Henrietta Temple by Benjamin Disraeli (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📕

was with him in England, while you were solacing her. And now we are all friends. There seems a sort of strange destiny in our lots, does there not?'

'A happy lot that can in any way be connected with Miss Grandison,' said Lord Montfort.

At this moment her Grace and Henrietta entered; the carriage was ready; and in a few minutes they were driving to Whitehall Stairs, where a beautiful boat awaited them.

In the mean time, Ferdinand Armine was revolving the strange occurrences of yesterday. Altogether it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In the first place, he had extricated himself from his most pressing difficulties; in the next, he had been greatly amused; and thirdly, he had made a very interesting acquaintance, for such he esteemed Count Mirabel. Just at the moment when, lounging over a very late breakfast, he was thinking of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then turning in his mind whether it were possible to follow the gay counsels of his friends of yesterday, and never plague himself about a woman again, the Count Mirabel was announced.

_Mon cher_ Armine,' said the Count, 'you see I kept my promise, and would find you at home.'

The Count stood before him, the best-dressed man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright with _bonhomie_. And yet Count Mirabel had been the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. Bond Sharpe; and, as usual, the dappled light of dawn had guided him to his luxurious bed, that bed which always afforded him serene slumbers, whatever might be the adventures of the day, or the result of the night's campaign. How the Count Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils who wake only to moralise over their own folly with broken spirits and aching heads! Care he knew nothing about; Time he defied; indisposition he could not comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, even for five minutes.

Ferdinand was really very glad to see him; there was something in Count Mirabel's very presence which put everybody in good spirits. His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in amusing conversation.

'You were a stranger among us yesterday,' said Count Mirabel; 'I think you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?'

Ferdinand smiled.

'It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?'

''Tis a fine question,' said Ferdinand; 'and yet I confess I should like to be callous.'

'Ah! but you cannot be,' said the Count, 'you have a soul of great sensibility; I see that in a moment.'

'You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,' said Ferdinand, with a little reserve.

'Yes; in a minute,' said the Count, 'in a minute I read a person's character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.'

Ferdinand changed countenance again. 'You are a very extraordinary man, Count,' he at length observed.

'Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What are you going to do with yourself?'

'Nothing; I never do anything,' said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful tone.

'A melancholy man! _Quelle betise!_ I will cure you. I will be your friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper. _Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_' Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.

Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The effervescence produced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not quite subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object he passed and that passed him called for his praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up with the duchess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking over the valley.

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed on; but that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to disembarrass himself of friends who greeted him so kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at these sources of amusement, that had so unexpectedly revealed themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the duchess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After passing the morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a _betise_. This word _betise_ settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declared that anything was a _betise_, he would hear no more.

It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the duchess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he knew him--though none could after--and who was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous _rencontre_ that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand. The Count was at her Grace's side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple's arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned to dinner.

'We have only availed ourselves of your Grace's permission to join our dinners,' said Count Mirabel, offering the duchess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was quite remarkable, seated herself next to the duchess, so that Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord Montfort.

The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who was silent.

'How amusing he is!' said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and speaking in an undertone.

'Yes; I envy him his gaiety.'

'Be gay.'

'I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel's philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.'

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand.

They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great annoyance, the Count did not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the duchess's proposal that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape.

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank; but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon.

'I wish we had brought a guitar,' said Miss Grandison; 'Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us?' 'And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will you not?' said the Count, smiling.

'Henrietta, will you sing?' said Miss Grandison. 'With you.'

'Of course; now you must,' said the Count: so they did.

This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present--there is something very ravishing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the passionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel.

'And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,' said the duchess.

'Without a guitar?' said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm for an accompaniment. 'Well, when I was with the Duc d'Angouleme in Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one.'


A SERENADE OF SEVILLE.

I.

Come forth, come forth, the star we love
Is high o'er Guadalquivir's grove,
And tints each tree with golden light;
Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright.

II.

Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear
To blossom in the sun's career
The moonlight with their odours greet;
Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet!

III.

Come forth, come forth, one hour of night,
When flowers are fresh and stars are bright,
Were worth an age of gaudy day;
Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay!


'I hope the lady came,' said Miss Temple, 'after such a pretty song.'

'Of course,' said the Count, 'they always come.'