Chapter LXIV: A Vagabond Chapter

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley'sbiography with that lightness and delicacy which theworld demands--the moral world, that has, perhaps, noparticular objection to vice, but an insuperable repugnanceto hearing vice called by its proper name. Thereare things we do and know perfectly well in Vanity Fair,though we never speak of them: as the Ahrimaniansworship the devil, but don't mention him: and a politepublic will no more bear to read an authentic descriptionof vice than a truly refined English or American femalewill permit the word breeches to be pronounced in herchaste hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking theworld before our faces every day, without much shockingus. If you were to blush every time they went by, whatcomplexions you would have! It is only when theirnaughty names are called out that your modesty has anyoccasion to show alarm or sense of outrage, and it hasbeen the wish of the present writer, all through this story,deferentially to submit to the fashion at present prevailing,and only to hint at the existence of wickedness in alight, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's finefeelings may be offended. I defy any one to say thatour Becky, who has certainly some vices, has not beenpresented to the public in a perfectly genteel andinoffensive manner. In describing this Siren, singing andsmiling, coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride,asks his readers all round, has he once forgotten thelaws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tailabove water? No! Those who like may peep down underwaves that are pretty transparent and see it writhing andtwirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongstbones, or curling round corpses; but above the waterline,I ask, has not everything been proper, agreeable,and decorous, and has any the most squeamish immoralistin Vanity Fair a right to cry fie? When, however, the Sirendisappears and dives below, down among the dead men,the water of course grows turbid over her, and it is labourlost to look into it ever so curiously. They look prettyenough when they sit upon a rock, twanging their harpsand combing their hair, and sing, and beckon to you tocome and hold the looking-glass; but when they sinkinto their native element, depend on it, those mermaidsare about no good, and we had best not examine thefiendish marine cannibals, revelling and feasting on theirwretched pickled victims. And so, when Becky is out ofthe way, be sure that she is not particularly wellemployed, and that the less that is said about her doingsis in fact the better.

　　If we were to give a full account of her proceedingsduring a couple of years that followed after the CurzonStreet catastrophe, there might be some reason forpeople to say this book was improper. The actions of veryvain, heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very oftenimproper (as are many of yours, my friend with thegrave face and spotless reputation--but that is merelyby the way); and what are those of a woman withoutfaith--or love--or character? And I am inclined to thinkthat there was a period in Mrs Becky's life whenshe was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair,and absolutely neglected her person and did not evencare for her reputation.

　　This abattement and degradation did not take placeall at once; it was brought about by degrees, after hercalamity, and after many struggles to keep up--as aman who goes overboard hangs on to a spar whilst anyhope is left, and then flings it away and goes down, whenhe finds that struggling is in vain.

　　She lingered about London whilst her husband wasmaking preparations for his departure to his seat ofgovernment, and it is believed made more than oneattempt to see her brother-in-law, Sir Pitt Crawley, and towork upon his feelings, which she had almostenlisted in her favour. As Sir Pitt and Mr. Wenham werewalking down to the House of Commons, the latter spiedMrs. Rawdon in a black veil, and lurking near the palaceof the legislature. She sneaked away when her eyes metthose of Wenham, and indeed never succeeded in herdesigns upon the Baronet.

　　Probably Lady Jane interposed. I have heard that shequite astonished her husband by the spirit which sheexhibited in this quarrel, and her determination to disownMrs. Becky. Of her own movement, she invited Rawdonto come and stop in Gaunt Street until his departure forCoventry Island, knowing that with him for a guard Mrs.Becky would not try to force her door; and she lookedcuriously at the superscriptions of all the letters whicharrived for Sir Pitt, lest he and his sister-in-law shouldbe corresponding. Not but that Rebecca could havewritten had she a mind, but she did not try to see or to writeto Pitt at his own house, and after one or two attemptsconsented to his demand that the correspondenceregarding her conjugal differences should be carried on bylawyers only.

