chapter 11.
love at a bazaar
the lady aphrodite at first refused to sit in the duke’s pavilion. was she, then, in the habit of refusing? let us not forget our venus of the waters. shall we whisper where the young duke first dared to hope? no, you shall guess. je vous le donne en trois. the gardens? the opera? the tea-room? no! no! no! you are conceiving a locality much more romantic. already you have created the bower of a parisina, where the waterfall is even more musical than the birds, more lulling than the evening winds; where all is pale, except the stars; all hushed, except their beating pulses! will this do? no! what think you, then, of a bazaar?
o thou wonderful nineteenth century! thou that believest in no miracles and doest so many, hast thou brought this, too, about, that ladies’ hearts should be won, and gentlemen’s also, not in courts of tourney or halls of revel, but over a counter and behind a stall? we are, indeed, a nation of shopkeepers!
the king of otaheite, though a despot, was a reformer. he discovered that the eating of bread-fruit was a barbarous custom, which would infallibly prevent his people from being a great nation. he determined to introduce french rolls. a party rebelled; the despot was energetic; some were executed; the rest ejected. the vagabonds arrived in england. as they had been banished in opposition to french rolls, they were declared to be a british interest. they professed their admiration of civil and religious liberty, and also of a subscription. when they had drunk a great deal of punch, and spent all their money, they discovered that they had nothing to eat, and would infallibly have been starved, had not an hibernian marchioness, who had never been in ireland, been exceedingly shocked that men should die of hunger; and so, being one of the bustlers, she got up a fancy sale and a sandwich isle bazaar.
all the world was there and of course our hero. never was the arrival of a comet watched by astronomers who had calculated its advent with more anxiety than was the appearance of the young duke. never did man pass through such dangers. it was the fiery ordeal. st. anthony himself was not assailed by more temptations. now he was saved from the lustre of a blonde face by the superior richness of a blonde lace. he would infallibly have been ravished by that ringlet had he not been nearly reduced by that ring which sparkled on a hand like the white cat’s. he was only preserved from his unprecedented dangers by their number. no, no! he had a better talisman: his conceit.
‘ah, lady balmont!’ said his grace to a smiling artist, who offered him one of her own drawings of a swiss cottage, ‘for me to be a tenant, it must be love and a cottage!’
‘what! am i to buy this ring, mrs. abercroft? point de jour. oh! dreadful phrase! allow me to present it to you, for you are the only one whom such words cannot make tremble.’
‘this chain, lady jemima, for my glass! it will teach me where to direct it.’
‘ah! mrs. fitzroy!’ and he covered his face with affected fear. ‘can you forgive me? your beautiful note has been half an hour unanswered. the box is yours for tuesday.’
he tried to pass the next stall with a smiling bow, but he could not escape. it was lady de courcy, a dowager, but not old. once beautiful, her charms had not yet disappeared. she had a pair of glittering eyes, a skilfully-carmined cheek, and locks yet raven. her eloquence made her now as conspicuous as once did her beauty. the young duke was her constant object and her occasional victim. he hated above all things a talking woman; he dreaded above all others lady de courcy.
he could not shirk. she summoned him by name so loud that crowds of barbarians stared, and a man called to a woman, and said, ‘my dear! make haste; here’s a duke!’
lady de courcy was prime confidant of the irish marchioness. she affected enthusiasm about the poor sufferers. she had learnt otaheitan, she lectured about the bread-fruit, and she played upon a barbarous thrum-thrum, the only musical instrument in those savage wastes, ironically called the society islands, because there is no society. she was dreadful. the duke in despair took out his purse, poured forth from the pink and silver delicacy, worked by the slender fingers of lady aphrodite, a shower of sovereigns, and fairly scampered off. at length he reached the lady of his heart.
‘i fear,’ said the young duke with a smile, and in a soft sweet voice, ‘that you will never speak to me again, for i am a ruined man.’
a beam of gentle affection reprimanded him even for badinage on such a subject.
‘i really came here to buy up all your stock, but that gorgon, lady de courcy, captured me, and my ransom has sent me here free, but a beggar. i do not know a more ill-fated fellow than myself. now, if you had only condescended to take me prisoner, i might have saved my money; for i should have kissed my chain.’
