange said. He appeared to deliberate something entirely alien to this reply, however, and now sat silent for a matter of four seconds, his countenance profoundly grave. He was a hideous man, [Footnote: For a consideration of the vexed and delicate question whether or no Gaston de Puysange was grandson to King Charles the Second of England, the reader is referred to the third chapter of La Vrilliere's _De Puysange et son temps_. The Duke's resemblance in person to that monarch was undeniable.] with black beetling eyebrows, an enormous nose, and an under-lip excessively full; his face had all the calculated ill-proportion of a gargoyle, an ugliness so consummate and merry that in ultimate effect it captivated.
At last de Puysange began: ”I think I follow you. It is quite proper that you should marry. It is quite proper that a man who has done so much for England should leave descendants to perpetuate his name, and with perhaps some portion of his ability--no, Jean, I do not flatter,--serve the England which is to his heart so dear. As a Frenchman I cannot but deplore that our next generation may have to face another Ormskirk; as your friend who loves you I say that this marriage will appropriately round a successful and honorable and intelligent life. Eh, we are only men, you and I, and it is advisable that all men should marry, since otherwise they might be so happy in this colorful world that getting to heaven would not particularly tempt them. Thus is matrimony a bulwark of religion.”
”You are growing scurrilous,” Ormskirk complained, ”whereas I am in perfect earnest.”
”I, too, speak to the foot of the letter, Jean, as you will soon learn. I comprehend that you cannot with agreeability marry an Englishwoman. You are too much the personage. Possessing, as you notoriously possess, your pick among the women of gentle degree--for none of them would her guardians nor her good taste permit to refuse the great Duke of Ormskirk,--any choice must therefore be a too robustious affrontment to all the others. If you select a Howard, the Skirlaws have pepper in the nose; if a Beaufort, you lose Umfraville's support,--and so on. Hey, I know, my dear Jean; your affair with the Earl of Brudenel's daughter cost you seven seats in Parliament, you may remember. How am I aware of this?--why, because I habitually have your mail intercepted. You intercept mine, do you not?
Naturally; you would be a very gross and intolerable scion of the pig if you did otherwise. _Eh bien_, let us get on. You might, of course, play King Cophetua, but I doubt if it would amuse you, since Penelophons are rare; it follows in logic that your wife must come from abroad. And whence?
Without question, from France, the land of adorable women. The thing is plainly demonstrated; and in France, my dear, I have to an eyelash the proper person for you.”
”Then we may consider the affair as settled,” Ormskirk replied, ”and should you arrange to have the marriage take place upon the first of August,--if possible, a trifle earlier,--I would be trebly your debtor.”
De Puysange retorted: ”Beyond doubt I can adjust these matters. And yet, my dear Jean, I must submit that it is not quite the act of a gentleman to plunge into matrimony without even inquiring as to the dowry of your future bride.”
”It is true,” said Ormskirk, with a grimace; ”I had not thought of her portion. You must remember my attention is at present pre-empted by that idiotic Ferrers business. How much am I to marry, then, Gaston?”
”I had in mind,” said the other, ”my sister, the Demoiselle Claire de Puysange,--”
It was a day of courtesy when the minor graces were paramount. Ormskirk rose and accorded de Puysange a salutation fitted to an emperor. ”I entreat your pardon, sir, for any _gaucherie_ of which I may have been guilty, and desire to extend to you my appreciation of the honor you have done me.”
”It is sufficient, monsieur,” de Puysange replied. And the two gravely bowed again.
Then the Frenchman resumed, in conversational tones: ”I have but one unmarried sister,--already nineteen, beautiful as an angel (in the eyes, at least, of fraternal affection), and undoubtedly as headstrong as any devil at present stoking the eternal fires below. You can conceive that the disposal of such a person is a delicate matter. In Poictesme there is no suitable match, and upon the other hand I grievously apprehend her presentation at our Court, where, as Arouet de Voltaire once observed to me, the men are lured into matrimony by the memories of their past sins, and the women by the immunity it promises for future ones. In England, where custom will permit a woman to be both handsome and chaste, I estimate she would be admirably ranged. Accordingly, my dear Jean, behold a fact accomplished. And now let us embrace, my brother!”
This was done. The next day they settled the matter of dowry, jointure, the widow's portion, and so on, and de Puysange returned to render his report at Marly. The wedding had been fixed by the Frenchman for St. Anne's day, and by Ormskirk, as an uncompromising churchman, for the twenty-sixth of the following July.
II
That evening the Duke of Ormskirk sat alone in his lodgings. His Grace was very splendid in black-and-gold, wearing his two stars of the Garter and the Thistle, for there was that night a ball at Lady Sandwich's, and Royalty was to embellish it. In consequence, Ormskirk meant to show his plump face there for a quarter of an hour; and the rooms would be too hot (he peevishly reflected), and the light would tire his eyes, and Laventhrope would b.u.t.ton-hole him again about that appointment for Laventhrope's son, and the King would give vent to some especially fat-witted jest, and Ormskirk would apishly grin and applaud. And afterward he would come home with a headache, and ghostly fiddles would vex him all night long with their thin incessancy.
”Accordingly,” the Duke decided, ”I shall not stir a step until eleven o'clock. The King, in the ultimate, is only a tipsy, ignorant old German debauchee, and I have half a mind to tell him so. Meantime, he can wait.”
The Duke sat down to consider this curious la.s.situde, this indefinite vexation, which had possessed him.
”For I appear to have taken a sudden dislike to the universe. It is probably my liver.
”In any event, I have come now to the end of my resources. For some twenty-five years it has amused me to make a great man of John Bulmer. Now that is done, and, like the Moorish fellow in the play, 'my occupation's gone.' I am at the very top of the ladder, and I find it the dreariest place in the world. There is nothing left to scheme for, and, besides, I am tired.
”The tiniest nerve in my body, the innermost cell of my brain, is tired to-night.
”I wonder if getting married will divert me? I doubt it. Of course I ought to marry, but then it must be rather terrible to have a woman loitering around you for the rest of your life. She will probably expect me to talk to her; she will probably come into my rooms and sit there whenever the inclination prompts her,--in a sentence, she will probably worry me to death. Eh well!--that die is cast!