　　The fact was that Pitt's mind had been poisoned againsther. A short time after Lord Steyne's accident Wenhamhad been with the Baronet and given him such a biographyof Mrs. Becky as had astonished the member forQueen's Crawley. He knew everything regarding her:who her father was; in what year her mother danced atthe opera; what had been her previous history; and whather conduct during her married life--as I have no doubtthat the greater part of the story was false anddictated by interested malevolence, it shall not be repeatedhere. But Becky was left with a sad sad reputation in theesteem of a country gentleman and relative who hadbeen once rather partial to her.

　　The revenues of the Governor of Coventry Island arenot large. A part of them were set aside by his Excellencyfor the payment of certain outstanding debts andliabilities, the charges incident on his high situationrequired considerable expense; finally, it was found thathe could not spare to his wife more than three hundredpounds a year, which he proposed to pay to her onan undertaking that she would never trouble him.Otherwise, scandal, separation, Doctors' Commons wouldensue. But it was Mr. Wenham's business, Lord Steyne'sbusiness, Rawdon's, everybody's--to get her out of thecountry, and hush up a most disagreeable affair.

　　She was probably so much occupied in arranging theseaffairs of business with her husband's lawyers that sheforgot to take any step whatever about her son, the littleRawdon, and did not even once propose to go and seehim. That young gentleman was consigned to the entireguardianship of his aunt and uncle, the former of whomhad always possessed a great share of the child'saffection. His mamma wrote him a neat letter from Boulogne,when she quitted England, in which she requested him tomind his book, and said she was going to take aContinental tour, during which she would have the pleasureof writing to him again. But she never did for a yearafterwards, and not, indeed, until Sir Pitt's only boy,always sickly, died of hooping-cough and measles--thenRawdon's mamma wrote the most affectionate compositionto her darling son, who was made heir of Queen'sCrawley by this accident, and drawn more closely thanever to the kind lady, whose tender heart had alreadyadopted him. Rawdon Crawley, then grown a tall, finelad, blushed when he got the letter. "Oh, Aunt Jane, youare my mother!" he said; "and not--and not that one."But he wrote back a kind and respectful letter to Mrs.Rebecca, then living at a boarding-house at Florence.But we are advancing matters.

　　Our darling Becky's first flight was not very far. Sheperched upon the French coast at Boulogne, that refugeof so much exiled English innocence, and there lived inrather a genteel, widowed manner, with a femme dechambre and a couple of rooms, at an hotel. She dinedat the table d'hote, where people thought her very pleasant,and where she entertained her neighbours by storiesof her brother, Sir Pitt, and her great London acquaintance,talking that easy, fashionable slip-slop which hasso much effect upon certain folks of small breeding. Shepassed with many of them for a person of importance;she gave little tea-parties in her private room and sharedin the innocent amusements of the place in sea-bathing,and in jaunts in open carriages, in strolls on the sands,and in visits to the play. Mrs. Burjoice, the printer'slady, who was boarding with her family at the hotel forthe summer, and to whom her Burjoice came of aSaturday and Sunday, voted her charming, until that littlerogue of a Burjoice began to pay her too muchattention. But there was nothing in the story, only thatBecky was always affable, easy, and good-natured--andwith men especially.

　　Numbers of people were going abroad as usual at theend of the season, and Becky had plenty of opportunitiesof finding out by the behaviour of her acquaintances ofthe great London world the opinion of "society" asregarded her conduct. One day it was Lady Partlet and herdaughters whom Becky confronted as she was walkingmodestly on Boulogne pier, the cliffs of Albion shiningin the distance across the deep blue sea. Lady Partletmarshalled all her daughters round her with a sweep ofher parasol and retreated from the pier, darting savageglances at poor little Becky who stood alone there.

　　On another day the packet came in. It had beenblowing fresh, and it always suited Becky's humour tosee the droll woe-begone faces of the people as theyemerged from the boat. Lady Slingstone happened to beon board this day. Her ladyship had been exceedingly illin her carriage, and was greatly exhausted and scarcelyfit to walk up the plank from the ship to the pier. Butall her energies rallied the instant she saw Becky smilingroguishly under a pink bonnet, and giving her aglance of scorn such as would have shrivelled up mostwomen, she walked into the Custom House quiteunsupported. Becky only laughed: but I don't think she likedit. She felt she was alone, quite alone, and the far-offshining cliffs of England were impassable to her.

