“My dear,” said the Duchess to her friend, Madame Goesler, “you know all about those Maules?”
“What makes you ask?”
“But you do?”
“I know something about one of them,” said Madame Goesler. Now, as it happened, Mr. Maule, senior, had on that very day asked Madame Goesler to share her lot with his, and the request had been—almost indignantly, refused. The general theory that the wooing of widows should be quick had, perhaps, misled Mr. Maule. Perhaps he did not think that the wooing had been quick. He had visited Park Lane with the object of making his little proposition once before, and had then been stopped in his course by the consternation occasioned by the arrest of Phineas Finn. He had waited till Phineas had been acquitted, and had then resolved to try his luck. He had heard of the lady’s journey to Prague, and was acquainted of course with those rumours which too freely connected the name of our hero with that of the lady. But rumours are often false, and a lady may go to Prague on a gentleman’s behalf without intending to marry him. All the women in London were at present more or less in love with the man who had been accused of murder, and the fantasy of Madame Goesler might be only as the fantasy of others. And then, rumour also said that Phineas Finn intended to marry Lady Laura Kennedy. At any rate a man cannot have his head broken for asking a lady to marry him—unless he is very awkward in the doing of it. So Mr. Maule made his little proposition.
“Mr. Maule,” said Madame, smiling, “is not this rather sudden?” Mr. Maule admitted that it was sudden, but still persisted. “I think, if you please, Mr. Maule, we will say no more about it,” said the lady, with that wicked smile still on her face. Mr. Maule declared that silence on the subject had become impossible to him. “Then, Mr. Maule, I shall have to leave you to speak to the chairs and tables,” said Madame Goesler. No doubt she was used to the thing, and knew how to conduct herself well. He also had been refused before by ladies of wealth, but had never been treated with so little consideration. She had risen from her chair as though about to leave the room, but was slow in her movement, showing him that she thought it was well for him to leave it instead of her. Muttering some words, half of apology and half of self-assertion, he did leave the room; and now she told the Duchess that she knew something of one of the Maules.
“That is, the father?”
“Yes—the father.”
“He is one of your tribe, I know. We met him at your house just before the murder. I don’t much admire your taste, my dear, because he’s a hundred and fifty years old;—and what there is of him comes chiefly from the tailor.”
“He’s as good as any other old man.”
“I dare say—and I hope Mr. Finn will like his society. But he has got a son.”
“So he tells me.”
“Who is a charming young man.”
“He never told me that, Duchess.”
“I dare say not. Men of that sort are always jealous of their sons. But he has. Now I am going to tell you something and ask you to do something.”
“What was it the French Minister said. If it is simply difficult it is done. If it is impossible, it shall be done.”
“The easiest thing in the world. You saw Plantagenet’s first cousin the other night—Adelaide Palliser. She is engaged to marry young Mr. Maule, and they neither of them have a shilling in the world. I want you to give them five-and-twenty thousand pounds.”
“Wouldn’t that be peculiar?”
“Not in the least.”
“At any rate it would be inconvenient.”
“No it wouldn’t, my dear. It would be the most convenient thing in the world. Of course I don’t mean out of your pocket. There’s the Duke’s legacy.”
“It isn’t mine, and never will be.”
“But Plantagenet says it never can be anybody else’s. If I can get him to agree, will you? Of course there will be ever so many papers to be signed; and the biggest of all robbers, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, will put his fingers into the pudding and pull out a plum, and the lawyers will take more plums. But that will be nothing to us. The pudding will be very nice for them let ever so many plums be taken. The lawyers and people will do it all, and then it will be her fortune—just as though her uncle had left it to her. As it is now, the money will never be of any use to anybody.” Madame Goesler said that if the Duke consented she also would consent. It was immaterial to her who had the money. If by signing any receipt she could facilitate the return of the money to anyone of the Duke’s family, she would willingly sign it. But Miss Palliser must be made to understand that the money did not come to her as a present from Madame Goesler.
“But it will be a present from Madame Goesler,” said the Duke.
“Plantagenet, if you go and upset everything by saying that, I shall think it most ill-natured. Bother about true! Somebody must have the money. There’s nothing illegal about it.” And the Duchess had her own way. Lawyers were consulted, and documents were prepared, and the whole thing was arranged. Only Adelaide Palliser knew nothing about it, nor did Gerard Maule; and the quarrels of lovers had not yet become the renewal of love. Then the Duchess wrote the two following notes:—
My dear Adelaide,
We shall hope to see you at Matching on the 15th of August. The Duke, as head of the family, expects implicit obedience. You’ll meet fifteen young gentlemen from the Treasury and the Board of Trade, but they won’t incommode you, as they are kept at work all
