University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
A DOUBTFUL CASE OF LOVE ON THE TAPIS.

It was during that premature spell of cold weather which we so
unseasonably had this year in October,—anticipating our usual
winter by a full month or more,—cutting off the cotton crop a
fourth, and forcing us into our winter garments long before they
were ordered from the tailor,—when, one morning, as I stood shivering
before the glass, and clumsily striving, with numbed fingers,
to adjust my cravat à la nœud Gordien,—my friend, Ned Bulmer,
burst into my room, looking as perfect an exquisite as Beau
Brummell himself. He was in the gayest clothes and spirits, a
thousand times more exhilarated than usual—and Ned is one of
those fellows upon whom care sits uneasily, whom, indeed, care
seldom sets upon at all! He laughed at my shiverings and
awkwardness, seized the ends of my handkerchief, and, with the
readiest fingers in the world, and in the most perfect taste, adjusted
the folds of the cravat, and looped them up into a rose beneath
my chin, in the twinkling of an eye, and to my own perfect satisfaction.

“That done,” said he,—“what have you now for breakfast?”

A bachelor's breakfast is not uncommonly an extempore performance.
I, myself, really knew not what was in the larder, or
what my cook was about to provide. But this ignorance occasioned
no difficulty. I knew equally well my guest and cook.

“There is doubtless quite enough for two moderate fellows like
ourselves. Let us descend to the breakfast room and see.”

“I warn you,” said he, “I am no moderate fellow at this moment.
I am hungry as a Cumanche. I was out late last night at
the house of that starched framework of moral buckram, the widow
D—e; and got no supper. Her freezing ladyship seems to
fancy that she provides well enough when she surfeits every body
with her own dignity; and, though there was a regular party,—a
monstrous re-union of town and country cousins,—yet, would you
believe it, except the tea service at eight o'clock, cakes and crumpets,
and such like unsubstantial stuffs, we got not a mouthful all
the evening! Yet, in momentary expectation of it, every body
hung on till twelve o'clock. The case appearing then perfectly desperate,
and the stately hostess becoming more freezingly dignified
than ever, people began to disappear. The old ladies lingered to
the last, and then went off breathing curses, not loud but deep!
Old Mrs. F— was terribly indignant. I helped her to the carriage.
`Did you,' said she, `ever see such meanness? I wonder
if she thinks people come to her parties only to see her in her last
Parisian dresses? And that we should stay till twelve o'clock
and get nothing after all! Let her invite me again, and she
shall have an answer.' `Why what will you say?' said I. `What
will I say?' said she. `I'll tell her yes, I'll come, provided she'll
allow me to bring my supper with me.'

`And she'll be very sure to do it too,' said I: `she's just the
woman for it.'”

“I shall not quarrel with her if she does. I calculated something
on the supper myself, took no tea, and was absolutely famished.
I was so hungry that, but for the distance, and my weariness,
I should have driven down to Baker's, and surfeited myself
upon Yankee oysters. You see now why I am so solicitous on
the subject of the sort of breakfast you can provide.”

“Faith, Ned,” said I, “one might reasonably ask, why, being

so monstrous hungry, you should yet sally forth on an empty
stomach! Why didn't you get breakfast at home? Why come
to sponge upon a needy bachelor, and without due warning given
of the savage character of your appetite?”

“Oh! you penurious monster! You are as stingy as Madame
D—e. But, confound you! Do you think it is your breakfast,
in particular, that I am in search of? Let me quiet your suspicions.
Hungry as I am, I have a much more important quest
in seeking you, and came as soon as I could, in order to catch you
before you should go out this morning. I slept so late, that,
when I sprang out of my bed and looked at my watch, I found I
hadn't a moment to lose. So I took the chance of securing you
and my breakfast by the same operation. Thus am I here and
hungry. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite! But what's in the wind now, that you must see me
in such a hurry. No quarrel on hand, I trust.”

“No! no! Thank God! It is Venus not Mars, at this season
of the year, to whom I address my prayers. It is an affair of the
heart, not of pistols. But to the point. Have you any engagements
to-day? I am in need of you.”

“None!” with the natural sigh of a young lawyer, whose desires
are more numerous than his clients, and whose hopes are
always more magnificent than his fees.

“Good! Then you must serve me, as you can, efficiently.
You alone can do it. You must know, then, that Paula Bonneau
is in town with her grandmother. They came yesterday, and may
leave to-morrow. They are hurried; I don't know why. I heard
of them last night at Dame D—e's. They would have been
present, and were at first expected; but sent an excuse on the plea
of fatigue.”