　　The behaviour of the men had undergone too I don'tknow what change. Grinstone showed his teeth andlaughed in her face with a familiarity that was not pleasant.Little Bob Suckling, who was cap in hand to herthree months before, and would walk a mile in the rainto see for her carriage in the line at Gaunt House, wastalking to Fitzoof of the Guards (Lord Heehaw's son)one day upon the jetty, as Becky took her walk there.Little Bobby nodded to her over his shoulder, withoutmoving his hat, and continued his conversation with theheir of Heehaw. Tom Raikes tried to walk into hersitting-room at the inn with a cigar in his mouth, but sheclosed the door upon him, and would have locked it,only that his fingers were inside. She began to feel thatshe was very lonely indeed. "If he'd been here," she said,"those cowards would never have dared to insult me."She thought about "him" with great sadness andperhaps longing--about his honest, stupid, constant kindnessand fidelity; his never-ceasing obedience; his goodhumour; his bravery and courage. Very likely she cried,for she was particularly lively, and had put on a littleextra rouge, when she came down to dinner.

　　She rouged regularly now; and--and her maid gotCognac for her besides that which was charged in thehotel bill.

　　Perhaps the insults of the men were not, however, sointolerable to her as the sympathy of certain women.Mrs. Crackenbury and Mrs. Washington White passedthrough Boulogne on their way to Switzerland. ~The partywere protected by Colonel Horner, young Beaumoris, andof course old Crackenbury, and Mrs. White's little girl.)They did not avoid her. They giggled, cackled, tattled,condoled, consoled, and patronized her until they droveher almost wild with rage. To be patronized by them!she thought, as they went away simpering after kissingher. And she heard Beaumoris's laugh ringing on thestair and knew quite well how to interpret his hilarity.

　　It was after this visit that Becky, who had paid herweekly bills, Becky who had made herself agreeable toeverybody in the house, who smiled at the landlady,called the waiters "monsieur," and paid the chambermaidsin politeness and apologies, what far more thancompensated for a little niggardliness in point of money(of which Becky never was free), that Becky, we say,received a notice to quit from the landlord, who hadbeen told by some one that she was quite an unfitperson to have at his hotel, where English ladies would notsit down with her. And she was forced to fly into lodgingsof which the dulness and solitude were most wearisometo her.

　　Still she held up, in spite of these rebuffs, and tried tomake a character for herself and conquer scandal. Shewent to church very regularly and sang louder thananybody there. She took up the cause of the widows of theshipwrecked fishermen, and gave work and drawings forthe Quashyboo Mission; she subscribed to the Assemblyand wouldn't waltz. In a word, she did everything thatwas respectable, and that is why we dwell upon thispart of her career with more fondness than uponsubsequent parts of her history, which are not so pleasant.She saw people avoiding her, and still laboriously smiledupon them; you never could suppose from hercountenance what pangs of humiliation she might beenduring inwardly.

　　Her history was after all a mystery. Parties weredivided about her. Some people who took the trouble tobusy themselves in the matter said that she was thecriminal, whilst others vowed that she was as innocentas a lamb and that her odious husband was in fault.She won over a good many by bursting into tearsabout her boy and exhibiting the most frantic griefwhen his name was mentioned, or she saw anybody likehim. She gained good Mrs. Alderney's heart in that way,who was rather the Queen of British Boulogne and gavethe most dinners and balls of all the residents there, byweeping when Master Alderney came from Dr. Swishtail'sacademy to pass his holidays with his mother. "He andher Rawdon were of the same age, and so like," Beckysaid in a voice choking with agony; whereas there wasfive years' difference between the boys' ages, and nomore likeness between them than between my respectedreader and his humble servant. Wenham, when he wasgoing abroad, on his way to Kissingen to join LordSteyne, enlightened Mrs. Alderney on this point and toldher how he was much more able to describe littleRawdon than his mamma, who notoriously hated him andnever saw him; how he was thirteen years old, whilelittle Alderney was but nine, fair, while the other darlingwas dark--in a word, caused the lady in question torepent of her good humour.

　　Whenever Becky made a little circle for herself withincredible toils and labour, somebody came and swept itdown rudely, and she had all her work to begin overagain. It was very hard; very hard; lonely anddisheartening.

