Pelham — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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СКАЧАТЬ No, you do yourself injustice. It was said of Caesar, that he was great without an effort; much more, then, may Monsieur Margot be happy without an exertion.”

      “Ah, Monsieur!” rejoined the Frenchman, still looking

      “As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out As sober Lanesbro’ dancing with the gout.”

      “Ah, Monsieur, there is a depth and truth in your remarks, worthy of Montaigne. As it is impossible to account for the caprices of women, so it is impossible for ourselves to analyze the merit they discover in us; but, Monsieur, hear me—at the house where I lodge, there is an English lady en pension. Eh bien, Monsieur, you guess the rest: she has taken a caprice for me, and this very night she will admit me to her apartment. She is very handsome,—Ah qu’elle est belle, une jolie petite bouche, une denture eblouissante, un nez tout afait grec, in fine, quite a bouton de rose.”

      I expressed my envy at Monsieur Margot’s good fortune, and when he had sufficiently dilated upon it, he withdrew. Shortly afterwards Vincent entered—“I have a dinner invitation for both of us to-day,” said he; “you will come?”

      “Most certainly,” replied I; “but who is the person we are to honour?”

      “A Madame Laurent,” replied Vincent; “one of those ladies only found at Paris, who live upon anything rather than their income. She keeps a tolerable table, haunted with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idle Frenchmen, peregrinae gentis amaenum hospitium. As yet, she has not the happiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen, (though she boards one of our countrywomen) and (as she is desirous of making her fortune as soon as possible) she is very anxious of having that honour. She has heard vast reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself that we are so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a Frenchwoman thinks she is never in want of a fortune as long as there is a rich fool in the world.

      “‘Stultitiam patiuntur, opes,’

      is her hope; and

      “‘Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celse, feremus,’

      is her motto.”

      “Madame Laurent!” repeated I, “why, surely that is the name of Mons. Margot’s landlady.”

      “I hope not,” cried Vincent, “for the sake of our dinner; he reflects no credit on her good cheer—

      “‘Who eats fat dinners, should himself be fat.’”

      “At all events,” said I, “we can try the good lady for once. I am very anxious to see a countrywoman of ours, probably the very one you speak of, whom Mons. Margot eulogizes in glowing colours, and who has, moreover, taken a violent fancy for my solemn preceptor. What think you of that, Vincent?”

      “Nothing extraordinary,” replied Vincent; “the lady only exclaims with the moralist—

      “‘Love, virtue, valour, yea, all human charms, Are shrunk and centred in that heap of bones. Oh! there are wondrous beauties in the grave!’”

      I made some punning rejoinder, and we sallied out to earn an appetite in the Tuilleries for Madame Laurent’s dinner.

      At the hour of half-past five we repaired to our engagement. Madame Laurent received us with the most evident satisfaction, and introduced us forthwith to our countrywoman. She was a pretty, fair, shrewd looking person, with an eye and lip which, unless it greatly belied her, showed her much more inclined, as an amante, to be merry and wise, than honest and true.

      Presently Monsieur Margot made his appearance. Though very much surprised at seeing me, he did not appear the least jealous of my attentions to his inamorata. Indeed, the good gentleman was far too much pleased with himself to be susceptible of the suspicions common to less fortunate lovers. At dinner I sat next to the pretty Englishwoman, whose name was Green.

      “Monsieur Margot,” said I, “has often spoken to me of you before I had the happiness of being personally convinced how true and unexaggerated were his sentiments.”

      “Oh!” cried Mrs. Green, with an arch laugh, “you are acquainted with Monsieur Margot, then?”

      “I have that honour,” said I. “I receive from him every morning lessons both in love and languages. He is perfect master of both.”

      Mrs. Green burst out into one of those peals so peculiarly British.

      “Ah, le pauvre Professeur!” cried she. “He is too absurd!”

      “He tells me,” said I, gravely, “that he is quite accable with his bonnes fortunes—possibly he flatters himself that even you are not perfectly inaccessible to his addresses.”

      “Tell me, Mr. Pelham,” said the fair Mrs. Green, “can you pass by this street about half past twelve to-night?”

      “I will make a point of doing so,” replied I, not a little surprised by the remark.

      “Do,” said she, “and now let us talk of old England.”

      When we went away I told Vincent of my appointment. “What!” said he, “eclipse Monsieur Margot! Impossible!”

      “You are right,” replied I, “nor is it my hope; there is some trick afloat of which we may as well be spectators.”

      “De tout mon coeur!” answered Vincent; “let us go till then to the Duchesse de G——.”

      I assented, and we drove to the Rue de—.

      The Duchesse de G—was a fine relict of the ancien regime—tall and stately, with her own grey hair crepe, and surmounted by a high cap of the most dazzling blonde. She had been one of the earliest emigrants, and had stayed for many months with my mother, whom she professed to rank amongst her dearest friends. The duchesse possessed to perfection that singular melange of ostentation and ignorance which was so peculiar to the ante-revolutionists. She would talk of the last tragedy with the emphatic tone of a connoisseur, in the same breath that she would ask, with Marie Antoinette, why the poor people were so clamorous for bread when they might buy such nice cakes for two-pence a-piece? “To give you an idea of the Irish,” said she one day to an inquisitive marquess, “know that they prefer potatoes to mutton!”

      Her soirees were among the most agreeable at Paris—she united all the rank and talent to be found in the ultra party, for she professed to be quite a female Maecenas; and whether it was a mathematician or a romance-writer, a naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, and conversed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.

      A new play had just been acted, and the conversation, after a few preliminary hoverings, settled upon it.

      “You see,” said the duchesse, “that we have actors, you authors; of what avail is it that you boast of a Shakspeare, since your Liseton, great as he is, cannot be compared with our Talma?”

      “And yet,” said I, preserving my gravity with a pertinacity, which nearly made Vincent and the rest of our compatriots assembled lose their’s “Madame must allow, that there is a striking resemblance in their persons, and the sublimity of their acting?”

      “Pour ca, j’en conviens,” replied this ‘critique СКАЧАТЬ