“So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject.”
“Ah, no!” begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. “Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you can do, but, sacré nom de Dieu, your verse—!”
“Alas!” sighed Philip, “ ’tis my only ambition. I shall persevere.”
Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the card-room.
“Your only ambition, Philippe?”
“For the moment,” answered Philip sweetly. “All things pall on one after a time.”
“Save the greatest ambition?” Saint-Dantin’s eyes were purely mischievous.
“You are as inquisitive as a monkey,” said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room.
“For how long has that fellow lorded it here?” asked Bancroft of his friend.
M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief.
“Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable.”
“Lovable be damned!” said Bancroft.
De Chambert looked at him in surprise.
“You don’t like our little Philippe?”
“No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!”
“Con—ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a bébé.”
“Damn it, is he everyone’s pet?”
“C’est le dernier cri de Paris. There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous.”
“Jealous!” Bancroft snorted. “Jealous of that sprig!”
De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance.
“A word in your ear, m’sieu’! Do not speak your dislike too widely. Le petit Philippe has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him.”
Bancroft struggled for words.
“I’ll—not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I’ve a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence.”
“Aha? I don’t think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies’ darling. That says much, hein?”
“And when I saw him last,” spluttered Bancroft, “he was clad in a coat I’d not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!”
“Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe.”
“Curse all marvels!” said Bancroft fervently.
VIII
In Which Philip Delivers Himself of a Rondeau
M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card-party some few weeks after the coming of Mr. Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half-past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Now what comes to Philippe?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Where is the child?”
“He was at the ball last night,” said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his ruffles. “He left early and in great haste.” He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. “The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de Marcherand’s right ear inspired him and he fled.”
“Fled? Why?”
“I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour.”
Saint-Dantin flung up his hands.
“May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it’s that that keeps him now.”
Paul de Vangrisse turned his head.
“Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?”
“But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand’s pearl.”
De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling.
“Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him en déshabillé, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him.”
“Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?” asked De Bergeret plaintively.
De Vangrisse shook his head.
“One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true cavalier; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it.”
“Oh, he believes it, au fond,” answered Saint-Dantin. “It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!”
Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly.
Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him.
“But of a lateness, Philippe,” he cried, holding out his hands.
“A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago.”
“A rondeau?” said De Vangrisse. “This morning it was a ballade!”
“This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!”
“A Dieu ne plaise!” exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly.
“Of course,” agreed Philip. “The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?”
“You asked me for a rhyme,” De Vangrisse reminded him.
“So I did! A rhyme for tout and fou, and you gave me chou!”
“Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled.”
“Chou!” repeated Philip with awful scorn. “Chou!”
Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him.
“You shall read it to us later,” he promised. “But now you will dine.”
“It goes well before meat,” pleaded Philip.
He was answered by ribald protests.
“I’ll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach,” declared the Vicomte. “Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups.”
“You have no soul,” said Philip sadly.
“But I have a stomach, petit Anglais, and it cries aloud for sustenance.”
“I weep for you,” said Philip. “Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?”
Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him
