Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (best thriller novels to read TXT) 📕

my desk and some cloths⁠—I’m in pumps and a white tye (something like Miss M’s stockings)⁠—I’ve seventy in it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan’s⁠—offer him seventy-five down, and ask him to renew⁠—say I’ll take wine⁠—we may as well have some dinner sherry; but not picturs, they’re too dear.

If he won’t stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you can spare, and send them to Balls⁠—we must, of coarse, have the sum tonight. It won’t do to let it stand over, as tomorrow’s Sunday; the beds here are not very clean, and there may be other things out against me⁠—I’m glad it an’t Rawdon’s Saturday for coming home. God bless you.

Yours in haste, R. C.

P.S. Make haste and come.

This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the messengers who are always hanging about Mr. Moss’s establishment, and Rawdon, having seen him depart, went out in the courtyard and smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind⁠—in spite of the bars overhead⁠—for Mr. Moss’s courtyard is railed in like a cage, lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to escape from his hospitality.

Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required, before Becky should arrive and open his prison doors, and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who happened to be there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for some hours, with pretty equal luck on either side.

But the day passed away and no messenger returned⁠—no Becky. Mr. Moss’s tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past five, when such of the gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford to pay for the banquet came and partook of it in the splendid front parlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley’s temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of which the Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whether he would “stand” a bottle of champagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to his ’ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, “looked towards him.”

In the midst of this repast, however, the doorbell was heard⁠—young Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered the summons, and coming back, told the Colonel that the messenger had returned with a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave him. “No ceramony, Colonel, I beg,” said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink paper, and with a light green seal.

Mon pauvre cher petit, (Mrs. Crawley wrote)

I could not sleep one wink for thinking of what had become of my odious old monstre, and only got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a composing draught and left orders with Finette that I should be disturbed on no account. So that my poor old man’s messenger, who had bien mauvaise mine, Finette says, and sentoit le Genievre, remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.

Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was dressed (though I couldn’t drink a drop of chocolate⁠—I assure you I couldn’t without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre à terre to Nathan’s. I saw him⁠—I wept⁠—I cried⁠—I fell at his odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove home with the intention of paying that triste visite chez mon oncle (when every trinket I have should be at your disposal though they would not fetch a hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already), and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who had come to compliment me upon last night’s performances. Paddington came in, too, drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his chef⁠—everybody with foison of compliments and pretty speeches⁠—plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier.

When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me two hundred pounds. He pish’d and psha’d in a fury⁠—told me not to be such a fool as to pawn⁠—and said he would see whether he could lend me the money. At last he went away, promising that he would send it me in the morning: when I will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss from his affectionate

Becky

I am writing in bed. Oh I have such a headache and such a heartache!

When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red and looked so savage that the company at the table d’hôte easily perceived that bad news had reached him. All his suspicions, which he had been trying to banish, returned upon him. She could not even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh and talk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there.⁠ ⁠… He could hardly bear to think of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he ran into his own⁠—opened his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the messenger carry them