University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

From the Carolans, Claude went to the opera.
The house was already full; and he was surprised
to see the large proportion of officers, whose glittering
uniforms, combined with the elegant toilets of
the ladies, and the ample box in front, furnished with
chairs, and decorated with particular splendour for
the members and guests of the royal family, added
greatly to the effect of the scene. Presently the
royal box was filled with princes and princesses,
with their maréchals, chambellans, grande-maitresses,
and dames d'honneur, forming a circle extremely
imposing. It was, indeed, the whole Prussian
court, surrounded by the corps diplomatique and
the principal nobility of the town.

Claude had scarcely taken the seat which the
box-keeper procured for him, when a familiar “Bon
soir, Wyndham,” behind him, and a hand laid gently
on his shoulder, attracted his attention to Lord
Beaufort.

“How are you?” said he. “You don't mean to
stay here through the whole piece, I hope?”

“Certainly,” said Claude; “I came for that purpose.”

“You'll be suffocated,” said he. “I would not
remain through one act for a much better opera.”

“Indeed?”

“They murder music here. It's shocking, positively.”

“Why, I understood,” said Claude, disappointed,
“that I should hear some excellent music.”

“Nothing can be more horrid; however, it's better
than one of Carolan's dinners. Such bores. I
really—can't endure them. Can you?”

“On the contrary,” said Claude, “I—”

“Ah! I see—you're a stranger. They're very
well at first, but, after once or twice, they're épouvantables!
Carolan's such a pompous ass. It puts
me in mind of a phrase of Voltaire's: `I can never
talk with his excellency without wishing to horse-whip
him!' ”

“Oh, you are severe.”

“No, upon my honour; and then their exertions
to marry that girl of theirs. It's disgusting—positively.”

“Are you speaking of the young Countess Ida?”

“Yes; didn't you see all dinnertime? She's as
bad as they. A rich English lord, who is to be an
earl, is rather a fat fish in the net of a Prussian
count.”

“You don't mean to suspect that lovely girl of
fishing for Lord Elkington?” said Claude, with surprise.

“I know she does,” said Beaufort, coolly.
“They're all mad after him. She's got him, too,
they say. Though he's a complete puppy—entre
nous—and as great a—Ah, how are you, Elkington?”

The door had opened at the moment, and the
Carolans, with Elkington and Lady Beverly, came
in. He had scarcely exchanged salutations when
Lavalle and Thomson entered also.

“Well, here comes that fool Thomson,” whispered
Beaufort. “I am off; he's a little too polite for
me. Adieu!” and he took his leave for another
box.

Lavalle saluted Claude warmly. They already
seemed, by a kind of presentiment, to mark each
other out for friends. Thomson, who had taken a
profound liking to Claude, made a profusion of bows,
shaking him most affectionately by the hand; begged
him to take another place nearer the stage,
which, he assured him, he would find more convenient;
asked if he had a bill, and, on finding that
he had not, resigned his own, insisting upon his
keeping it, as he perfectly well knew the piece, and
had not the slightest occasion for it. He even offered
to hold his hat, but this Claude objected to;
and, although his very amiable companion protested
that he “really liked to hold hats at an opera—it
was an occupation for him—it gave him something
to do,” Claude begged to be allowed to retain his
himself.

The house was now full and quietly seated. The
curtain had risen, and the opera was proceeding,
when, at a moment when there was an interval of
comparative silence, as well among the audience as
on the scene, the box door was opened, and a considerable
bustle and rustle announced the entrance
of new-comers. They proved to be the Digbys.
Madame was en grand toilet, and Digby was so
much over-dressed as to attract towards both a general
attention. They made also a good deal of noise.
The notice thus drawn upon them was not the less
continued from the appearance of Mary. She had
the taste to dress becomingly; and her very beautiful
face and form, exhibiting all the fulness of youth
and health, never appeared to more striking advantage.
It seemed that every eye and glass in the
house were turned towards them, and they excited,
indeed, such obvious remark—Digby and his honest