　　There was Mrs. Newbright, who took her up for sometime, attracted by the sweetness of her singing at churchand by her proper views upon serious subjects, concerningwhich in former days, at Queen's Crawley, Mrs.Becky had had a good deal of instruction. Well, she notonly took tracts, but she read them. She worked flannelpetticoats for the Quashyboos--cotton night-caps for theCocoanut Indians--painted handscreens for theconversion of the Pope and the Jews--sat under Mr. Rowlson Wednesdays, Mr. Huggleton on Thursdays, attendedtwo Sunday services at church, besides Mr. Bawler, theDarbyite, in the evening, and all in vain. Mrs. Newbrighthad occasion to correspond with the Countess of Southdownabout the Warmingpan Fund for the FijiIslanders (for the management of which admirablecharity both these ladies formed part of a female committee),and having mentioned her "sweet friend," Mrs. RawdonCrawley, the Dowager Countess wrote back such aletter regarding Becky, with such particulars, hints, facts,falsehoods, and general comminations, that intimacybetween Mrs. Newbright and Mrs. Crawley ceased forthwith,and all the serious world of Tours, where this misfortunetook place, immediately parted company with thereprobate. Those who know the English Colonies abroadknow that we carry with us us our pride, pills, prejudices,Harvey-sauces, cayenne-peppers, and other Lares,making a little Britain wherever we settle down.

　　From one colony to another Becky fled uneasily. FromBoulogne to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Caen, from Caento Tours--trying with all her might to be respectable,and alas! always found out some day or other andpecked out of the cage by the real daws.

　　Mrs. Hook Eagles took her up at one of these places--a woman without a blemish in her character and a housein Portman Square. She was staying at the hotel at Dieppe,whither Becky fled, and they made each other's acquaintancefirst at sea, where they were swimming together,and subsequently at the table d'hote of the hotel. MrsEagles had heard--who indeed had not?--some of thescandal of the Steyne affair; but after a conversationwith Becky, she pronounced that Mrs. Crawley was anangel, her husband a ruffian, Lord Steyne anunprincipled wretch, as everybody knew, and the whole caseagainst Mrs. Crawley an infamous and wicked conspiracyof that rascal Wenham. "If you were a man ofany spirit, Mr. Eagles, you would box the wretch's earsthe next time you see him at the Club," she said to herhusband. But Eagles was only a quiet old gentleman,husband to Mrs. Eagles, with a taste for geology, and not tallenough to reach anybody's ears.

　　The Eagles then patronized Mrs. Rawdon, took her tolive with her at her own house at Paris, quarrelled withthe ambassador's wife because she would not receive herprotegee, and did all that lay in woman's power to keepBecky straight in the paths of virtue and good repute.

　　Becky was very respectable and orderly at first, butthe life of humdrum virtue grew utterly tedious to herbefore long. It was the same routine every day, the samedulness and comfort, the same drive over the samestupid Bois de Boulogne, the same company of anevening, the same Blair's Sermon of a Sunday night--thesame opera always being acted over and over again;Becky was dying of weariness, when, luckily for her,young Mr. Eagles came from Cambridge, and his mother,seeing the impression which her little friend made uponhim, straightway gave Becky warning.

　　Then she tried keeping house with a female friend;then the double menage began to quarrel and get intodebt. Then she determined upon a boarding-house existenceand lived for some time at that famous mansionkept by Madame de Saint Amour, in the Rue Royale, atParis, where she began exercising her graces andfascinations upon the shabby dandies and fly-blown beautieswho frequented her landlady's salons. Becky lovedsociety and, indeed, could no more exist without it than anopium-eater without his dram, and she was happyenough at the period of her boarding-house life. "Thewomen here are as amusing as those in May Fair," shetold an old London friend who met her, "only, theirdresses are not quite so fresh. The men wear cleanedgloves, and are sad rogues, certainly, but they are notworse than Jack This and Tom That. The mistress of thehouse is a little vulgar, but I don't think she is so vulgaras Lady --" and here she named the name of agreat leader of fashion that I would die rather thanreveal. In fact, when you saw Madame de Saint Amour'srooms lighted up of a night, men with plaques andcordons at the ecarte tables, and the women at a littledistance, you might fancy yourself for a while in goodsociety, and that Madame was a real Countess. Manypeople did so fancy, and Becky was for a while one of themost dashing ladies of the Countess's salons.

