Powder and Patch

Chapter XI. Philip Astonishes his Uncle

Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the Rambler, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the band-boxes that he

carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom’s front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house. Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another’s.

But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing.

“Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!” And he proceeded to do so.

“God ha’ mercy, it’s Philip!” gasped Tom. “I never expected you for another week, lad!” Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak. “I am de trop, no?”

“Never in your life!” Tom assured him. “Stand up, child, and let me look at you!” Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. “By the Lord Harry, Philip, it’s marvellous! How could you do it in six months-!”

Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands.

“Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?”

With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip’s claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold.

“Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you’re a joy to behold!”

“Merci du compliment!” smiled Philip. “You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?”

Tom’s eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes. “Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots-Philip, where did you obtain them?”

Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg.

“They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François.” “Give them to François?” cried his uncle. “Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow!” “He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat.” He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. “Ah, do not disturb yourself! I have spoken with ce bon Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything.” Tom came back. “He will be in a frenzy, Philip. All that baggage!”

“All-that baggage?” Philip spoke with uplifted brows. “It has arrived?” He went to the window and looked out. “But no, not yet.”

“B-but-is there more to come?” asked Tom. “But of course! The bulk follows me.” Tom sat down weakly.

“And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats.” Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste. “Those far-off days! That is ended-completely!”

Tom cast him a shrewd glance.

“What, all of it? Cleone?”

“Ah!” Philip smiled. “That is-another-matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom.” “It brought you back?”

“En partie. She is here?”

“Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for-and courted.” His eyes twinkled.

“Oho!” said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. “So she is furious with me, yes?”

“So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?”

Philip sipped his wine.

“Not a whit. ’Twas her own fair name, à vrai dire.”

“Oh! You’ll tell her that, of course?”

“Not at all.”

Tom stared.

“What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?”

“Perhaps. Oh, I don’t know. I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry. Le petit Philippe se fâche,” he said, smiling suddenly. “He would see whether it is himself she loves, or-a painted puppet. It’s foolish, but what would you?” “So you are now a painted puppet?” said Tom politely.

“What else?”

“Dear me!” said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation.

“I want to have her love for me-myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It’s incomprehensible?”

“Not entirely,” answered Tom. “I understand your feelings. What’s to do?” “Merely my baggage,” said Philip, with another glance towards the window. “It is the coach that you hear.”

“No, not that.” Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall. Philip laughed.

“That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes.” “I’ll swear he does not find favour in Moggat’s eyes! Who is the other one?” “Jacques, my groom and homme a tout faire.”

“Faith, ye’ve a retinue!”

“What would you?” shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. “Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather.”

“Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?” “Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little-ah yes! and I procure a house.”

“Do you make your bow to Cleone?” An impish smile danced into Philip’s eyes.

“I present myself to Cleone-as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!”-

Tom considered him.

“No, you’re not. You don’t drawl.”

“I shall drawl,” promised Philip. “And I shall be very languid.” “It’s the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?”

“It did not entice me. I am le petit sans repos, and le Petit Philippe au Coeur Perdu, and petit original. He, he, I shall be homesick. It is inevitable.”

“Are you so much at home in Paris?” asked Tom, rather surprised. “You like the Frenchies?”

“Liked them! Could I have disliked them?”

“I should have thought it possible-for you. Did you make many friends?” “A revendre! They took me to their bosoms.”

Did they indeed! Whom do you count amongst your intimates?” “Saint-Dantin-you know him?”

“I’ve met him. Tall and dark?”

“Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin-oh, I can’t tell you. They are all charming!”

“And the ladies?”

“Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir! I count that rondeau one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other.”

“That what?” ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise.

“A rondeau: ‘To the Pearl that Trembles in Her Ear’. I would you could have seen it.”

“Which? The rondeau?”

“The pearl, man! The rondeau you shall most assuredly see.”

“Merciful heaven!” gasped Tom. “A rondeau! Philip-poet! Sacré mille petits cochons!”

“Monsieur dines at home this evening?” asked Francois.

Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded. “The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?”

“A card party,” said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.

François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.

“The blue and silver … un peu trop soigné. The orange … peu convenable. The purple … the purple … essayons!”

Philip opened the rouge jar.

“The grey I wore at De Flaubert’s last month.” François clapped a hand to his head.

“Ah, sot!” he apostrophised himself. “Voilà qui est très bien.” He dived into the wardrobe emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. “Les bas …? Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ..,

où sont-ils?” He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. “Ah, sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!” In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him.

“Thou misbegotten son of a toad!” he raved. “Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou-”

“I gave it into your hands,” said Jacques sadly. “Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it.”

“Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do? Nom d’un nom, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?” His voice rose higher and higher. “And now, where is it?”

“I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!”

“And I say you did not! Saperlipopette, am I a fool that I should forget. Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass-”

“Sacré nom de Dieu! Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?” Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. “Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?” His voice was thunderous.

François spread out his hands.

“M’sieur, I ask pardon! It is this âne, this careless gaillard-” “Mais, m’sieur!” protested Jacques. “It is unjust; it is false!”