dame by their conspicuous dress and the noise
they made, and Mary by the loveliness of a face not
seen before in the Berlin circles—that admiration by
the gentlemen, comments by the ladies, and inquiries
by both were quite audible, and the Carolans
turned to see who it was. At this moment, with
the eyes of the whole house upon them, and almost
in a position as public as that of the actors on the
stage, the Digbys recognised Claude, and nothing
would answer but a general and hearty shaking of
hands, and divers exclamations of delight and surprise.
Mrs. Digby thought, like many of her betters,
that notoriety was distinction, and that the more
she could be conspicuous the better effect she should
have upon this her début in the fashionable world.
As Claude and Mary stood together a moment, while
the party were arranging themselves in their seats,
various whispers flew through the house that they
were a rich and noble English family; that they
were intimate relatives of “Lord Clew;” that “la
jeune Anglaise” was about to marry Monsieur de
Wyndham, who had come with them to Berlin, that
the ceremony might be performed and the honeymoon
spent in this gay metropolis. Some said Mr.
Digby was Lord Clew himself. Mrs. Digby was
completely inflated and off her balance with the
delight of being, with her darling and lovely daughter,
the object of such general and respectful attention.
Claude saw Ida look at Mary with evident
admiration as the latter seated herself beside him,
and lifted her eyes with her usual blush to his face.
There was no reason why he should care what
opinion the young countess might form of him or of
his affairs, and yet he was a little embarrassed that
she should see him so apparently familiar with a
person who, however pretty, was, after all, a sad
simpleton. Elkington also, at the same time, turned,
and, as their eyes met, Claude bowed. Elkington
eyed him coolly through his glass, but did not
make any reply. What rendered this more unpleasant
was, that Ida saw it, and obviously with surprise.
There is in nature no particular indignity in bowing
one's head to a person who does not choose to bow
in return, but there are few things more likely to
arouse one's indignation. This, with several other
circumstances, awakened his observation respecting
both Lord Elkington and his mother, of whom the
latter had several times regarded him with a fixed
attention, much more marked than anything in their
relative position rendered natural. He resolved to
avail himself of the very earliest opportunity to ascertain,
for his satisfaction at least, whether the
slight put upon him by Elkington was intended or
accidental. Elkington, as if conscious of his thought,
turned that instant, and Ida also. Claude leaned
forward, and said,

“Good evening, Lord Elkington.”

The young man resumed his original position
with such perfect coolness, that even yet, for a moment,
it was scarcely possible to believe his conduct
intentional.

“My dear Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Digby, in a
voice too loud not to excite attention, “I can never
—do you know—remember the name of the thing
they look through—the spyglass. I always call
mine the spyglass.”

“The opera-glass, you mean.”

“Yes — the spyglass — or the opera-glass — in
English it's all the same thing, you know; but I
mean the French name.”

“Lorgnette,” said Claude.

“Milles remercimengs!” said Madame Digby,
with an affectation which Claude had never seen
in her before. “Do you know we've left ours chez
nous. That John of mine, as usual, forgot it.”

“Well—if she will be eternally giving me things
to—to—my pocket,” said Digby.

“John,” said Madame Digby, with a look of

intense reproof; “pray, Mr. Wyndham, have you
one?”

“No,” said Claude, anxious to stop this interesting
conversation by whispered and monosyllabic
replies.

“Couldn't you borrow one? for I am positively
lost without it.”

“No,” said Claude.

“She bought it to-day—and never had one before
in her life,” whispered Mr. Digby, with a wry face,
aside to Claude.

“Do you speak English, mounseer?” said Mrs.
Digby to an old gentleman behind her, with a red
face and white hair, and a riband in his button-hole.

The old gentleman replied only by pursing up his
mouth and brows into a piteous expression of futile
politeness, and shrugging his shoulders to intimate
that he could not understand her.

“Do you, mounseer?” demanded Mrs. Digby of
another.

The last said some words which were entirely
unintelligible to her, but, bowing with great affability,
handed her a bill.