　　But it is probable that her old creditors of 1815 foundher out and caused her to leave Paris, for the poor littlewoman was forced to fly from the city rather suddenly,and went thence to Brussels.

　　How well she remembered the place! She grinned asshe looked up at the little entresol which she hadoccupied, and thought of the Bareacres family, bawlingfor horses and flight, as their carriage stood in theporte-cochere of the hotel. She went to Waterloo and toLaeken, where George Osborne's monument muchstruck her. She made a little sketch of it. "That poorCupid!" she said; "how dreadfully he was in love withme, and what a fool he was! I wonder whether littleEmmy is alive. It was a good little creature; and thatfat brother of hers. I have his funny fat picture stillamong my papers. They were kind simple people."

　　At Brussels Becky arrived, recommended by Madamede Saint Amour to her friend, Madame la Comtesse deBorodino, widow of Napoleon's General, the famousCount de Borodino, who was left with no resource by thedeceased hero but that of a table d'hote and an ecartetable. Second-rate dandies and roues, widow-ladies whoalways have a lawsuit, and very simple English folks, whofancy they see "Continental society" at these houses, putdown their money, or ate their meals, at Madame deBorodino's tables. The gallant young fellows treated thecompany round to champagne at the table d'hote, rodeout with the women, or hired horses on country excursions,clubbed money to take boxes at the play or theopera, betted over the fair shoulders of the ladies at theecarte tables, and wrote home to their parents inDevonshire about their felicitous introduction to foreignsociety.

　　Here, as at Paris, Becky was a boarding-house queen,and ruled in select pensions. She never refused thechampagne, or the bouquets, or the drives into the country,or the private boxes; but what she preferred was theecarte at night,--and she played audaciously. First sheplayed only for a little, then for five-franc pieces, then forNapoleons, then for notes: then she would not be ableto pay her month's pension: then she borrowed fromthe young gentlemen: then she got into cash again andbullied Madame de Borodino, whom she had coaxed andwheedled before: then she was playing for ten sous at atime, and in a dire state of poverty: then her quarter'sallowance would come in, and she would pay off Madamede Borodino's score and would once more take thecards against Monsieur de Rossignol, or the Chevalier deRaff.

　　When Becky left Brussels, the sad truth is that sheowed three months' pension to Madame de Borodino, ofwhich fact, and of the gambling, and of the drinking, andof the going down on her knees to the Reverend Mr.Muff, Ministre Anglican, and borrowing money of him,and of her coaxing and flirting with Milor Noodle, son ofSir Noodle, pupil of the Rev. Mr. Muff, whom she usedto take into her private room, and of whom she wonlarge sums at ecarte--of which fact, I say, and of ahundred of her other knaveries, the Countess deBorodino informs every English person who stops at herestablishment, and announces that Madame Rawdon wasno better than a vipere.

　　So our little wanderer went about setting up her tentin various cities of Europe, as restless as Ulysses orBampfylde Moore Carew. Her taste for disrespectabilitygrew more and more remarkable. She became a perfectBohemian ere long, herding with people whom it wouldmake your hair stand on end to meet.

　　There is no town of any mark in Europe but it has itslittle colony of English raffs--men whose names Mr.Hemp the officer reads out periodically at the Sheriffs'Court--young gentlemen of very good family often, onlythat the latter disowns them; frequenters of billiard-rooms and estaminets, patrons of foreign races andgaming-tables. They people the debtors' prisons--theydrink and swagger--they fight and brawl--they run awaywithout paying--they have duels with French and Germanofficers--they cheat Mr. Spooney at ecarte--they getthe money and drive off to Baden in magnificent britzkas--they try their infallible martingale and lurk about thetables with empty pockets, shabby bullies, pennilessbucks, until they can swindle a Jew banker with a shambill of exchange, or find another Mr. Spooney to rob.The alternations of splendour and misery which thesepeople undergo are very queer to view. Their life mustbe one of great excitement. Becky--must it be owned?--took to this life, and took to it not unkindly. She wentabout from town to town among these Bohemians. Thelucky Mrs. Rawdon was known at every play-table inGermany. She and Madame de Cruchecassee kept house atFlorence together. It is said she was ordered out ofMunich, and my friend Mr. Frederick Pigeon avers that itwas at her house at Lausanne that he was hocussed atsupper and lost eight hundred pounds to Major Loderand the Honourable Mr. Deuceace. We are bound, yousee, to give some account of Becky's biography, but ofthis part, the less, perhaps, that is said the better.