“Ecoutez donc, m’sieur!” begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. “It is the bandbox that contains your stockings-the stockings aux oiseaux-mouches! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that-” “Would that you would be quiet!” said Philip severely. “If either of you have lost those stockings …” He paused, and once more his eyes travelled from one to the other. “I shall seek another valet.”

François became tearful.

“Ah, no no, m’sieur! It is this imbecile, this crapaud- “M’sieu’, je vous implore-

Philip pointed dramatically across the room. Both men looked fearfully in the direction of that

accusing finger.

“Ah!” François darted forward. “La voilà! What did I say?” He clasped the box to his breast. “What did I say?”

“But it is not so!” cried Jacques. “What did you say? You said you had not seen the box! What did I say? I said-”

“Enough!” commanded Philip. “I will not endure this bickering! Be quiet François! Little monkey that you are!”

“M’sieur!” François was hurt. His sharp little face fell into lines of misery. “Little monkey,” continued Philip inexorably, “with more thought for your chattering than for my welfare.”

“Ah, no, no, m’sieur! I swear it is not so! By the-”

“I do not want your oaths,” said Philip cruelly. “Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?”

François cast the box from him.

“Ah, miserable! The cravat! Malheureux, get thee gone!” He waved agitated hands at Jacques. “You hinder me! You retard me! You upset monsieur! Va-t-en!” Jacques obeyed meekly, and Philip turned back to the mirror. To him came François, wreathed once more in smiles.

“He means well, ce bon Jacques,” he said, busy with the cravat. “But he is sot, you understand, très sot.” He pushed Philip’s chin up with a gentle hand. “He annoys m’sieur, ah oui! But he is a good garçon, when all is said.”

“It is you who annoy me,” answered Philip. “Not so tight, not so tight! Do you wish to choke me?”

“Pardon, m’sieur! No, it is not François who annoys you! Ah, mille fois non! François-perhaps he is a little monkey, if m’sieur says so, but he is a very good valet, n’est-ce pas? A monkey, if m’sieur pleases, but very clever with a cravat. M’sieur has said it himself.”

“You are a child,” said Philip. “Yes, that is very fair.” He studied his reflection. “I am pleased with it.”

“Aha!” François clasped his hands delightedly. “M’sieur is no longer enraged! Voyons, I go to fetch the vest of m’sieur!”

Presently, kneeling before his master and adjusting his stockings, he volunteered another piece of information,

“Me, I have been in this country before. I understand well the ways of it. I understand the English, oh, de part en part! I know them for a foolish race, en somme-saving always m’sieur, who is more French than English-but never, never have I had the misfortune to meet so terrible Englishman as this servant of m’sieur’s uncle, this Moggat. Si entêté, si impoli! He looks on me with a suspicion! I cannot tell m’sieur of his so churlish demeanour! He thinks, perhaps, that I go to take his fine coat. Bah! I spit upon it! I speak to him as m’sieur has bid me-très doucement. He pretends he cannot understand what it is I say! Me, who speak English aussi bien que le français! Deign to enter into these shoes, m’sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes a reniflement in his nose, and he mutters ‘damned leetle frog-eater!’ Grand Dieu, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!” “I hope you did not?” said Philip anxiously.

“Ah, bah! Would I so demean myself, m’sieur? It is I who am of a peaceable nature, n’est-ce pas? But Jacques-voyons, c’est autre chose! He is possessed of the hot temper, ce pauvre Jacques. I fear for that Moggat if he enrages our Jacques.” He shook his head solemnly, and picked up the grey satin coat. “If m’sieur would find it convenient to rise? Ah, bien!” He coaxed Philip into the coat, bit by bit. “I say to you, m’sieur, I am consumed of an anxiety. Jacques he is a veritable fire-eater when he is roused, not like me, who am always doux comme un enfant. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat.”

Philip shook out his ruffles.

“I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper,” he remarked. “But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m’sieur! Is it that I should permit him?”

“Well,” Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, “I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own.”

François’ face cleared as if by magic.

“M’sieur is kind! A house of his own. Je me rangerai bien! M’sieur contemplates a mariage, perhaps?”

Philip dropped his snuff-box.

“Que diable-!” he began, and checked himself. “Mind your own business, François!”

“Ah, pardon, m’sieur!” replied the irrepressible François. “I but thought that m’sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!”

“Hold your tongue!” said Philip sharply. “Understand me, François, I’ll have no meddling bavardage about me either to my face or below stairs! C’est entendu?” “But yes, m’sieur,” said François abashed. “It is that my tongue runs away with me.” “You’d best keep a guard over it,” answered Philip curtly.

“Yes, m’sieur!” Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, “M’sieur is still enraged?” he ventured.

Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François’ anxious, naive expression, the frown faded, and he laughed.

“You are quite ridiculous,” he said.

François broke into responsive smiles at once.

But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“En verité, c’ast une femme,” he remarked. “C’est ce que j’ai cru.”