Coningsby

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At the end of two hours, exhausted by her rage and soothed by these
visions, Madame Colonna having grown calm and reasonable, sighed and
murmured a complaint, that Lord Monmouth ought to have communicated this
important intelligence in person. Upon this Rigby instantly assured her,
that Lord Monmouth had been for some time waiting to do so, but in
consequence of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his Lordship had
departed for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped that Madame Colonna
and Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a morning drive and
suburban dinner; Rigby, after what he had gone through, finding no
difficulty in accounting for the other guests not being present, and
bringing home Madame Colonna in the evening, at times almost as gay and
good-tempered as usual, and almost oblivious of her disappointment.

When the Marquess met Madame Colonna he embraced her with great
courtliness, and from that time consulted her on every arrangement. He
took a very early occasion of presenting her with a diamond necklace of
great value. The Marquess was fond of making presents to persons to whom
he thought he had not behaved very well, and who yet spared him scenes.

The marriage speedily followed, by special license, at the villa of the
Right Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who gave away the bride. The wedding was very
select, but brilliant as the diamond necklace: a royal Duke and Duchess,
Lady St. Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby presented the bride with a
bouquet of precious stones, and Lord Eskdale with a French fan in a
diamond frame. It was a fine day; Lord Monmouth, calm as if he were
winning the St. Leger; Lucretia, universally recognised as a beauty; all
the guests gay, the Princess Colonna especially.

The travelling carriage is at the door which is to bear away the happy
pair. Madame Colonna embraces Lucretia; the Marquess gives a grand bow:
they are gone. The guests remain awhile. A Prince of the blood will
propose a toast; there is another glass of champagne quaffed, another
ortolan devoured; and then they rise and disperse. Madame Colonna leaves
with Lady St. Julians, whose guest for a while she is to become. And in a
few minutes their host is alone.

Mr. Rigby retired into his library: the repose of the chamber must have
been grateful to his feelings after all this distraction. It was spacious,
well-stored, classically adorned, and opened on a beautiful lawn. Rigby
threw himself into an ample chair, crossed his legs, and resting his head
on his arm, apparently fell into deep contemplation.

He had some cause for reflection, and though we did once venture to affirm
that Rigby never either thought or felt, this perhaps may be the exception
that proves the rule.

He could scarcely refrain from pondering over the strange event which he
had witnessed, and at which he had assisted.

It was an incident that might exercise considerable influence over his
fortunes. His patron married, and married to one who certainly did not
offer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy management as her step-mother!
Here were new influences arising; new characters, new situations, new
contingencies. Was he thinking of all this? He suddenly jumps up, hurries
to a shelf and takes down a volume. It is his interleaved peerage, of
which for twenty years he had been threatening an edition. Turning to the
Marquisate of Monmouth, he took up his pen and thus made the necessary
entry:

'_Married, second time, August 3rd, 1837, The Princess Lucretia Colonna,
daughter of Prince Paul Colonna, born at Rome, February 16th, 1819._'

That was what Mr. Rigby called 'a great fact.' There was not a peerage-
compiler in England who had that date save himself.

Before we close this slight narrative of the domestic incidents that
occurred in the family of his grandfather since Coningsby quitted the
Castle, we must not forget to mention what happened to Villebecque and
Flora. Lord Monmouth took a great liking to the manager. He found him very
clever in many things independently of his profession; he was useful to
Lord Monmouth, and did his work in an agreeable manner. And the future
Lady Monmouth was accustomed to Flora, and found her useful too, and did
not like to lose her. And so the Marquess, turning all the circumstances
in his mind, and being convinced that Villebecque could never succeed to
any extent in England in his profession, and probably nowhere else,
appointed him, to Villebecque's infinite satisfaction, intendant of his
household, with a considerable salary, while Flora still lived with her
kind step-father.

CHAPTER VII.