　　They say that, when Mrs. Crawley was particularlydown on her luck, she gave concerts and lessons in musichere and there. There was a Madame de Raudon, whocertainly had a matinee musicale at Wildbad,accompanied by Herr Spoff, premier pianist to the Hospodar ofWallachia, and my little friend Mr. Eaves, who kneweverybody and had travelled everywhere, always used todeclare that he was at Strasburg in the year 1830, when acertain Madame Rebecque made her appearance in theopera of the Dame Blanche, giving occasion to a furiousrow in the theatre there. She was hissed off the stage bythe audience, partly from her own incompetency, butchiefly from the ill-advised sympathy of some persons inthe parquet, (where the officers of the garrison had theiradmissions); and Eaves was certain that the unfortunatedebutante in question was no other than Mrs.Rawdon Crawley.

　　She was, in fact, no better than a vagabond upon thisearth. When she got her money she gambled; when shehad gambled it she was put to shifts to live; who knowshow or by what means she succeeded? It is said that shewas once seen at St. Petersburg, but was summarilydismissed from that capital by the police, so that therecannot be any possibility of truth in the report that she wasa Russian spy at Toplitz and Vienna afterwards. I haveeven been informed that at Paris she discovered arelation of her own, no less a person than her maternalgrandmother, who was not by any means aMontmorenci, but a hideous old box-opener at a theatre onthe Boulevards. The meeting between them, of whichother persons, as it is hinted elsewhere, seem to havebeen acquainted, must have been a very affectinginterview. The present historian can give no certain detailsregarding the event.

　　It happened at Rome once that Mrs. de Rawdon's half-year's salary had just been paid into the principalbanker's there, and, as everybody who had a balance ofabove five hundred scudi was invited to the balls whichthis prince of merchants gave during the winter, Beckyhad the honour of a card, and appeared at one of thePrince and Princess Polonia's splendid evening entertainments.The Princess was of the family of Pompili, lineallydescended from the second king of Rome, and Egeriaof the house of Olympus, while the Prince's grandfather,Alessandro Polonia, sold wash-balls, essences,tobacco, and pocket-handkerchiefs, ran errands forgentlemen, and lent money in a small way. All the greatcompany in Rome thronged to his saloons--Princes,Dukes, Ambassadors, artists, fiddlers, monsignori, youngbears with their leaders--every rank and condition ofman. His halls blazed with light and magnificence; wereresplendent with gilt frames (containing pictures), anddubious antiques; and the enormous gilt crown and armsof the princely owner, a gold mushroom on a crimsonfield (the colour of the pocket-handkerchiefs which hesold), and the silver fountain of the Pompili family shoneall over the roof, doors, and panels of the house, andover the grand velvet baldaquins prepared to receivePopes and Emperors.

　　So Becky, who had arrived in the diligence fromFlorence, and was lodged at an inn in a very modest way,got a card for Prince Polonia's entertainment, and hermaid dressed her with unusual care, and she went to thisfine ball leaning on the arm of Major Loder, with whomshe happened to be travelling at the time--(the sameman who shot Prince Ravoli at Naples the next year, andwas caned by Sir John Buckskin for carrying four kingsin his hat besides those which he used in playing atecarte )--and this pair went into the rooms together,and Becky saw a number of old faces which sheremembered in happier days, when she was not innocent,but not found out. Major Loder knew a great numberof foreigners, keen-looking whiskered men with dirtystriped ribbons in their buttonholes, and a very smalldisplay of linen; but his own countrymen, it might beremarked, eschewed the Major. Becky, too, knew someladies here and there--French widows, dubious Italiancountesses, whose husbands had treated them ill--faugh--what shall we say, we who have moved amongsome of the finest company of Vanity Fair, of this refuseand sediment of rascals? If we play, let it be with cleancards, and not with this dirty pack. But every man whohas formed one of the innumerable army of travellershas seen these marauding irregulars hanging on, likeNym and Pistol, to the main force, wearing the king'scolours and boasting of his commission, but pillagingfor themselves, and occasionally gibbeted by the roadside.

