But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.
The Marquis found him fort amusant, but troublesome. “Forget it, little fool!”
“Forget it?” cried Philip. “How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?” “Quelle absurdité! The sword, Tom!”
“How can I dance in a sword?” protested Philip. “It is de rigueur,” said the Marquis.
Philip fingered the jewelled hilt! “A pretty plaything,” he said. “I have never spent so much money on fripperies before.”
François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to
Philip’s fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuffbox, and a handkerchief.
Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.
“Well, my friend?”
But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little and shook out his handkerchief. “Well!” The Marquis grew impatient. “You have nothing to say?”
Philip turned.
“C’est merveilleux!” he breathed.
The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.
“In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C’est gauche, c’est impossible!” Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less gauche.
“It is my intention,” said the Marquis. “A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil.” “Faith, I’m proud of ye now!” cried Tom. “Why, lad, you’ll be more modish than ever Maurice was!”
Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off.
“Oh?” queried the Marquis. “Why?” “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it? Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’ll only wear sapphires and diamonds.” “By heaven, the boy’s right!” exclaimed Tom. “He should be all blue!”
“In a month-two months-I shall present you at Versailles,” decided the Marquis. “François, remove that abominable ruby. And now-en avant!”
And so went Philip to his first ball.
At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew’s feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Chateau-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him.
After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue; and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside.
François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M’sieur consider them? M’sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M’sieur would not wear them; they offended him. Before very long ‘le jeune Anglais’ was looked for and welcomed. Ladies like him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and bals masqué, and to card parties and soirées. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.
However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He
left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.
Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip’s friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the affaire ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip. The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.
“I-beg-your pardon?” said Philip stiffly.
“But what a modesty!” cried the Marquis, much amused.
“Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?” “But yes! Of course I think it!”
“Permit me to enlighten you,” said Philip. “My affections are with a lady-at home.” “Oh, la, la!” deplored the Marquis. “A lady of the country? A simple country wench?” “I thank God, yes,” said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.
“Philip, I will take you to Court.”
Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored. “Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then.”
The shrewd eyes twinkled.
“The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King.” Philip shrugged.
“Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured.” “Sans doute,” bowed the Marquis. “But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour.”
“M’sieur, I have already told you-”
“Oh, yes. But you have now the name for-slaying of hearts.” Philip dropped his affectation.
“Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?”
“It is very fashionable,” said the Marquis mischievously. “You become a figure.” “But I-” He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. “They fatigue me.” And he yawned. “What! Even la Salévier?”
“The woman with the enormous wig-oh-ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passeé!”
“Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?” “Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady’s name out of this or any discussion.” “Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, hein?”
Philip smiled.
“That is absurd, sir.”
That night he gave a card party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September.
Chapter VII. Mr Bancroft Comes to Paris and is Annoyed
In February came Mr Bancroft to Paris. Philip’s departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.
It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron,