‘she is miles ahead of the girls at Nantes. Besides—there is that twenty-five thousand pounds sterling.’
‘You must not think of her,’ said the baron, hastily, ‘you have been paying court to your English consul’s daughter—that beautiful blonde.’
‘Ah, bah!—nothing serious.’
‘You may think so, but the poor girl adores you.’
‘Possibly,’ answered Asheton, twirling his cigar, and letting the smoke escape in a spiral from his lips—then, after a pause, with an air of consequence, ‘a man can’t help it if a girl likes him—cats may look at kings without kings stooping to scratch their necks.’
‘You will break the heart of the blonde, Jacques.’
‘That is her affair. I have given her no encouragement. She is worth nothing, and this angel is worth fifty thousand pounds.’
‘For shame, you are mercenary, you—with your father’s purse to draw out of.’
‘My father has a long purse, it is true.’ Asheton threw one leg over the other, an arm over the back of his chair, and leaned back with his chin in the air. ‘You are mighty eager to couple me with the consul’s daughter, Alphonse.’
‘I—oh, I care nothing about it; but she is a nice girl, and domestic and amiable; she would make you happy.’
‘I hate tame cats.’
‘She is very polished.’
‘All the more slippery.’
‘Oh, Jacques! you are false. I know you admired her.
‘Pardon. She admired me, and I respected her taste.’
‘She is really very pretty.’
‘Then take her yourself. That is enough of the blonde.’
The baron and Asheton continued smoking, then called for small glasses of yellow Chartreuse.
‘It is of no use, Alphonse,’ said Asheton, superciliously, ‘your letting Miss Fairbrother trot in your head, let her leap the hedge and be out of the inclosure at once. You know very well that it is impossible for you to think of her.’
‘But, Jacques, I do think of her.’
‘Well, think, but with no ulterior views. Are you aware that her father is a grocer and wears a white apron—a common English grocer? You are a baron of ancient family; you are perfectly aware that your mother would never consent to such an union.’
‘We are poor as rats.’
‘And rats like the good stores in a grocer’s shop. Bah! it is impossible. In France you cannot marry without the consent of your parents. Think of your mother—of proposing to her to take the niece of la Pain-au-lait, the maid to Madame de Hoelgoet. She would never, never consent.’
‘Why do you talk of marriage? May I not flutter about the flower?’
‘A bee goes to the flower for the golden honey and carries it off, but leaves the flower. You cannot get the honey without the flower.’
‘I see what it is,’ said the baron, losing his temper slightly. He was too well-bred and too easy-going a man to be greatly put out, and show it. ‘You want to carry off Mademoiselle yourself, and kill the beautiful blonde with chagrin.’
‘I amuse myself,’ answered Asheton, tapping his cigar against the ashpan on the table, and then throwing up his head again, and inhaling a long whiff of smoke.
‘You must not trifle with this girl’s affections as you have with those of the blonde. I will not allow it.’
‘Halloo! Knight Bayard, preux chevalier! I am to leave the coast clear to you. Well, I admit I have no chance against a baron with a coronet of six pearls. Especially when that vulgar old butter-tub thinks you will make her daughter My-Lady.’
‘There you are wrong, Jacques, it is I who have no chance. Who in these liberal days cares for empty honours? Who asks to see your pedigree? And who that reads your pedigree believes in it? No, my friend, it is you who have every chance, not I. You are her countryman, and you have good expectations from your father. Your nation is practical, it values solid advantages, not soap-bubble titles.’
‘You, Alphonse, will render that gross mother and the girl many favours, will place them under a thousand obligations, if you help them with the settlement of the affairs of their aunt, and establish their right to Champclair.’
‘You do not know that the Pain-au-lait is dead. If she survive, I shall be debarred the house. I cannot visit there whilst the maid-companion of Madame de Hoelgoet is in possession. My mother would not endure it. On the other hand, you will pass your days there dancing round the ladies.’
‘The lady—I shall decline to dance round the butter-tub. Enough! Let the event decide.’
‘In the meantime, what about the carriage and the journey in it? Who is to sit on the box, and which is to enjoy supreme felicity, basking in the sunshine of the eyes of mademoiselle?’
‘Neither shall go on the box. We will both sit inside with our backs to the horses.’
‘Yes—that is very well—but it will embitter the journey all the more, if one sits opposite Madame whilst the other is opposite that Angel.’
‘We will change places at each change of horses. One will engage the old woman and leave the other free to prosecute his suit with the young lady. We will act chivalrously by each other in this matter.’
‘It shall be so. Let us make a further agreement, which is to present the Angel with flowers and fruit?’
‘To-morrow you shall offer flowers to your goddess, and I will present cherries. The following day our roles will be reversed. Will that suffice you, Alphonse?’
‘Admirably. It is three days’ journey to Nantes, and I shall have two days in which to offer my floral oblations, to your one.’
‘But I shall have two for cherries.’
‘Do you think so basely of Mademoiselle Jacquetta as to suppose she will appreciate comestibles above flowers?’
‘Consider,’ said Asheton, ‘she can only accept a limited number of roses and lilies, and almost an unlimited number of cherries.’
‘Perish the thought,’ said the baron, and shuddered. ‘You judge her by her mother.’
‘My dear Jacket,’ said Mrs. Fairbrother to her daughter that same evening, ‘it is clear to me as starch that you have made a couple of conquests, and I’m not a bit surprised at it, for there never was a dearer girl than you.’
‘Mamma!’ laughed Miss Fairbrother, ‘It is you who are the attraction; you talk so pleasantly and amusingly, whereas I am dull.’
‘Nonsense, my darling, you say that because you think it will please me; I declare you have been infected by Lord Monkeytower with the itch of blarney.