“Did you ever see such a set of born fools?” said
Madame Digby.

Claude cast his eyes towards Mary. She was
in the full crisis of a blush, and he smiled and leaned
over her to speak. From her awkward habit of
blushing, it was rather a dangerous matter to speak
to her in the presence of others without letting them
hear what was said, for it might be supposed, from
her manner of receiving the most indifferent remark,
that she was in the act of yielding to a red-hot declaration
of love. By one of those chances which
lovers complain of, Ida turned again at this moment
to speak to her father, who sat behind her, and she
saw the head of Claude bent over towards Mary's,
and the heightened colour of the silly girl could not
have been unnoticed. It seemed, however, as if she

desired to exonerate herself from any participation
in the rudeness of Elkington, for she slightly bent
her head and smiled. There was kindness, there
was almost confidence in her expression. Their
eyes met, and Claude, with a sense of relief, was
satisfied that she was not only astonished, but displeased
at the rudeness of her companion. His
look of pleasure was so true and lively that it
seemed to surprise her. Claude looked at Elkington.
He could just perceive his features, and that
there was a cloud upon his brow. A sense of
pleasure kindled a moment in his heart, but died
away as he remembered that he was indulging in a
very unusual admiration for one who, in fact, was
all but the wife of another.

“Why, who on airth is that?” said Madame
Digby.

It was not in Claude's nature to do an unamiable
act, and he told her. The good dame was in such
a flutter of enjoyment, and so unconscious of doing
anything wrong, and she seemed to count with so
much confidence on his services, that, however annoyed
by her loud talk and fidgety manner, he did
not wish to offend her.

“What, are they the ones we talked about in the
stage-coach?”

“Yes.”

“Why, you don't say so!—dear me!—bless my
soul!”

Here she whispered John, who whispered Mary;
and then Mrs. Digby, fearful that Mary might not
hear, leaned over a little old gentleman's lap behind
her, and whispered Mary herself, and the word
“Carolan” was heard rather audibly repeated several
times. This must have been particularly edifying
to the count, who sat on the second seat and
heard it all, without being himself recognised by the
lady who was so anxiously scrutinizing the female
members of his family.

“Well! I don't really think she is so very pretty,”
said Mrs. Digby. “She ain't to be compared
to our Mary!”

“If her nose was a little longer,” said Digby.

“And as for the countess—that big woman's the
countess, I suppose—ain't she, Mr. Wyndham?
And who's the tall one with long curls? Don't you
know her? Why—no—yes—no—it is—as sure
as you live,” continued Mrs. Digby, “there's Lord
Elkington.”

“D—n him—so he is!” said Digby.

“Well, I wonder he doesn't see Mary,” said Mrs.
Digby.

Here Mr. Digby half hummed over the air which
the singer was giving from the stage. It happened
to be a favourite one; and the noise in the box occasioned
a call for order and silence, accompanied
by one or two hisses from the pit; and the old gentleman,
upon whose lap Mrs. Digby had just rested,
and who had for some time leaned aside, with his
open hand to his ear by way of a trumpet, at once
to receive the sound of the music and to exclude
that of the conversation, which had thrown him into
a high state of angry excitement, turned upon Mr.
Digby with a glance so furious that he stopped
humming instantly, to listen to a harangue about
thirty seconds in duration, accompanied by corresponding
gestures, in the German language.

“Oh—certainly—by all means—mounseer!” said
Digby. “If that is really your opinion, I myself
think differently.”

And here Mrs. Digby and Mary fell into a fit of
laughing, which they could not at once repress.

Matters here rested for half an hour; but Claude
was next annoyed by Mrs. Digby's requesting to be
presented to the Countess Ida.

“I want to see if she's as pretty close as she is
far off. I don't believe a word of it.”

