“Ay, you’re taking it hard,” nodded his uncle. “But they’re all the same, lad—bless ’em!”
“I thought—this one—was different.”
“More fool you,” said Tom cynically.
VI
The Beginning of the Transformation
Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for the seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr. Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip’s right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.
François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip’s legs adoringly.
“But of an excellence, M’sieur! So perfect a calf, M’sieur! So vairy fine a laig,” he explained in English.
Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.
“Tais-toi, imbécile! ’Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!”
“Mais, monsieur, je—je—cela me donne—mal au cou.”
“Il faut souffrir pour être bel,” replied the Marquis severely.
“So it seems,” said Philip irritably. “Tom, for God’s sake, have done!”
His uncle chuckled.
“I’ve finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!”
Le Marquis de Château-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork.
“I am not altogether satisfied,” he said musingly.
Philip warded him off.
“No, no, M’sieur! I am sure it is perfection!”
The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.
“It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!”
The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis’ hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief.
The Marquis nodded.
“Yes, Tom, you are right. It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe.”
Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table.
“What now? Have you nearly finished?”
“Now the rouge. François, haste!”
Philip tried to rebel.
“I will not be painted and powdered!”
The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye.
“Plaît—il?”
“M’sieur—I—I will not!”
“Philippe—if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, hein?”
“But, M’sieur, can I not go without paint?”
“You can not.”
Philip smiled ruefully.
“Then do your worst!”
“It is not my worst, ingrat. It is my best!”
“Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir.”
The Marquis’ lips twitched. He signed to François.
Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire earring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.
But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.
The Marquis found him fort amusant, but troublesome.
“Forget it, little fool!”
“Forget it?” cried Philip. “How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?”
“Quelle absurdité! The sword, Tom!”
“How can I dance in a sword?” protested Philip.
“It is de rigueur,” said the Marquis.
Philip fingered the jewelled hilt.
“A pretty plaything,” he said. “I have never spent so much money on fripperies before.”
François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip’s fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuffbox, and a handkerchief.
Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.
“Well, my friend?”
But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief.
“Well!” The Marquis grew impatient. “You have nothing to say?”
Philip turned.
“C’est merveilleux!” he breathed.
The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.
“In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! C’est gauche, c’est impossible!”
Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less gauche.
“It is my intention,” said the Marquis. “A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil.”
“Faith, I’m proud of ye now!” cried Tom. “Why, lad, you’ll be more modish than ever Maurice was!”
Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off.
“Oh?” queried the Marquis. “Why?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it? Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’ll only wear sapphires and diamonds.”
“By heaven, the boy’s right!” exclaimed Tom. “He should be all blue!”
“In a month—two months—I shall present you at Versailles,” decided the Marquis. “François, remove that abominable ruby. And now—en avant!”
And so went Philip to his first ball.
At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew’s feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him.
After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a
