ecarte )--and this pair went into the rooms together,
and Becky saw a number of old faces which she
remembered in happier days, when she was not innocent,
but not found out. Major Loder knew a great number
of foreigners, keen-looking whiskered men with dirty
striped ribbons in their buttonholes, and a very small
display of linen; but his own countrymen, it might be
remarked, eschewed the Major. Becky, too, knew some
ladies here and there--French widows, dubious Italian
countesses, whose husbands had treated them ill--faugh
--what shall we say, we who have moved among
some of the finest company of Vanity Fair, of this refuse
and sediment of rascals? If we play, let it be with clean
cards, and not with this dirty pack. But every man who
has formed one of the innumerable army of travellers
has seen these marauding irregulars hanging on, like
Nym and Pistol, to the main force, wearing the king's
colours and boasting of his commission, but pillaging
for themselves, and occasionally gibbeted by the roadside.
Well, she was hanging on the arm of Major Loder,
and they went through the rooms together, and drank a
great quantity of champagne at the buffet, where the
people, and especially the Major's irregular corps,
struggled furiously for refreshments, of which when the
pair had had enough, they pushed on until they reached
the Duchess's own pink velvet saloon, at the end of the
suite of apartments (where the statue of the Venus is,
and the great Venice looking-glasses, framed in silver),
and where the princely family were entertaining their
most distinguished guests at a round table at supper. It
was just such a little select banquet as that of which
Becky recollected that she had partaken at Lord Steyne's
--and there he sat at Polonia's table, and she saw him.
The scar cut by the diamond on his white, bald,
shining forehead made a burning red mark; his red whiskers
were dyed of a purple hue, which made his pale face
look still paler. He wore his collar and orders, his blue
ribbon and garter. He was a greater Prince than any
there, though there was a reigning Duke and a Royal
Highness, with their princesses, and near his Lordship
was seated the beautiful Countess of Belladonna, nee
de Glandier, whose husband (the Count Paolo della
Belladonna), so well known for his brilliant entomological
collections, had been long absent on a mission to the
Emperor of Morocco.
When Becky beheld that familiar and illustrious face,
how vulgar all of a sudden did Major Loder appear to
her, and how that odious Captain Rook did smell of
tobacco! In one instant she reassumed her fine-ladyship
and tried to look and feel as if she were in May Fair
once more. "That woman looks stupid and ill-humoured,"
she thought; "I am sure she can't amuse him. No, he must
be bored by her--he never was by me." A hundred such
touching hopes, fears, and memories palpitated in her
little heart, as she looked with her brightest eyes (the
rouge which she wore up to her eyelids made them
twinkle) towards the great nobleman. Of a Star and Garter
night Lord Steyne used also to put on his grandest
manner and to look and speak like a great prince, as he was.
Becky admired him smiling sumptuously, easy, lofty, and
stately. Ah, bon Dieu, what a pleasant companion he
was, what a brilliant wit, what a rich fund of talk, what
a grand manner!--and she had exchanged this for Major
Loder, reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water, and
Captain Rook with his horsejockey jokes and prize-ring
slang, and their like. "I wonder whether he will know
me," she thought. Lord Steyne was talking and laughing
with a great and illustrious lady at his side, when he
looked up and saw Becky.
She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and she
put on the very best smile she could muster, and dropped
him a little, timid, imploring curtsey. He stared aghast
at her for a minute, as Macbeth might on beholding
Banquo's sudden appearance at his ball-supper, and remained
looking at her with open mouth, when that horrid Major
Loder pulled her away.
"Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.," was that
gentleman's remark: "seeing these nobs grubbing away
has made me peckish too. Let's go and try the old
governor's champagne." Becky thought the Major had had
a great deal too much already.
The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill--
the Hyde Park of the Roman idlers--possibly in hopes to
have another sight of Lord Steyne. But she met another
acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his lordship's
confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather
familiarly and putting a finger to his hat. "I knew that Madame
was here," he said; "I followed her from her hotel. I have
some advice to give Madame."
"From the Marquis of Steyne?" Becky asked, resuming
as much of her dignity as she could muster, and not
a little agitated by hope and expectation.
"No," said the valet; "it is from me. Rome is very
unwholesome."
"Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche--not till after
Easter."
"I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is always
malaria for some people. That cursed marsh wind kills
many at all seasons. Look, Madame Crawley, you were
always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, parole
d'honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you--
or you will be ill and die."
Becky laughed, though in rage and fury. "What!
assassinate poor little me?" she said. "How romantic! Does
my lord carry bravos for couriers, and stilettos in the
fourgons? Bah! I will stay, if but to plague him. I have
those who will defend me whilst I am here."
It was Monsieur Fiche's turn to laugh now. "Defend
you," he said, "and who? The Major, the Captain, any
one of those gambling men whom Madame sees would
take her life for a hundred louis. We know things about
Major Loder (he is no more a Major than I am my Lord
the Marquis) which would send him to the galleys or
worse. We know everything and have friends everywhere.
We know whom you saw at Paris, and what relations you
found there. Yes, Madame may stare, but we do. How
was it that no minister on the Continent would receive
Madame? She has offended somebody: who never
forgives--whose rage redoubled when he saw you. He was
like a madman last night when he came home. Madame
de Belladonna made him a scene about you and fired off
in one of her furies."
"Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?" Becky
said, relieved a little, for the information she had just got
had scared her.