　　Well, she was hanging on the arm of Major Loder,and they went through the rooms together, and drank agreat quantity of champagne at the buffet, where thepeople, and especially the Major's irregular corps,struggled furiously for refreshments, of which when thepair had had enough, they pushed on until they reachedthe Duchess's own pink velvet saloon, at the end of thesuite of apartments (where the statue of the Venus is,and the great Venice looking-glasses, framed in silver),and where the princely family were entertaining theirmost distinguished guests at a round table at supper. Itwas just such a little select banquet as that of whichBecky recollected that she had partaken at Lord Steyne's--and there he sat at Polonia's table, and she saw him.The scar cut by the diamond on his white, bald,shining forehead made a burning red mark; his red whiskerswere dyed of a purple hue, which made his pale facelook still paler. He wore his collar and orders, his blueribbon and garter. He was a greater Prince than anythere, though there was a reigning Duke and a RoyalHighness, with their princesses, and near his Lordshipwas seated the beautiful Countess of Belladonna, neede Glandier, whose husband (the Count Paolo dellaBelladonna), so well known for his brilliant entomologicalcollections, had been long absent on a mission to theEmperor of Morocco.

　　When Becky beheld that familiar and illustrious face,how vulgar all of a sudden did Major Loder appear toher, and how that odious Captain Rook did smell oftobacco! In one instant she reassumed her fine-ladyshipand tried to look and feel as if she were in May Faironce more. "That woman looks stupid and ill-humoured,"she thought; "I am sure she can't amuse him. No, he mustbe bored by her--he never was by me." A hundred suchtouching hopes, fears, and memories palpitated in herlittle heart, as she looked with her brightest eyes (therouge which she wore up to her eyelids made themtwinkle) towards the great nobleman. Of a Star and Garternight Lord Steyne used also to put on his grandestmanner and to look and speak like a great prince, as he was.Becky admired him smiling sumptuously, easy, lofty, andstately. Ah, bon Dieu, what a pleasant companion hewas, what a brilliant wit, what a rich fund of talk, whata grand manner!--and she had exchanged this for MajorLoder, reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water, andCaptain Rook with his horsejockey jokes and prize-ringslang, and their like. "I wonder whether he will knowme," she thought. Lord Steyne was talking and laughingwith a great and illustrious lady at his side, when helooked up and saw Becky.

　　She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and sheput on the very best smile she could muster, and droppedhim a little, timid, imploring curtsey. He stared aghastat her for a minute, as Macbeth might on beholdingBanquo's sudden appearance at his ball-supper, and remainedlooking at her with open mouth, when that horrid MajorLoder pulled her away.

　　"Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.," was thatgentleman's remark: "seeing these nobs grubbing awayhas made me peckish too. Let's go and try the oldgovernor's champagne." Becky thought the Major had hada great deal too much already.

　　The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill--the Hyde Park of the Roman idlers--possibly in hopes tohave another sight of Lord Steyne. But she met anotheracquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his lordship'sconfidential man, who came up nodding to her ratherfamiliarly and putting a finger to his hat. "I knew that Madamewas here," he said; "I followed her from her hotel. I havesome advice to give Madame."

　　"From the Marquis of Steyne?" Becky asked, resumingas much of her dignity as she could muster, and nota little agitated by hope and expectation.

　　"No," said the valet; "it is from me. Rome is veryunwholesome."

　　"Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche--not till afterEaster."

　　"I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is alwaysmalaria for some people. That cursed marsh wind killsmany at all seasons. Look, Madame Crawley, you werealways bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, paroled'honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you--or you will be ill and die."

　　Becky laughed, though in rage and fury. "What!assassinate poor little me?" she said. "How romantic! Doesmy lord carry bravos for couriers, and stilettos in thefourgons? Bah! I will stay, if but to plague him. I havethose who will defend me whilst I am here."