Another year elapsed; not so fruitful in incidents to Coningsby as the
preceding ones, and yet not unprofitably passed. It had been spent in the
almost unremitting cultivation of his intelligence. He had read deeply and
extensively, digested his acquisitions, and had practised himself in
surveying them, free from those conventional conclusions and those
traditionary inferences that surrounded him. Although he had renounced his
once cherished purpose of trying for University honours, an aim which he
found discordant with the investigations on which his mind was bent, he
had rarely quitted Cambridge. The society of his friends, the great
convenience of public libraries, and the general tone of studious life
around, rendered an University for him a genial residence. There is a
moment in life, when the pride and thirst of knowledge seem to absorb our
being, and so it happened now to Coningsby, who felt each day stronger in
his intellectual resources, and each day more anxious and avid to increase
them. The habits of public discussion fostered by the Debating Society
were also for Coningsby no Inconsiderable tie to the University. This was
the arena in which he felt himself at home. The promise of his Eton days
was here fulfilled. And while his friends listened to his sustained
argument or his impassioned declamation, the prompt reply or the apt
retort, they looked forward with pride through the vista of years to the
time when the hero of the youthful Club should convince or dazzle in the
senate. It is probable then that he would have remained at Cambridge with
slight intervals until he had taken his degree, had not circumstances
occurred which gave altogether a new turn to his thoughts.

When Lord Monmouth had fixed his wedding-day he had written himself to
Coningsby to announce his intended marriage, and to request his grandson's
presence at the ceremony. The letter was more than kind; it was warm and
generous. He assured his grandson that this alliance should make no
difference in the very ample provision which he had long intended for him;
that he should ever esteem Coningsby his nearest relative; and that, while
his death would bring to Coningsby as considerable an independence as an
English gentleman need desire, so in his lifetime Coningsby should ever be
supported as became his birth, breeding, and future prospects. Lord
Monmouth had mentioned to Lucretia, that he was about to invite his
grandson to their wedding, and the lady had received the intimation with
satisfaction. It so happened that a few hours after, Lucretia, who now
entered the private rooms of Lord Monmouth without previously announcing
her arrival, met Villebecque with the letter to Coningsby in his hand.
Lucretia took it away from him, and said it should be posted with her own
letters. It never reached its destination. Our friend learnt the marriage
from the newspapers, which somewhat astounded him; but Coningsby was fond
of his grandfather, and he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of congratulation,
full of feeling and ingenuousness, and which, while it much pleased the
person to whom it was addressed, unintentionally convinced him that
Coningsby had never received his original communication. Lord Monmouth
spoke to Villebecque, who could throw sufficient light upon the subject,
but it was never mentioned to Lady Monmouth. The Marquess was a man who
always found out everything, and enjoyed the secret.

Rather more than a year after the marriage, when Coningsby had completed
his twenty-first year, the year which he had passed so quietly at
Cambridge, he received a letter from his grandfather, informing him that
after a variety of movements Lady Monmouth and himself were established in
Paris for the season, and desiring that he would not fail to come over as
soon as practicable, and pay them as long a visit as the regulations of
the University would permit. So, at the close of the December term,
Coningsby quitted Cambridge for Paris.

Passing through London, he made his first visit to his banker at Charing
Cross, on whom he had periodically drawn since he commenced his college
life. He was in the outer counting-house, making some inquiries about a
letter of credit, when one of the partners came out from an inner room,
and invited him to enter. This firm had been for generations the bankers
of the Coningsby family; and it appeared that there was a sealed box in
their possession, which had belonged to the father of Coningsby, and they
wished to take this opportunity of delivering it to his son. This
communication deeply interested him; and as he was alone in London, at an
hotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, he requested permission at
once to examine it, in order that he might again deposit it with them: so
he was shown into a private room for that purpose. The seal was broken;
the box was full of papers, chiefly correspondence: among them was a
packet described as letters from 'my dear Helen,' the mother of Coningsby.
In the interior of this packet there was a miniature of that mother. He
looked at it; put it down; looked at it again and again. He could not be
mistaken. There was the same blue fillet in the bright hair. It was an
exact copy of that portrait which had so greatly excited his attention
when at Millbank! This was a mysterious and singularly perplexing
incident. It greatly agitated him. He was alone in the room when he made
the discovery. When he had recovered himself, he sealed up the contents of
the box, with the exception of his mother's letters and the miniature,
which he took away with him, and then re-delivered it to his banker for
custody until his return.

Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a splendid hotel in the Faubourg
St. Honore, near the English Embassy. His grandfather looked at him with
marked attention, and received him with evident satisfaction. Indeed, Lord
Monmouth was greatly pleased that Harry had come to Paris; it was the
University of the World, where everybody should graduate. Paris and London
ought to be the great objects of all travellers; the rest was mere
landscape.

