Powder and Patch (7 page)

“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,

a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris. Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:

“Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?”

A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.

“At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!”

Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss. “And where have you been this long while, vaurien?” Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. “Languishing in outer darkness, chérie.”

“The darkness of the Court!” laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. “Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!”

Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle’s hand. “Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?” Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan. “Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?” Instantly he turned back to her.

“I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!” Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. “And one for the lovely whole. Voila!” “You are indeed a rogue,” she told him. “For you care—not one jot!” “If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve,” he answered gaily. “You don’t deceive me, le petit Philippe ...! So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer—with no heart to lose!”

“Rumour hath it that ’tis already lost,” smiled De Bergeret. “Eh, Philippe?” “Lost an hundred times,” mourned Philip, “and retrieved never!”

“Oh!” Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. “Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I’ll no more of you!”

“Alack!” Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. “I give you thanks, mignonne, ’twas very hard.”

“But you do not say How is she, la Pompadour?” cried De Salmy. Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.

“La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black.” Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.

Mr Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Bancroft. “’Tis never Mr Jettan?” “Que lui dit-il?” asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English. Philip bowed distantly.

“M’

sieur?”

“You’ve not forgotten me? Bancroft?”

“Ah—Mr Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir.” He bowed again. “Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! Nom de Dieu!”

“Aha, that I understand!!” said Mademoiselle relievedly. “It is one of your friends, Philippe?” She smiled upon Mr Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. “L’ami de Philippe—ah, but you should have said!”

Mr Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip’s friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle’s hand with good grace.

“I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was in a wood.” “Tell,” besought the lady. Philip threw out his hands.

“Ah, no, chérie! That meeting was so disastrous to my—vanity!” “Raison de plus,” decided Mademoiselle. “Tell me about it!”

“Mr Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted.”

“You?” cried Mademoiselle. “Impossible!”

“On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?” “Not so long since,” said Mr Bancroft.

“Six months,” nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin. Mademoiselle was still incredulous.

“A sorry spectacle? Philippe?”

“I scent an intrigue,” said a little Vicomte, “Clothilde, make him tell!” “Of course,” she said. “Philippe!”

Philip swung neatly round to face her. “Chére Clothilde?”

“Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse—bien! I shall ask Mr Bancroft!”

“Oh, I’ll give away no man’s secrets!” simpered Bancroft.

Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.

“Petite ange, it’s a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of my ways, and now—me voici!” “I said that I scented an intrigue,” said the Vicomte tranquilly. “But wait, wait! You in the country, Philippe? You jest!”

“On my honour, no, chérie! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society.” “Six months ago?” De Bergeret was astonished. “It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?”

“I have a natural aptitude,” smiled Philip. “Now are you satisfied?”

“Je n’en reviendrai jamais!” Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. “Jamais, jamais, jamais!” “I am not at all satisfied.”

Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte. “What more would you have?”

“I would know of what like she is.” “She?”

“The lady to whom your heart is lost.”

“That’s an hundred she’s,” replied Philip airily. “And they are all different!” “I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel,” drawled Bancroft.

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly. “Proceed, mon ami. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?”

“Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!”

Philip played with Clothilde’s fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft’s held a challenge.

“If it transpired, m’sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady’s name,” he said softly.

There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip’s smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.

“The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We’ll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!” He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.

“He is very fastidious,” sneered Bancroft.

M. le Comte closed his snuffbox and stepped back. He became politely bored. “The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?” Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.

“I am promised to Jules!” she nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away

from the little group.

Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.

“Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?” He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.

“It’s too fatiguing,” said Philip. “I’ll come.”

“Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?” inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.

“A creature of no importance,” shrugged Philip. “So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger? “Yes,” admitted Philip. “I do not like the colour of his coat.”

“You may call upon me,” said Saint-Dantin at once. “I do not like anything about him. He was here before—last year. His conversation lacks finesse. He is tolerated in London, hein?” “I don’t know. I trust not.”

“He, he! So he interfered between you and the lady?” Philip withdrew his arm.