Merivale shook his head.
‘I’ll not bet against a certainty, Rupert,’ he said. ‘Before he came I was assailed by doubts, but faith, the sight of him is enough to end them! The sheer force of his personality should carry the day. Even I feel something nervous. Saint-Vire, with the knowledge of his own guilt, must feel a thousand times more so. Rupert, have you any idea what he means to do?’
‘Devil a bit!’ answered Rupert cheerfully. He lowered his voice. ‘I’ll tell you something, though. This is the last soirée I’ll attend. Did you hear that fellow mouthing out his rhymes?’ He shook his head severely. ‘Y’know it ought not to be allowed. An under-sized little worm like that!’
‘You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?’ smiled Hugh.
‘Poet be damned!’ said Rupert. ‘He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!’ He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. ‘God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?’ he demanded irreverently.
‘Hush, child!’ whispered Lavoulère, who was standing near by. ‘It is the great M. de Foquemalle!’
M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.
‘What, Rupert?’ The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. ‘Whither away, mon vieux ?’
‘Here, let me pass!’ whispered Rupert. ‘Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off !’ He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.
In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.
‘Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?’ She picked up her paper and read out her lines. ‘There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?’
Avon kissed her hand.
‘My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.’
Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.
‘Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love, or some such nonsense.’
‘De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!’ cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. ‘Shall you brave it, Duc?’
M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marchérand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to
where Merivale stood.
‘More commands?’ inquired my lord. ‘I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.’
His Grace waved his fan languidly to and fro.
‘But one more command,’ he sighed. ‘Just keep our amiable friend away from his wife, my dear.’ He passed on to speak to Madame de Vauvallon, and was presently lost in the crowd.
Lady Fanny was complimenting Madame de Saint-Vire on her gown.
‘I declare, that shade of blue is positively ravishing!’ she said. ‘I searched the town for just such a taffeta not so long ago. La, there is that lady in puce again! Pray who may she be?’
‘It is – I believe it is Mademoiselle de Cloué,’ Madame replied. The Vicomte de Valmé came up. ‘Henri, you have seen your father?’
‘Yes, madame, he is with de Châtalet and another, over there.’ He bowed to Fanny. ‘It is Milor’ Merivale, I think. Madame, may I be permitted to fetch you a glass of ratafie?’
‘No, I thank you,’ said my lady. ‘Madame, my husband!’
Madame gave her hand to Marling. Up came Madame du Deffand.
‘Now, where is your brother, Lady Fanny? I have asked him to entertain us with some of his so amusing verses, and he says that he has another form of entertainment for us!’ She rustled on, looking for Avon.
‘Is Avon to read us his verses?’ asked someone nearby. ‘He is always so witty! Do you remember the one he read at Madame de Marchérand’s rout last year?’
A gentleman turned his head.