　　It was Monsieur Fiche's turn to laugh now. "Defendyou," he said, "and who? The Major, the Captain, anyone of those gambling men whom Madame sees wouldtake her life for a hundred louis. We know things aboutMajor Loder (he is no more a Major than I am my Lordthe Marquis) which would send him to the galleys orworse. We know everything and have friends everywhere.We know whom you saw at Paris, and what relations youfound there. Yes, Madame may stare, but we do. Howwas it that no minister on the Continent would receiveMadame? She has offended somebody: who neverforgives--whose rage redoubled when he saw you. He waslike a madman last night when he came home. Madamede Belladonna made him a scene about you and fired offin one of her furies."

　　"Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?" Beckysaid, relieved a little, for the information she had just gothad scared her.

　　"No--she does not matter--she is always jealous. Itell you it was Monseigneur. You did wrong to showyourself to him. And if you stay here you will repent it. Markmy words. Go. Here is my lord's carriage"--and seizingBecky's arm, he rushed down an alley of the garden asLord Steyne's barouche, blazing with heraldic devices,came whirling along the avenue, borne by the almostpriceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonnalolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a KingCharles in her lap, a white parasol swaying over herhead, and old Steyne stretched at her side with a lividface and ghastly eyes. Hate, or anger, or desire causedthem to brighten now and then still, but ordinarily, theygave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a worldof which almost all the pleasure and all the best beautyhad palled upon the worn-out wicked old man.

　　"Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of thatnight, never," Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawleyas the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out at itfrom behind the shrubs that hid her. "That was aconsolation at any rate," Becky thought.

　　Whether my lord really had murderous intentionstowards Mrs. Becky as Monsieur Fiche said (sinceMonseigneur's death he has returned to his native country,where he lives much respected, and has purchased fromhis Prince the title of Baron Ficci), and the factotumobjected to have to do with assassination; or whether hesimply had a commission to frighten Mrs. Crawley out ofa city where his Lordship proposed to pass the winter,and the sight of her would be eminently disagreeable tothe great nobleman, is a point which has never beenascertained: but the threat had its effect upon the littlewoman, and she sought no more to intrude herself uponthe presence of her old patron.

　　Everybody knows the melancholy end of thatnobleman, which befell at Naples two months after the FrenchRevolution of 1830; when the Most Honourable GeorgeGustavus, Marquis of Steyne, Earl of Gaunt and of GauntCastle, in the Peerage of Ireland, Viscount Hellborough,Baron Pitchley and Grillsby, a Knight of the Most NobleOrder of the Garter, of the Golden Fleece of Spain, ofthe Russian Order of Saint Nicholas of the First Class, ofthe Turkish Order of the Crescent, First Lord of thePowder Closet and Groom of the Back Stairs, Colonel ofthe Gaunt or Regent's Own Regiment of Militia, a Trusteeof the British Museum, an Elder Brother of the TrinityHouse, a Governor of the White Friars, and D.C.L.--died after a series of fits brought on, as the papers said,by the shock occasioned to his lordship's sensibilities bythe downfall of the ancient French monarchy.

　　An eloquent catalogue appeared in a weekly print,describing his virtues, his magnificence, his talents, andhis good actions. His sensibility, his attachment to theillustrious House of Bourbon, with which he claimed analliance, were such that he could not survive themisfortunes of his august kinsmen. His body was buried atNaples, and his heart--that heart which always beat withevery generous and noble emotion was brought back toCastle Gaunt in a silver urn. "In him," Mr. Wagg said,"the poor and the Fine Arts have lost a beneficent patron,society one of its most brilliant ornaments, and Englandone of her loftiest patriots and statesmen," &c., &c.

　　His will was a good deal disputed, and an attempt wasmade to force from Madame de Belladonna thecelebrated jewel called the "Jew's-eye" diamond, which hislordship always wore on his forefinger, and which it wassaid that she removed from it after his lamented demise.But his confidential friend and attendant, Monsieur Ficheproved that the ring had been presented to the saidMadame de Belladonna two days before the Marquis'sdeath, as were the bank-notes, jewels, Neapolitan andFrench bonds, &c., found in his lordship's secretaire andclaimed by his heirs from that injured woman.