"No--she does not matter--she is always jealous. I
tell you it was Monseigneur. You did wrong to show
yourself to him. And if you stay here you will repent it. Mark
my words. Go. Here is my lord's carriage"--and seizing
Becky's arm, he rushed down an alley of the garden as
Lord Steyne's barouche, blazing with heraldic devices,
came whirling along the avenue, borne by the almost
priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna
lolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a King
Charles in her lap, a white parasol swaying over her
head, and old Steyne stretched at her side with a livid
face and ghastly eyes. Hate, or anger, or desire caused
them to brighten now and then still, but ordinarily, they
gave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a world
of which almost all the pleasure and all the best beauty
had palled upon the worn-out wicked old man.
"Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of that
night, never," Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley
as the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out at it
from behind the shrubs that hid her. "That was a
consolation at any rate," Becky thought.
Whether my lord really had murderous intentions
towards Mrs. Becky as Monsieur Fiche said (since
Monseigneur's death he has returned to his native country,
where he lives much respected, and has purchased from
his Prince the title of Baron Ficci), and the factotum
objected to have to do with assassination; or whether he
simply had a commission to frighten Mrs. Crawley out of
a city where his Lordship proposed to pass the winter,
and the sight of her would be eminently disagreeable to
the great nobleman, is a point which has never been
ascertained: but the threat had its effect upon the little
woman, and she sought no more to intrude herself upon
the presence of her old patron.
Everybody knows the melancholy end of that
nobleman, which befell at Naples two months after the French
Revolution of 1830; when the Most Honourable George
Gustavus, Marquis of Steyne, Earl of Gaunt and of Gaunt
Castle, in the Peerage of Ireland, Viscount Hellborough,
Baron Pitchley and Grillsby, a Knight of the Most Noble
Order of the Garter, of the Golden Fleece of Spain, of
the Russian Order of Saint Nicholas of the First Class, of
the Turkish Order of the Crescent, First Lord of the
Powder Closet and Groom of the Back Stairs, Colonel of
the Gaunt or Regent's Own Regiment of Militia, a Trustee
of the British Museum, an Elder Brother of the Trinity
House, a Governor of the White Friars, and D.C.L.--
died after a series of fits brought on, as the papers said,
by the shock occasioned to his lordship's sensibilities by
the downfall of the ancient French monarchy.
An eloquent catalogue appeared in a weekly print,
describing his virtues, his magnificence, his talents, and
his good actions. His sensibility, his attachment to the
illustrious House of Bourbon, with which he claimed an
alliance, were such that he could not survive the
misfortunes of his august kinsmen. His body was buried at
Naples, and his heart--that heart which always beat with
every generous and noble emotion was brought back to
Castle Gaunt in a silver urn. "In him," Mr. Wagg said,
"the poor and the Fine Arts have lost a beneficent patron,
society one of its most brilliant ornaments, and England
one of her loftiest patriots and statesmen," &c., &c.
His will was a good deal disputed, and an attempt was
made to force from Madame de Belladonna the
celebrated jewel called the "Jew's-eye" diamond, which his
lordship always wore on his forefinger, and which it was
said that she removed from it after his lamented demise.
But his confidential friend and attendant, Monsieur Fiche
proved that the ring had been presented to the said
Madame de Belladonna two days before the Marquis's
death, as were the bank-notes, jewels, Neapolitan and
French bonds, &c., found in his lordship's secretaire and
claimed by his heirs from that injured woman.
CHAPTER LXV
Full of Business and Pleasure
The day after the meeting at the play-table, Jos had
himself arrayed with unusual care and splendour, and
without thinking it necessary to say a word to any
member of his family regarding the occurrences of the previous
night, or asking for their company in his walk, he sallied
forth at an early hour, and was presently seen making
inquiries at the door of the Elephant Hotel. In consequence
of the fetes the house was full of company, the
tables in the street were already surrounded by persons
smoking and drinking the national small-beer, the public
rooms were in a cloud of smoke, and Mr. Jos having, in
his pompous way, and with his clumsy German, made
inquiries for the person of whom he was in search, was
directed to the very top of the house, above the first-floor
rooms where some travelling pedlars had lived, and were
exhibiting their jewellery and brocades; above the second-
floor apartments occupied by the etat major of the
gambling firm; above the third-floor rooms, tenanted by the
band of renowned Bohemian vaulters and tumblers; and
so on to the little cabins of the roof, where, among
students, bagmen, small tradesmen, and country-folks come
in for the festival, Becky had found a little nest--as dirty
a little refuge as ever beauty lay hid in.
Becky liked the life. She was at home with everybody
in the place, pedlars, punters, tumblers, students and all.
She was of a wild, roving nature, inherited from father
and mother, who were both Bohemians, by taste and
circumstance; if a lord was not by, she would talk to his
courier with the greatest pleasure; the din, the stir, the
drink, the smoke, the tattle of the Hebrew pedlars, the
solemn, braggart ways of the poor tumblers, the sournois
talk of the gambling-table officials, the songs and swagger
of the students, and the general buzz and hum of
the place had pleased and tickled the little woman, even
when her luck was down and she had not wherewithal to
pay her bill. How pleasant was all the bustle to her now
that her purse was full of the money which little Georgy
had won for her the night before!
As Jos came creaking and puffing up the final stairs,
and was speechless when he got to the landing, and began
to wipe his face and then to look for No. 92, the room
where he was directed to seek for the person he wanted,
the door of the opposite chamber, No. 90, was open,
and a student, in jack-boots and a dirty schlafrock, was
lying on the bed smoking a long pipe; whilst another
student in long yellow hair and a braided coat, exceeding
smart and dirty too, was actually on his knees at No. 92,
bawling through the keyhole supplications to the person
within.
"Go away," said a well-known voice, which made Jos
thrill, "I expect somebody; I expect my grandpapa. He
mustn't see you there."
"Angel Englanderinn!" bellowed the kneeling student
with the whity-brown ringlets and the large finger-ring,
"do take compassion upon us. Make an appointment.
Dine with me and Fritz at the inn in the park. We will