‘my chains, i fear, are neither very alluring nor very strong.’ she spoke with a thoughtful air, and he answered her only with his eye.
‘i must bear off something from your stall,’ he resumed in a more rapid and gayer tone, ‘and, as i cannot purchase you must present. now for a gift!’
‘choose!’
‘yourself.’
‘your grace is really spoiling my sale. see! poor lord bagshot. what a valuable purchaser.’
‘ah! bag, my boy!’ said the duke to a slang young nobleman whom he abhorred, but of whom he sometimes made a butt, ‘am i in your way? here! take this, and this, and this, and give me your purse. i’ll pay lady aphrodite.’ and so the duke again showered some sovereigns, and returned the shrunken silk to its defrauded owner, who stared, and would have remonstrated, but the duke turned his back upon him.
‘there now,’ he continued to lady aphrodite; ‘there is two hundred per cent, profit for you. you are not half a marchande. i will stand here and be your shopman. well, annesley,’ said he, as that dignitary passed, ‘what will you buy? i advise you to get a place. ‘pon my soul, ’tis pleasant! try lady de courcy. you know you are a favourite.’
‘i assure your grace,’ said mr. annesley, speaking slowly, ‘that that story about lady de courcy is quite untrue and very rude. i never turn my back on any woman; only my heel. we are on the best possible terms. she is never to speak to me, and i am always to bow to her. but i really must purchase. where did you get that glass-chain, st. james? lady afy, can you accommodate me?’
‘here is one prettier! but are you near-sighted, too, mr. annesley?’
‘very. i look upon a long-sighted man as a brute who, not being able to see with his mind, is obliged to see with his body. the price of this?’
‘a sovereign,’ said the duke; ‘cheap; but we consider you as a friend.’
‘a sovereign! you consider me a young duke rather. two shillings, and that a severe price; a charitable price. here is half-a-crown; give me sixpence. i was not a minor. farewell! i go to the little pomfret. she is a sweet flower, and i intend to wear her in my button-hole. good-bye, lady afy!’
the gay morning had worn away, and st. james never left his fascinating position. many a sweet and many a soft thing he uttered. sometimes he was baffled, but never beaten, and always returned to the charge with spirit. he was confident, because he was reckless: the lady had less trust in herself, because she was anxious. yet she combated well, and repressed the feelings which she could hardly conceal.
many of her colleagues had already departed. she requested the duke to look after her carriage. a bold plan suddenly occurred to him, and he executed it with rare courage and rarer felicity.
‘lady aphrodite grafton’s carriage!’
‘here, your grace!’
‘oh! go home. your lady will return with madame de protocoli.’
he rejoined her.
‘i am sorry, that, by some blunder, your carriage has gone. what could you have told them?’
‘impossible! how provoking! how stupid!’
‘perhaps you told them that you would return with the fitz-pompeys, but they are gone; or mrs. aberleigh, and she is not here; or perhaps — but they have gone too. everyone has gone.’
‘what shall i do? how distressing! i had better send. pray send; or i will ask lady de courcy.’
‘oh! no, no! i really did not like to see you with her. as a favour — as a favour to me, i pray you not.’
‘what can i do? i must send. let me beg your grace to send.’
‘certainly, certainly; but, ten to one, there will be some mistake. there always is some mistake when you send these strangers. and, besides, i forgot all this time my carriage is here. let it take you home.’
‘no, no!’
‘dearest lady aphrodite, do not distress yourself. i can wait here till the carriage returns, or i can walk; to be sure, i can walk. pray, pray take the carriage! as a favour — as a favour to me!’
‘but i cannot bear you to walk. i know you dislike walking.’
‘well, then, i will wait.’
‘well, if it must be so; but i am ashamed to inconvenience you. how provoking of these men! pray, then, tell the coachman to drive fast, that you may not have to wait. i declare there is scarcely a human being in the room; and those odd people are staring so!’
he pressed her arm as he led her to his carriage. she is in; and yet, before the door shuts, he lingers.
‘i shall certainly walk,’ said he. ‘i do not think the easterly wind will make me very ill. good-bye! oh, what a coup-devent!’
‘let me get out, then; and pray, pray take the carriage. i would much sooner do anything than go in it. i would much rather walk. i am sure you will be ill!’
‘not if i be with you.’
