Part 35 (2/2)

He described her in terms that were not chivalrous, and his own emotions in words still less ornate; but before the fortnight was over the best judges declared among themselves that, by Jove, the Forno-Populo had done it this time, that the little one knew how to play her cards, that it was all up with Montjoie, poor little beggar, with other elegances of a similar kind. The man who had taken the Contessa's house for her, and a great deal of trouble about all her arrangements, whom she described as a very old friend, and whose rueful sense that house-agents and livery stables might eventually look to him if she had no success in her enterprise did not impair his fidelity, went so far as to speak seriously to Montjoie on the subject. ”Look here, Mont,” he said, ”don't you think you are going it rather too strong? There is not a thing against the girl, who is as nice as a girl can be, but then the aunt, you know----”

”I'm glad she is the aunt,” said Montjoie. ”I thought she was the mother: and I always heard you were devoted to her.”

”We are very old friends,” said this disinterested adviser. ”There's nothing I would not do for her. She is the best soul out, and was the loveliest woman I can tell you--the girl is nothing to what she was.

Aunt or cousin, I am not sure what is the relations.h.i.+p; but that's not the question. Don't you think you are coming it rather strong?”

”Oh, I've got my wits about me,” said Montjoie; and then he added, rather reluctantly--for it is the fas.h.i.+on of his kind to be vulgar and to keep what generosity or n.o.bleness there is in them carefully out of sight--”and I've no relations, don't you know? I've got n.o.body to please but myself----”

”Well, that is a piece of luck anyhow,” the Mentor said; and he told the Contessa the gist of the conversation next morning, who was highly pleased by the news.

The curious point in all this was that Bice had not the least objection to Montjoie. She was a clever girl and he was a stupid young man, but whether it was that her entirely unawakened heart had no share at all in the matter, or that her clear practical view of affairs influenced her sentiments as well as her mind, it is certain that she was quite pleased with her fate, and ready to embrace it without the least sense that it was a sacrifice or anything but the happiest thing possible. He amused her, as she had said to Jock. He made her laugh, most frequently at himself; but what did that matter? He had a kind of good looks, and that good nature which is the product of prosperity and well-being, and a sense of general superiority to the world. Perhaps the girl saw no man of a superior order to compare him with; but, as a matter of fact, she was perfectly satisfied with Montjoie. Mr. Derwent.w.a.ter and Jock were more ridiculous to her than he was, and were less in harmony with everything she had previously known. Their work, their intellectual occupations, their cleverness and aspirations were out of her world altogether. The young man-about-town who had nothing to do but amuse himself, who was always ”knocking about,” as he said, whose business was pleasure, was the kind of being with whom she was acquainted. She had no understanding of the other kind. He who had been her comrade in the country, whose society had amused her there, and for whom she had a sort of half-condescending affection, was droll to her beyond measure, with his ambitions and great ideas as to what he was to do. He, too, made her laugh; but not as Montjoie did. She laughed, though this would have immeasurably surprised Jock, with much less sympathy than she had with the other, upon whom he looked with so much contempt. They were both silly to Bice,--silly as, in her strange experience, she thought it usual and natural for men to be,--but Montjoie's manner of being silly was more congenial to her than the other. He was more in tune with the life she had known. Hamburg, Baden, Wiesbaden, and all the other Bads, even Monaco, would have suited Montjoie well enough. The trade of pleasure-making has its affinities like every other, and a tramp on his way from fair to fair is more _en rapport_ with a duke than the world dreams of. Thus Bice found that the young English marquis, with more money than he knew how to spend, was far more like the elegant adventurer living on his wits, than all those intervening cla.s.ses of society, to whom life is a more serious, and certainly a much less festive and costly affair. She understood him far better. And instead of being, as Lucy thought, a sacrifice, an unfortunate victim sold to a loveless marriage for the money and the advantages it would bring, Bice went on very gaily, her heart as unmoved as possible, to what she felt to be a most congenial fate.

And they all waited for the 26th and the ball with growing excitement.

It would decide many matters. It would settle what was to be the character of the Contessa's campaign. It might reintroduce her into society under better auspices than ever, or it might--but there was no need to foretell anything unpleasant. And very likely it would conclude at the same source as it began, Bice's triumph--a _debutante_ who was already the affianced bride of the young Marquis of Montjoie, the greatest _parti_ in the kingdom. The idea was like wine, and went to the Contessa's head.

