CHAPTER XV.

_In Which the Count Mirabel Commences His Operations with

Great Success_.

IS THERE a more gay and graceful spectacle in the world than Hyde Park,

at the end of a long sunny morning in the merry months of May and June?

Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine

horses, and such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of

such agreeable accessories: the groves, the gleaming waters, and the

triumphal arches. In the distance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the

bowery glades of Kensington.

It was the day after the memorable voyage from Richmond. Eminent among

the glittering throng, Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian,

scattering gay recognitions and bright words. He reined in his steed

beneath a tree, under whose shade was assembled a knot of listless

cavaliers. The Count received their congratulations, for this morning he

had won his pigeon match.

‘Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, betting on Poppington,’ said

the Count. ‘I want to see him, old idiot! Who knows where Charley is?’

‘I do, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘He has gone to Richmond with

Blandford and the two little Furzlers.’

‘That good Blandford! Whenever he is in love he always gives a dinner.

It is a droll way to succeed.’

‘Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mirabel?’ said Mr. de

Stockville.

‘Impossible, my dear fellow; I dine with Fitz-warrene.’

‘I say, Mirabel,’ drawled out a young man, ‘I saw you yesterday driving

a man down to Richmond yourself. Who is your friend?’

‘No one you know, or will know. ‘Tis the best fellow that ever lived;

but he is under my guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom he

is introduced.’

‘Lord! I wonder who he can be!’ said the young man.

‘I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, if you don’t take care, I

can tell you that.’

‘Thank you, good Coventry; if you like to bet the odds, I will take

them.’

‘No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet, but at the same time------’

‘You have an opinion that you will not back. That is a luxury, for

certainly it is of no, use. I would advise you to enjoy it.’

‘Well, I must say, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan, ‘I think the same

about Goshawk.’

‘Oh, no, Catch, you do not think so; you think you think. Go and take

all the odds you can get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you will

tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh! _mon cher_ Catch?’

‘But do you really think Goshawk will win?’ asked Lord Cathimwhocan,

earnestly.

‘Certain!’

‘Well, damned if I don’t go and take the odds,’ said his lordship.

‘Mirabel,’ said a young noble, moving his horse close to the Count, and

speaking in a low voice, ‘shall you be at home to-morrow morning?’

‘Certainly. But what do you want?’

‘I am in a devil of a scrape; I do not know what to do. I want you to

advise me.’

‘The Count moved aside with this cavalier. ‘And what is it?’ said he.

‘Have you been losing?’

‘No, no,’ said the young man, shaking his head. ‘Much worse. It is the

most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall

cut my throat.’

‘_Bêtise!_ It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.’

‘Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.’

‘_Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,_’ said the Count, in a kind voice.

‘I am your friend. Rest assured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it

until to-morrow at one o’clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am

at your service at present.’

‘No, no, not here: there are letters.’

‘Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any

nonsense.’

At this moment, the duchess, with a party of equestrians, passed and

bowed to the Count Mirabel.

‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘who is that girl? I want

to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine

creature!’

‘Do not you know Miss Temple?’ said the Count. ‘Fancy a man not knowing

Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.’

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of

Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least

by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to

present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might

be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode

away, and was soon by the very lady’s side.

‘What a charming voyage yesterday,’ said the Count to Miss Temple. ‘You

were amused?’

‘Very.’

‘And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was

astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.’

‘You know him intimately?’ said Miss Temple.

‘He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so

much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! _chère_ Miss Temple, there

is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so

good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so

_spirituel_.’

‘You have known him long, Count?’

‘Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover

what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will

not live.’

‘Indeed!’

‘No, I am never wrong. That _cher_ Armine will not live.’

‘You are his friend, surely------’

‘Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I

contrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance;

but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a

dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was

a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When

you first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?’

‘He was indeed very different,’ said Miss Temple, turning away her face.

‘You have known that dear Armine a long time?’

‘It seems a long time,’ said Miss Temple.

‘If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very

good spirits again,’ said the Count. ‘It is the only thing that would

quite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our _cher_

Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?’

‘I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him.’

‘He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him

very well?’

‘They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed their

acquaintance only recently.’

‘We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must assist

in our endeavours to bring him out a little.’

‘Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested in

Captain Armine’s welfare.’

‘I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,’ said Count

Mirabel. ‘After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate

sympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the _cher_

Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother.’

‘He is fortunate in such a friend.’

‘Ah! he does not think so any longer,’ said the Count; ‘he avoids me, he

will not tell me anything. _Chère_ Miss Temple, this business haunts

me; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows him

like me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings.

Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of

committing suicide.’

‘God forbid!’ said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis.

‘I rise every morning with apprehension,’ said the Count. ‘When I call

upon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel.’

‘Are you indeed serious?’

‘Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc de

Crillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were at

college together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like

this dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all

tenderness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my

cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine

yesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married;

but there was a _contretemps_. He sent for me; I was in Spain; she

married the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning he

remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a

melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself.’

‘No, no!’ exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation.

‘Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful

adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because I

feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is

not so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can

account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What

are his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business.

I am going to him. How I tremble!’ ‘How good you are!’ exclaimed Miss

Temple, with streaming eyes. ‘I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we all

must. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy.’

‘It is the song I ever sing,’ said the Count. ‘I wish some of you would

come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that

there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that

flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.’

‘He will not care for it,’ said Miss Temple. ‘Try. It is a fancy I have.

Let me bear it.’ Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off

with his prize.

It was about eight o’clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his

room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine in

Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for

artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was

just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive,

if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had

followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at

this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself

for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel’s

fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count,

full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him.

‘_Cher ami!_ I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am

late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who

do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that

I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you

should be happy.’

‘Nonsense, my dear Count’

‘It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way

with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not

betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is

changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing

her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last

night; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. She

has a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. If

we go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall in

love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her

fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrow

morning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boy

coming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, _cher, cher_

Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower; and rest

assured that it is your own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort

in a very fine ditch.’