“And did not accordingly—we may suppose—go supperless to
bed. But what have I to do in this matter? `What's Hecuba to

me, or I to Hecuba?' You surely don't design that I should take
Paula off your hands.”

“Off my hands, indeed. No! no! mon ami! I wish you
rather to assist in putting her into them.”

“Humph! not so easy a matter. But how did you hear of
their movements and arrangements?”

“From Monimia Porcher! The dear little creature gave me a
world of news last night, and promises me every assistance. But
she is not a favourite with our grandmother, as you know, and consequently
can render me, directly, no great assistance. But you
can.”

“Prithee, how?”

“I have sent word to Paula by Monimia that I will call upon
her at ten. I know that she and the old lady are to go out shopping
at eleven. Now, you will call with me. You are a favourite
with the grandmother, and you are to keep her off. I want to get
every possible opportunity; for I am now determined to push the
affair to extremities. I won't take it as I have done. I shall
bring all parties to terms this season, or keep no terms with them
hereafter.”

“What! You persist, knowing all your father's anti-Gallican
opinions—his prejudices, inherited for a hundred years!”

“In spite of all! His prejudices are only inherited. They
must be overcome! They are surely nonsensical enough. He
has no right to indulge them at the expense of my happiness.”

“To which you really think Paula necessary?”

“Can you doubt! I am a rough dog, you know; but I have
a heart, Dick, as you also know; and I doubt if I could ever feel
such a passion for any other woman as I feel for Paula.”

“She is certainly a rare and lovely creature. I am half inclined
to take her myself.”

“Don't think of it, you Turk! Content yourself with dreaming
of Beatrice Mazyck. I'll help you in that quarter, mon ami,

and so will Paula. And she can! They are bosom friends, you
know.”

“But, Ned, her grandmother is quite as hostile to the English
Bulmer tribe, as your father is to the Huguenot Bonneaus. You
have a double prejudice to overcome.”

“Not so! It is the old lady's pride only, that, piqued at the
openly avowed prejudices of my family, asserts its dignity by opposition.
Let my father once be persuaded to relax, and we shall
thaw the old lady. She is devotedly attached to Paula, and, I
believe, she thinks well enough of me; and would have no sort of
objection, but for the old antipathy to my name.”

“You are so sanguine!—Well! I'm ready to help as you require.
What is the programme.”

“You must secure me opportunities for a long talk with Paula
alone. You must keep off the dragon. I am prepared to brave
every thing—all my father's prejudices—and will do so, if I can
only persuade her to make some corresponding sacrifice for me. I
am now tolerably independent. In January, my mother's property
comes into my hands; and, though it does not make me
rich, it enables me to snap my fingers in the face of fate! I am
resolved to incur every risk, at all events. Paula, too, is a fearless
little creature; and, though wonderfully submissive to the
whims of her grandmother, I feel sure that she will not sacrifice
herself and me to them in a matter so essential to our mutual
happiness. Things are looking rather more favourable than usual.
There have been occasional meetings of the two families. The
old lady and my father even had a civil conversation at the last
tournament; and he has resolved upon a sort of feudal entertainment,
this Christmas, which shall bring together the whole neighbourhood,—at
least for a day or two. You are to be there: so he
requires me to say, and his guest, of course, while in the parish.
You must do your endeavour for me while there. It will not be

my fault, if the season shall pass without being properly improved.
Love has made me somewhat desperate.”

“Beware, lest your rashness should lose you all. Your father's
prejudices are inveterate.”

“I think not. They begin to soften. He begins to feel that
he is getting older, and he becomes more amiable accordingly.
He talks old prejudices rather than feels them. It is a habit with
him now, rather than a feeling. He barks, like the old dog, but
the teeth are no longer in capacity to bite. For that matter, his
bark was always worse than his bite. What he says of the Huguenots
is only what his grandfather said and thought. Without
the same animosity, he deems it a sort of family duty, to maintain
the old British bull-dog attitude, as if to show that his blood has
undergone no deterioration. In respect to Paula, herself, he said,
at the last tournament, that she was really a lovely little creature,
and regretted that she was of that soup maigre French stock.
There are sundry other little favourable symptoms which seem to
show me that he is growing reasonable and indulgent.”

Here, we were signalled to breakfast, and our dialogue, on this
subject, was suspended for awhile.