out.
'Who is it?' I said, for I felt a sudden and inexplicable interest in his large lustrous eyes, eyes such as I have never before seen in any human being.
'That is Father Peter, of St Martha of the Angels. He is a bircher, my boy, and one of the best in London.'
At this moment we were joined by the Father and a formal introduction took place.
I had frequently seen admirable cartes of Father Peter, or rather, as he preferred to be called, Monsignor Peter, in the shop windows of the leading photographers, and at once accused myself of being a dolt not to have recognised him at first sight.
Descriptions are wearisome at the best, yet were I a clever novelist given to the art, I think I might even interest those of the sterner sex in Monsignor Peter, but although in the following paragraph I faithfully delineate him, I humbly ask his pardon if he should perchance in the years to come glance over these pages and think I have not painted his portrait in colours sufficiently glowing, for I must assure my readers that Father Peter is no imaginary Apollo, but one who in the present year of grace, 1883, lives, moves, eats, drinks, fucks and flagellates with all the verve and dash he possessed at the date I met him first, now twenty-five years ago.
Slightly above the middle height and about my own age, or possibly a year my senior, with finely chiselled features and exquisite profile, Father Peter was what the world would term an exceedingly handsome man. It is true that perfectionists have pronounced the mouth a trifle too sensual and the cheeks a thought too plump for a standard of perfection, but the women would have deemed otherwise for the grand dreamy Oriental eyes, which would have outrivaled those of Byron's Gazelle, made up for any shortcoming.
The tonsure had been sparing in its dealings with his hair, which hung in thick but well-trimmed masses round a classic head, and as the slight summer breeze blew aside one lap of his long clerical coat, I noticed the elegant shape of his cods which, in spite of the tailor's art, displayed their proportions to the evident admiration of one or two ladies who, pretending to look in at the windows of a draper near which we were standing, seemed riveted to the spot, as the zephyrs revealed the tantalising picture.
'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Clinton,' said Father Peter, shaking me cordially by the hand. 'Any friend of Mr. De Vaux is a friend of mine. May I ask if either of you have dined yet?'
We replied in the negative.
'Then in that case, unless you have something better to do, I shall be glad if you will join me at my own home. I dine at seven, and am already rather late. I feel half-famished and was proceeding to Kensington, where my humble quarters are, when the sight of De Vaux compelled me to discharge the cab. What say you?'
'With all my heart,' replied De Vaux, and since I knew him to be a perfect sybarite at the table, and that his answer was based on a knowledge of Monsignor's resources, I readily followed suit.
To hail a four-wheeler and get to the doors of Father Peter's handsome but somewhat secluded dwelling, which was not very far from the south end of the long walk in Kensington Gardens, did not occupy more than twenty minutes.
En route I discovered that Father Peter possessed a further charm which, added to those I have already mentioned, must have made him (as I thought even then and I know now) perfectly invincible among womankind. He was the most fascinating conversationalist I had ever listened to. It was not so much the easy winning way in which he framed his sentences, but the rich musical intonation, and the luscious laughing method he had of suggesting an infinity of things without, as a respectable member of an eminently respectable church, committing himself in words.
No one, save at exceptional intervals, could ever repeat any actual phrase of Monsignor's which might not pass in a drawing-room, yet there was an instinctive craving on the part of his audience to hear more because they imagined he meant something which was going to lead up to something further, yet the something further never came.
Father Peter was wont to say when questioned upon this annoying peculiarity'Am I to be held answerable for other people's imaginations?'
But then Father Peter was a sophist of the first water, and a clever reasoner could have proved that his innuendos had created the imaginings in the first place.
Daudet, Belot, and other leaders of the French fictional school, have at times carefully analysed those fine nuances which distinguish profligate talk from delicate suggestiveness. Monsignor had read these works, and adapted their ideas with success.
'Mychef? said Monsignor as we entered the courtyard of his residence, 'tyrannises over me worse than any Nero. I am only five minutes behind and yet I dare not ask him for an instant's grace. You are both dressed. I suppose if I hadn't met you it would have been the Royalty front row; Fiorina, they say, has taken to forgetting her unmentionables lately.'
We both denied the soft impeachment and assured him that information about Fiorina was news to us.
Monsignor professed to be surprised at this, and rushed off to his dressing-room to make himself presentable.
CHAPTER 4
Before many minutes he rejoined us, and leading the way, we followed him into one of the most lovely bijou salons it had ever been my lot to enter. There were seats for eight at the table, four of which were occupied, and the chef, not waiting for his lord and master, had already sent up the soup, which was being handed round by a plump rose-cheeked boy about sixteen years old, who I afterwards found acted in the double capacity of page to Monsignor and chorister at St Martha of the Angels, to say nothing of a tertiary occupation which, not to put too fine a point upon it, might go excessively near to buggery without being very wide of the mark.
I was briefly introduced, and De Vaux, who knew them all, had shaken himself into his seat before I found time properly to note the appearance of my neighbours.
Immediately on my left sat a complete counterpart of Monsignor himself, save that he was a much older man; his name, as casually mentioned to me, was Father Boniface, and although sparer in his proportions than Father Peter, his proclivities as a trencherman belied his meagreness. He never missed a single course, and when anything particular tickled his gustatory sense, he had two or even more helpings.
Next to him sat a little short apoplectic man, a doctor of medicine, who was more of an epicure.
A sylphlike girl of sixteen occupied the next seat. Her fair hair, rather flaxen than golden-hued, hung in profusion down her back, while black lashes gave her violet eyes that shade which Greuze, the finest eye painter the world has ever seen, wept to think he could never exactly reproduce. I was charmed with her ladylike manner, her neatness of dress, virgin white, and above all, with the modest and unpretending way she replied to the questions put to her.
If ever there was a maid at sixteen under the blue vault of heaven, she sits there, was my involuntary thought, to which I nearly gave verbal expression, but was fortunately saved from such a frightful lapse by the page who, placing some appetising salmon and lobster sauce before me, dispelled for the nonce my half-visionary condition.
Monsignor P. sat near this young divinity, and ever and anon between the courses passed his soft white hands through her wavy hair.
I must admit I didn't half like it, and began to feel a jealous pang, but the knowledge that it was only the caressing hand of a Father of the Romish Church quieted me.
I was rapidly getting maudlin, and as I ate my salmon the smell of the lobster sauce suggested other thoughts till I found the tablecloth gradually rising, and I was obliged to drop my napkin on the floor to give myself the opportunity of adjusting my prick so that it would not be observed by the company.
I have omitted to mention the charmer who was placed between De Vaux and Father Peter. She was a lady of far maturer years than the sylph, and might be, as near as one could judge in the pale incandescent light which the pure filtered gas shed round with voluptuous radiance, about twenty-seven. She was a strange contrast to Lucy,