It cannot be denied that between Lucretia and Coningsby there existed from
the first a certain antipathy; and though circumstances for a short time
had apparently removed or modified the aversion, the manner of the lady
when Coningsby was ushered into her boudoir, resplendent with all that
Parisian taste and luxury could devise, was characterised by that frigid
politeness which had preceded the days of their more genial acquaintance.
If the manner of Lucretia were the same as before her marriage, a
considerable change might however be observed in her appearance. Her fine
form had become more developed; while her dress, that she once neglected,
was elaborate and gorgeous, and of the last mode. Lucretia was the fashion
of Paris; a great lady, greatly admired. A guest under such a roof,
however, Coningsby was at once launched into the most brilliant circles of
Parisian society, which he found fascinating.

The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly comprehended and
completely practised in the bright metropolis of France. An Englishman
cannot enter a saloon without instantly feeling he is among a race more
social than his compatriots. What, for example, is more consummate than
the manner in which a French lady receives her guests! She unites graceful
repose and unaffected dignity, with the most amiable regard for others.
She sees every one; she speaks to every one; she sees them at the right
moment; she says the right thing; it is utterly impossible to detect any
difference in the position of her guests by the spirit in which she
welcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle of Parisian
society, from the chateau to the cabaret, a sincere homage to intellect;
and this without any maudlin sentiment. None sooner than the Parisians can
draw the line between factitious notoriety and honest fame; or sooner
distinguished between the counterfeit celebrity and the standard
reputation. In England, we too often alternate between a supercilious
neglect of genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In England when a
new character appears in our circles, the first question always is, 'Who
is he?' In France it is, 'What is he?' In England, 'How much a-year?' In
France, 'What has he done?'

CHAPTER VIII.

About a week after Coningsby's arrival in Paris, as he was sauntering on
the soft and sunny Boulevards, soft and sunny though Christmas, he met
Sidonia.

'So you are here?' said Sidonia. 'Turn now with me, for I see you are only
lounging, and tell me when you came, where you are, and what you have done
since we parted. I have been here myself but a few days.'

There was much to tell. And when Coningsby had rapidly related all that
had passed, they talked of Paris. Sidonia had offered him hospitality,
until he learned that Lord Monmouth was in Paris, and that Coningsby was
his guest.

'I am sorry you cannot come to me,' he remarked; 'I would have shown you
everybody and everything. But we shall meet often.'

'I have already seen many remarkable things,' said Coningsby; 'and met
many celebrated persons. Nothing strikes me more in this brilliant city
than the tone of its society, so much higher than our own. What an absence
of petty personalities! How much conversation, and how little gossip! Yet
nowhere is there less pedantry. Here all women are as agreeable as is the
remarkable privilege in London of some half-dozen. Men too, and great men,
develop their minds. A great man in England, on the contrary, is generally
the dullest dog in company. And yet, how piteous to think that so fair a
civilisation should be in such imminent peril!'

'Yes! that is a common opinion: and yet I am somewhat sceptical of its
truth,' replied Sidonia. 'I am inclined to believe that the social system
of England is in infinitely greater danger than that of France. We must
not be misled by the agitated surface of this country. The foundations of
its order are deep and sure. Learn to understand France. France is a
kingdom with a Republic for its capital. It has been always so, for
centuries. From the days of the League to the days of the Sections, to the
days of 1830. It is still France, little changed; and only more national,
for it is less Frank and more Gallic; as England has become less Norman
and more Saxon.'

'And it is your opinion, then, that the present King may maintain
himself?'

'Every movement in this country, however apparently discordant, seems to
tend to that inevitable end. He would not be on the throne if the nature
of things had not demanded his presence. The Kingdom of France required a
Monarch; the Republic of Paris required a Dictator. He comprised in his
person both qualifications; lineage and intellect; blood for the
provinces, brains for the city.'

'What a position! what an individual!' exclaimed Coningsby. 'Tell me,' he
added, eagerly, 'what is he? This Prince of whom one hears in all
countries at all hours; on whose existence we are told the tranquillity,
almost the civilisation, of Europe depends, yet of whom we receive
accounts so conflicting, so contradictory; tell me, you who can tell me,
tell me what he is.'

Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. 'I have a creed of mine own,' he
remarked, 'that the great characters of antiquity are at rare epochs
reproduced for our wonder, or our guidance. Nature, wearied with
mediocrity, pours the warm metal into an heroic mould. When circumstances
at length placed me in the presence of the King of France, I recognised,
ULYSSES!'

'But is there no danger,' resumed Coningsby, after the pause of a few
moments, 'that the Republic of Paris may absorb the Kingdom of France?'