Claude assured her that it was out of the question

to present people at the opera. And, with the view
of getting rid of her, he lifted the seat in front of
him, which by some accident had remained unoccupied,
and took the place. Although not in the same
box, this brought him by the side of Ida. A slight
salutation passed again between them. He then
carelessly cast his eyes over the surface of heads in
the pit. Every face there was turned towards the
scene with one exception. A young man in the
centre fixed his eyes on the box. He recognised
his face immediately. It was the poor and eccentric
artist who had misinformed him respecting the
portrait of Ida. At first he thought he was looking
towards himself; but, finding that he did not withdraw
his eyes when he returned it, he saw that Ida
was the object of his attention, and that his glance
was riveted upon her.

“Will you permit me to ask if you know the
young person in the pit whose face is turned towards
you?” said Claude.

Ida looked in the direction indicated, and perceived
him at once.

“Certainly—very well,” she replied, after saluting
affably the young stranger.

“He is a poor artist, I believe,” said Claude, “and
has painted a charming portrait of you; but I have
not heard his name.”

“An artist—he?” said Ida. “He paint my picture?
Not he—poor fellow! He is a teacher of
languages—Mons. Rossí.”

“Indeed!” said Claude.

“He has given me lessons in Italian for some
time, and continues still to do so. Papa pities him;
he is very poor; and he is, besides, so punctual,
so attentive, and takes such pains to please—”

As Claude looked on Ida, he conceived a suspicion
of the secret of this poor fellow's misery; his
gazing on the portrait—his refusal to name her—
his sigh—and his fixed attention to her during the

present evening. While he pitied, he could not
blame him. He felt that, were he himself called to
her side an hour every day, he might be as audacious
and as wild; and once more a cold reserve
came over his manner, and his abrupt transition
seemed to surprise and embarrass her.

“Do you speak English, mem?” said Madame
Digby, leaning over and addressing Ida.

“A little!” was the modest and polite reply.

“Well, mem, thank God! and so do I; and I'm
really glad, mem, to hear my own language so well
spoke in foreign parts.”

Ida slightly bowed, with a smile.

“Not but that I speak French, mem, also—un
poo, but I prefer the English infinitely, as any other
person of sense must. It's so much—so — so—
much—easier, mem.”

Ida looked at Claude as if for some explanation,
having already seen him on terms of such apparent
intimacy. That young gentleman's amiability was
ebbing fast. He began to wish he had cut the Digbys
long ago, and he felt as if the earth's opening
and swallowing him at once would be a fate altogether
too delightful.

“Will you be so good as to lend me your spyglass?”
said Mrs. Digby. “Thank you, mem; it's
so very far from here to the stage, that one does not
know whether the actors are there or not.”

After a considerable turning and twisting with
the “spyglass,” pulling it quite out and shutting it
quite in, and several “dear me's” and “bless my
souls,” Mrs. Digby handed it back with,

“Thank you, mem!”

And then, from the quiet manner of Ida, suspecting
that she had not made a favourable impression,
she added,

“I hope, mem, you'll not think me for'erd in
opening the conversation. I should not have presumed
to do so, only our very intimate friend, Mr.

Wyndham, has spoken so much of you, that I really
feel as if we were old acquaintances. I hope there's
no harm done, mem?”

“Not in the least,” said Ida.

“Well, mem, that's right. I was sure there
wasn't.”

Elkington, who had been looking and listening
during this conversation, here whispered the Countess
Carolan, and then to his mother, who sat next
to Ida. Lady Beverly also whispered Ida, and rose.
Claude heard Ida's voice: “No, I assure you, not
in the least!” and then Lady Beverly: “Yes, my
dear, your mother wishes it.” Ida accordingly
rose and changed places with Lady Beverly, while
Elkington took that just occupied by Ida. This
brought him next to Claude, but he turned his shoulder
towards him as he looked upon the scene, and
did not alter his position during the evening.

“I hope, mem,” commenced Mrs. Digby, about
to address a remark across Elkington's shoulder to
Lady Beverly; but that lady, with a start, and a
countenance of surprise and anger, regarded the
honest dame a moment in a way which effectually
discouraged her from farther proceedings.