Powder and Patch

Chapter VIII. In which Philip Delivers himself of a Rondeau

M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card party some few weeks after the coming of Mr Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece. “Now what comes to Philippe?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Where is the child?” “He was at the ball last night,” said M. de Chatelin smoothing his ruffles. “He left early and in great haste.” He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. “The pearl that hung from Madame de Marcherand’s right ear inspired him and he fled.”

“Fled? Why?”

“I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour.” Saint-Dantin flung up his hands.

“May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it’s that that keeps him now.”

Paul de Vangrisse turned his head.

“Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?”

“But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand’s pearl.”

De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling.

“Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him en déshabillé, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him.” “Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?” asked De Bergeret plaintively. De Vangrisse shook his head.

“One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true cavalier; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it.”

“Oh, he believes it, au fond,” answered Saint-Dantin. “It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!”

Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly.

Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him.

“But of a lateness, Philippe,” he cried, holding out his hands. “A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago.” “A rondeau?” said De Vangrisse. “This morning it was a ballade!” “This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!” “A Dieu ne plaise!” exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly.

“Of course,” agreed Philip. “The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?” “You asked me for a rhyme,” De Vangrisse reminded him. “So I did! A rhyme for tout and fou, and you gave me … chou!” “Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled,” “Chou!” repeated Philip with awful scorn. “Chou!” Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him. “You shall read it to us later,” he promised. “But now you will dine.” “It goes well before meat,” pleaded Philip.

He was answered by ribald protests.

“I’ll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach,” declared the Vicomte. “Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups.”

“You have no soul,” said Philip sadly.

“But I have a stomach, petit Anglais, and it cries aloud for sustenance.” “I weep for you,” said Philip. “Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?” Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door.

“Parbleu, Philippe, it’s what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner.”

Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty argument with De Bergeret. “A propos, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!”

“Which so dear friend?” asked Philip. “Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of-”

“But attend!” insisted the Vicomte. “The Englishman-the Bancroft-peste, what a name for my tongue!”

Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight “Bancroft? What does he say of me?”

“A great deal, if all I hear is true.” Philip set down his glass.

“Indeed! Now, what might you have heard, De Ravel?”

“It would appear that ce cher Bancroft feels no love for you, mon pauvre. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad.”

“Yes,” said Philip. He frowned. “Very sad. But what does he say?” “He divulges your close-guarded secret,” said the Vicomte solemnly. “Oh!” Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!”

“He speaks of a lady in ‘Leetle Feeteldean’ who has blue, blue eyes, and-” “Shall we pass over her eyes?” smiled Philip.

“But certainly! Her hair-”

“And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?” “He is very much in love,” loudly whispered De Bergeret. Philip flashed a smile at him.

“Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte.” The Vicomte sipped his wine.

“M. Bancroft, he told of your-ah-infatuation. He described the lady-oh, fully!” The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded. “Allons! Allons!”

“Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-hells amuse you?” asked Saint-Dantin sharply. But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke. “A pretty piece,” he called her, “but no more than a simple country wench. By name-” “Oh, have done!” exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently.

“But no!” Philip waved him aside. “I am very interested in what m’sieur has to say.” “By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his beaux yeux and his so charming manner.”

“Ah!” Philip’s chin sank into his cupped palms. “Et puis?”

“It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, ‘What of the pretty Cleone?’ he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others.”

Saint-Dantin’s crisp voice cut into the sudden silence.

“Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry

last month. A-”

“I will ask Paul to show me that pass,” said Philip. He leant back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret. Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside.

“Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!” “On the contrary, I am grateful to him,” replied Philip. “I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow’s mouth.”

“How?” asked Saint-Dantin blankly. Philip made an imaginary pass in the air.

“Short of killing him,” objected Saint-Dantin, “I don’t see-” “Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to-uphold me?” “Of course. But what do you mean to do?”

“First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady’s name in public.” Saint-Dantin nodded.

“I’ll vouch for those here tonight.”

“Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well.”

The Comte laughed outright.

“Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cleone of so great account?” Philip drew himself up.

“She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife.”

“Comment? Your wife? Ah, voyons! cela change l’affaire! I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means.”

“It’s what I am going to do,” said Philip. “Scélérat!” “With a vile taste for pink, hein? You’ll call upon me?” “If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret.”

“Saint-Dantin, a wager!” called De Vangrisse. “What are you talking of so earnestly?” “Of pink coats,” answered Philip. “Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?” “Devil take your rondeau!” cried the Vicomte, “Come and hazard a throw with me.” “A l’instant!” Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread out the parchment. “I insist that you shall listen to this product of my brain!” He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and left in mock solemnity. “To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.” Cette petite perle qui tremblotte

Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte

Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin, A l’air à la fois modeste et coquin, Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote.

regarder c’est toute une gavotte Où 1’on s’avance, se penche, et pivote,

Lors que tu branles d’un mouvement fin Cette petite perle.

’est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte- Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte-

Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin M’attire, m’éblouit, m’égare-”

Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a flash interjected:

“Enfin,

Elle m’embête-saperlipopOtte!-

Cette petite perle

Outraged, Philip threw the parchment at his head.