“Reste tranquille,” grinned De Vangrisse. “We are all backing you, mon petit.” “I trust you’ll not forget to inform His Majesty of the rendezvous,” said Philip, resorting to bitter sarcasm. “And have you engaged a fiddler to enliven the meeting?” “Philippe se fâche,” teased De Chatelin. “Quiet, little fighting cock!” “I shall write an ode!” threatened Philip direfully.
“Ah no, that is too much!” cried De Vangrisse with feeling. “And I shall read it to you before I engage. Well?”
“It is a heavy price to pay,” answered Paul, “but not too heavy for the entertainment.”
Chapter X. In which a Letter is Read
Cleone sat on a stool at Sir Maurice’s knee and sighed. So did Sir Maurice, and knew that they sighed for the same thing.
“Well, my dear,” he said, trying to speak cheerfully, “how is your mamma?” “The same as ever, I thank you,” answered Cleone.
Sir Maurice patted her hand.
“And how is little Cleone?”
“Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well,” she said, with great sprightliness. “And you?” Sir Maurice was more honest.
“To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp.”
Cleone played with his fingers, her head bent.
“Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you-do you yet know where he is?” “No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters.”
“Mr Tom-has not told you, I suppose?”
“No. I’ve not seen Tom for some time …. The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I’d like to see him walk in at that door!”
Cleone’s head sank a little lower.
“Do you think-harm could have come to him, sir?”
“No. Else had I heard. Faith, it’s our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!” “I never-”
“My dear, don’t pretend to me! Do you think I don’t know?” Cleone was silent.
“We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned-without the polish, child?”
“No!” whispered Cleone.
“Nor should I. Strange! But I should prefer it, I confess.”
“Do you think-do you think he-he will be-very elegant, Sir Maurice?” I He smiled.
“I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?” “N-no.”
There was silence for a few minutes. “Sir Maurice.”
“My dear?”
“Mamma has a letter from my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke.” “So? And what does she say therein?”
“She-she wants me to go to her for the season.” Sir Maurice looked down at her.
“And are you going?”
“I don’t-know. I-do not wish to leave you, sir.”
“That is very kind of you, child. But I’d not have you stay for my sake.” “It’s no such thing, sir. I do not want to go.”
“Why, Cleone, not for the season? Think of the balls and the routs.”
“I don’t-care about it.” It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again. “Tut-tut, my love!”
Another silence.
“I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time,” said Cleone wistfully.
“You forget, dear. I sent him. He is but obeying me.” “And-and me.”
Sir Maurice found nothing to say to that.
“Was I-perhaps-very wicked-to-to-do what he said-I did?” “What was that, Cleone?”
“Th
— throw away-an honest man’s love for-for-oh, you know the things he said!” “Silly young fool! You gave him his just deserts, Cleone. And you may vouch for it that he will be back here at your feet in a very short while.”
Cleone glanced up through her lashes. “Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly. “Of course I do,” he answered stoutly.
Just then a bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Cleone jumped up and ran to the window, which looked out on the avenue. She tiptoed, craning her neck to see who stood in
the porch.
“Why, it is Sir Harold Bancroft!” she exclaimed.
“Plague take him, then!” said Sir Maurice, disagreeably. “I can’t stand the fellow or his sprig of a son!”
Cleone blushed and continued to stand with her back to the room until footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened to admit the visitor.
Sir Maurice rose.
“Give ye good den, Bancroft. It’s good of you to come to visit me this cold day.” Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice’s rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtsying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand.
“’Tis a joke I must have you share! ’Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?”
Sir Maurice put forward a chair. “Really? No, I did not know.”
“Well, he is. And”-a chuckle escaped him-“so is yours!” “Oh!” It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone. Sir Maurice smiled.
“I guessed as much,” he said, quite untruthfully. “Have you news from Henry?” “No, not I! But I’ve a letter from an old friend of mine-Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?” Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch and beckoned Cleone to his side.
“No. He, too, is in Paris?”
“Ay. Now wait while I find the letter! You’ll split o’ laughter when you’ve heard me read it!” He rummaged in his capacious pockets, and drew forth two or three crumpled sheets. These he spread out, and proceeded to find the place.
“‘I trust …’ No, that’s not it! ‘We are’ … Hum, hum, hum! Ah, here we have it! Just listen to this!” He held the parchment close to his nose and began to read:
“‘… Whom should I meet but your boy, Henry. I had no notion he was in Paris, or I should have sought him out, you may depend. The manner of my meeting with him was most singular, as you will agree, and it is the more interesting as the occasion affords the subject for the latest joke of Paris, nay, I may almost say scandal, though to be sure I mean not our meeting, but that which I am about to relate ….’ A bit involved, that,” remarked Bancroft, frowning.
“Not at all,” said Sir Maurice. “I understand perfectly.”
“Well, it’s more than I do! However: ‘I came upon Moosoo de Chateau-Banvau the other day …’”
“Chateau-Banvau!” “Eh? Do ye know him?”
“Do I know him! As I know my brother!”
“Fancy! There’s a coincidence! But there’s more to come! Where was I? Oh, yes-‘came upon Moosoo de Chateau-Banvau the other day and found him in great amusement, which he offered me to share, and the which I agreed to. He propounded me the joke that we were to see, and one in which his protégé, a Mr Philip Jettan, was the part cause of and your son, Henry, the other!’ Gad, that’s a fine sentence. Are ye listening to me, Jettan?” There was no need to ask that question. Both his auditors had their whole attention fixed on him. Satisfied, he continued “‘This young Jettan is, so says the Marquis, the craze of Fashionable Paris, the ladies’ darling’-do ye hear that now?-‘and the maddest young scamp that you could wish for. Then the Marquis further told me that Henry was in Paris and engaged to fight a duel with this Jettan.’”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Cleone.
“Ye may well say so, my dear! Now, wait a while-the joke’s against me, I confess, but I had to tell you-‘The cause whereof, it is rumoured, is some lady whom both are enamoured of, some French wench, I think.’”
Cleone was rigid. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Sir Maurice’s arm. “‘Jettan, being a great favourite among the young sparks here, they all, having got wind of the affair, combined among themselves, laying wagers about the fight, the most of the money being laid on Jettan, as I hear. Then to bait him, or whatnot, they conspired to be present at the meeting despite Jettan’s protests. The Marquis laughed mightily here, and said that Jettan threatened to read them an ode should they appear, which he seemed to find vastly entertaining on account of some joke or other concerning Jettan’s poetry.’” “Philip’s poetry-?” said Sir Maurice faintly. “Proceed, Bancroft.”