She had in this interval of excitement a brief little note from Lucy, which startled her beyond measure for the moment. It was to ask the exact names of Bice. ”You shall know in a few days why I ask, but it is necessary they should be written down in full and exactly,” Lucy said.

The Contessa had half forgotten, in the new flood of life about her, what was in Lucy's power, and the further advantage that might come of their relations, and she did not think of this even now, but felt with momentary tremor as if some snare lay concealed under these simple words. After a moment's consideration, however, she wrote with a bold and flowing hand:

”SWEET LUCY--The child's name is Beatrice Ersilia. You cannot, I am sure, mean her anything but good by such a question. She has not been properly introduced, I know--I am fantastic, I loved the Bice, and no more.

”DARLING, A TE.”

This was signed with a cipher, which it was not very easy to make out--a little mystery which pleased the Contessa. She thus involved in a pleasant little uncertainty her own name, which n.o.body knew.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE BALL.

Lady Randolph's ball was one of the first of the season, and as it was the first ball she had ever given, and both Lucy and her husband were favourites in society, it was looked forward to as the forerunner of much excitement and pleasure, and with a freshness of interest and antic.i.p.ation which, unless in April, is scarcely to be expected in town.

The rooms in Park Lane, though there was nothing specially exquisite or remarkable in their equipment, were handsome and convenient. They formed a good background for the people a.s.sembled under their many lights without withdrawing the attention of any one from the looks, the dresses, the bright eyes, and jewels collected within, which, perhaps, after all, is an advantage in its way. And everybody who was in town was there, from the d.u.c.h.ess, upon whom the Contessa had designs of so momentous a character, down to those wandering young men-about-town who form the rank and file of the great world and fill up all the corners.

There was, it is true, not much room to dance, but a bewildering amount of people, great names, fine toilettes, and beautiful persons.

The Contessa timed her arrival at the most effective moment, when the rooms were almost full, but not yet crowded, and most of the more important guests had already arrived. It was just after the first greetings of people seeing each other for the first time were over, and an event of some kind was wanted. At such a moment princes and princesses are timed to arrive and bring the glory of the a.s.sembly to a climax. Lucy had no princess to honour her. But when out of the crowd round the doorway there were seen to emerge two beautiful and stately women unknown, the sensation was almost as great. One of them, who had the air of a Queen-Mother, was in dark dress studiously arranged to be a little older, a little more ma.s.sive and magnificent than a woman of the Contessa's age required to wear (and which, accordingly, threw up all the more, though this, to do her justice, was a coquetry more or less unintentional, her unfaded beauty); and the other, an impersonation of youth, contemplated the world by her side with that open-eyed and sovereign gaze, proud and modest, but without any of the shyness or timidity of a _debutante_ which becomes a young princess in her own right. There was a general thrill of wonder and admiration wherever they were seen. Who were they, everybody asked? Though the name of the Forno-Populo was too familiarly known to a section of society, that is not to say that the ladies of Lucy's party, or even all the men had heard it bandied from mouth to mouth, or were aware that it had ever been received with less than respect: and the universal interest was spoiled only here and there in a corner by the laugh of the male gossips, who made little signs to each other, in token of knowing more than their neighbours. It was said among the more innocent that this was an Italian lady of distinction with her daughter or niece, and her appearance, if a little more marked and effective than an English lady's might have been, was thus fully explained and accounted for by the difference in manners and that inalienable dramatic gift, which it is common to believe in England, foreigners possess. No doubt their entrance was very dramatic. The way in which they contrasted and harmonised with each other was too studied for English traditions, which, in all circ.u.mstances, cling to something of the impromptu, an air of accidentalism. They were a spectacle in themselves as they advanced through the open central s.p.a.ce, from which the ordinary guests instinctively withdrew to leave room for them. ”Is it the Princess?”

people asked, and craned their necks to see. It must at least be a German Serenity--the Margravine of Pimpernikel, the Hereditary Princess of Weissnichtwo--but more beautiful and graceful than English prejudice expects German ladies to be. Ah, Italian! that explained everything--their height, their grace, their dark beauty, their effective pose. The Latin races alone know how to arrange a spectacle in that easy way, how to produce themselves so that n.o.body could be unimpressed. There was a dramatic pause before them, a hum of excitement after they had pa.s.sed. Who were they? Evidently the most distinguished persons present--the guests of the evening. Sir Tom, uneasy enough, and looking grave and preoccupied, which was so far from being his usual aspect, led them into the great drawing-room, where the d.u.c.h.ess, who had daughters who danced, had taken her place. He did not look as if he liked it, but the Contessa, for her part, looked round her with a radiant smile, and bowed very much as the Queen does in a state ceremonial to the people she knew. She performed a magnificent curtsey, half irony, half defiance, before the Dowager Lady Randolph, who looked on at this progress speechless. How Lucy could permit it; how Tom could have the a.s.surance to do it; occupied the Dowager's thoughts. She had scarcely self-command to make a stiff sweep of recognition as the procession pa.s.sed.

The d.u.c.h.ess was at the upper end of the room, with all her daughters about her. Besides the younger ones who danced, there were two countesses supporting their mother. She was the greatest lady present, and she felt the dignity. But when she perceived the little opening that took place among the groups about, and, looking up, perceived the Contessa sweeping along in that regal separation, you might have blown her Grace away with a breath. Not only was the d.u.c.h.ess the most important person in the room, but her reception of the newcomer would be final, a sort of social life or death for the Contessa. But the supplicant approached with the air of a queen, while the arbiter of fate grew pale and trembled at the sight. If there was a tremor in her Grace's breast there was no less a tremor under the Contessa's velvet.

But Madame di Forno-Populo had this great advantage, that she knew precisely what to do, and the d.u.c.h.ess did not know: she was fully prepared, and the d.u.c.h.ess taken by surprise: and still more that her Grace was a shy woman, whose intellect, such as it was, moved slowly, while the Contessa was very clever, and as prompt as lightning. She perceived at a glance that the less time the great lady had to think the better, and hastened forward for a step or two, hurrying her stately pace, ”Ah, d.u.c.h.ess!” she said, ”how glad I am to meet so old an acquaintance. And I want, above all things, to have your patronage for my little one. Bice--the d.u.c.h.ess, an old friend of my prosperous days, permits me to present you to her.” She drew her young companion forward as she spoke, while the d.u.c.h.ess faltered and stammered a ”How d'ye do?”

and looked in vain for succour to her daughters, who were looking on.

Then Bice showed her blood. It had not been set down in the Contessa's programme what she was to do, so that the action took her patroness by surprise, as well as the great lady whom it was so important to captivate. While the d.u.c.h.ess stood stiff and awkward, making a conventional curtsey against her will, and with a conventional smile on her mouth, Bice, with the air of a young princess, innocently, yet consciously superior to all her surroundings, suddenly stepped forward, and taking the d.u.c.h.ess's hand, bent her stately young head to kiss it.

There was in the sudden movement that air of accident, of impulse, which we all love. It overcame all the tremors of the great lady. She said, ”My dear!” in the excitement of the moment, and bent forward to kiss the cheek of this beautiful young creature, who was so deferential, so reverent in her young pride. And the d.u.c.h.ess's daughters did not disapprove! Still more wonderful than the effect on the d.u.c.h.ess was the effect upon these ladies, of whose criticisms their mother stood in dread. They drew close about the lovely stranger, and it immediately became apparent to the less important guests that the Italian ladies, the heroines of the evening, had amalgamated with the ducal party--as it was natural they should.

Never had there been a more complete triumph. The Contessa stepped in and made hay while the sun shone. She waved off with a scarcely perceptible movement of her hand several of her intimates who would have gathered round her, and vouchsafed only a careless word to Montjoie, who had hastened to present himself. The work to which she devoted herself was the amus.e.m.e.nt of the d.u.c.h.ess, who was not, to tell the truth, very easily amused. But Madame di Forno-Populo had infinite resources, and she succeeded. She selected the Dowager Lady Randolph for her b.u.t.t, and made fun of her so completely that her Grace almost exceeded the bounds of decorum in her laughter.

”You must not, really; you must not--she is a great friend of mine,” the d.u.c.h.ess said. But perhaps there was not much love between the two ladies. And thus by degrees the conversation was brought round to the Populina palace and the gay scenes so long ago.

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