François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M’sieur consider them? M’sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M’sieur would not wear them; they offended him.
Before very long “le jeune Anglais” was looked for and welcomed. Ladies liked him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and bals masqués, and to card-parties and soirées. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.
However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.
Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip’s friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the affaire ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip.
The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.
“I—beg—your pardon?” said Philip stiffly.
“But what a modesty!” cried the Marquis, much amused.
“Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?”
“But yes! Of course I think it!”
“Permit me to enlighten you,” said Philip. “My affections are with a lady—at home.”
“Oh, la, la!” deplored the Marquis. “A lady of the country? A simple country wench?”
“I thank God, yes,” said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.
“Philip, I will take you to Court.”
Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored.
“Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then.”
The shrewd eyes twinkled.
“The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King.”
Philip shrugged.
“Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured.”
“Sans doute,” bowed the Marquis. “But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour.”
“M’sieur, I have already told you—”
“Oh, yes. But you have now the name for—slaying of hearts.”
Philip dropped his affectation.
“Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?”
“It is very fashionable,” said the Marquis mischievously. “You become a figure.”
“But I—” He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. “They fatigue me.” And he yawned.
“What! Even la Salévier?”
“The woman with the enormous wig—oh—ah! She is well enough, but passée, mon cher Marquis, passée!”
“Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?”
“Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady’s name out of this or any discussion.”
“Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, hein?”
Philip smiled.
“That is absurd, sir.”
That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September.
VII
Mr. Bancroft Comes to Paris and Is Annoyed
In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip’s departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.
It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris.
Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:
“Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?”
A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.
“At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!”
Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss.
“And where have you been this long while, vaurien?”
Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.
“Languishing in outer darkness, chérie.”
“The darkness of the Court!” laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. “Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!”
Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle’s hand.
“Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?”
Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan.
“Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?”
Instantly he turned back to her.
“I have lost count! Now I must begin