'I suspect the reverse,' replied Sidonia. 'The tendency of advanced
civilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy. Monarchy is indeed a government
which requires a high degree of civilisation for its full development. It
needs the support of free laws and manners, and of a widely-diffused
intelligence. Political compromises are not to be tolerated except at
periods of rude transition. An educated nation recoils from the imperfect
vicariate of what is called a representative government. Your House of
Commons, that has absorbed all other powers in the State, will in all
probability fall more rapidly than it rose. Public opinion has a more
direct, a more comprehensive, a more efficient organ for its utterance,
than a body of men sectionally chosen. The Printing-press is a political
element unknown to classic or feudal times. It absorbs in a great degree
the duties of the Sovereign, the Priest, the Parliament; it controls, it
educates, it discusses. That public opinion, when it acts, would appear in
the form of one who has no class interests. In an enlightened age the
Monarch on the throne, free from the vulgar prejudices and the corrupt
interests of the subject, becomes again divine!'

At this moment they reached that part of the Boulevards which leads into
the Place of the Madeleine, whither Sidonia was bound; and Coningsby was
about to quit his companion, when Sidonia said:

'I am only going a step over to the Rue Tronchet to say a few words to a
friend of mine, M. P----s. I shall not detain you five minutes; and you
should know him, for he has some capital pictures, and a collection of
Limoges ware that is the despair of the dilettanti.'

So saying they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine, and soon entered
the court of the hotel of M. P----s. That gentleman received them in his
gallery. After some general conversation, Coningsby turned towards the
pictures, and left Sidonia with their host. The collection was rare, and
interested Coningsby, though unacquainted with art. He sauntered on from
picture to picture until he reached the end of the gallery, where an open
door invited him into a suite of rooms also full of pictures and objects
of curiosity and art. As he was entering a second chamber, he observed a
lady leaning back in a cushioned chair, and looking earnestly on a
picture. His entrance was unheard and unnoticed, for the lady's back was
to the door; yet Coningsby, advancing in an angular direction, obtained
nearly a complete view of her countenance. It was upraised, gazing on the
picture with an expression of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while the
large sable cloak of the gazer had fallen partly off. The countenance was
more beautiful than the beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of the
gallery to which love, and genius, and devotion had lent their
inspiration, seemed without life and lustre by the radiant expression and
expressive presence which Coningsby now beheld.

The finely-arched brow was a little elevated, the soft dark eyes were
fully opened, the nostril of the delicate nose slightly dilated, the
small, yet rich, full lips just parted; and over the clear, transparent
visage, there played a vivid glance of gratified intelligence.

The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, looked at it earnestly for a
few moments, and then, turning in a direction opposite to Coningsby,
walked away. She was somewhat above the middle stature, and yet could
scarcely be called tall; a quality so rare, that even skilful dancers do
not often possess it, was hers; that elastic gait that is so winning, and
so often denotes the gaiety and quickness of the spirit.

The fair object of his observation had advanced into other chambers, and
as soon as it was becoming, Coningsby followed her. She had joined a lady
and gentleman, who were examining an ancient carving in ivory. The
gentleman was middle-aged and portly; the elder lady tall and elegant, and
with traces of interesting beauty. Coningsby heard her speak; the words
were English, but the accent not of a native.

In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby, apparently engaged in
examining some of that famous Limoges ware of which Sidonia had spoken,
watched with interest and intentness the beautiful being whom he had
followed, and whom he concluded to be the child of her companions. After
some little time, they quitted the apartment on their return to the
gallery; Coningsby remained behind, caring for none of the rare and
fanciful objects that surrounded him, yet compelled, from the fear of
seeming obtrusive, for some minutes to remain. Then he too returned to the
gallery, and just as he had gained its end, he saw the portly gentleman in
the distance shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies apparently expressing
their thanks and gratification to M. P----s, and then all vanishing by the
door through which Coningsby had originally entered.

'What a beautiful countrywoman of yours!' said M. P----s, as Coningsby
approached him.

'Is she my countrywoman? I am glad to hear it; I have been admiring her,'
he replied.

'Yes,' said M. P----s, 'it is Sir Wallinger: one of your deputies; don't
you know him?'

'Sir Wallinger!' said Coningsby, 'no, I have not that honour.' He looked
at Sidonia.

'Sir Joseph Wallinger,' said Sidonia, 'one of the new Whig baronets, and
member for ----. I know him. He married a Spaniard. That is not his
daughter, but his niece; the child of his wife's sister. It is not easy to
find any one more beautiful.'

END OF BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.

The knowledge that Sidonia was in Paris greatly agitated Lady Monmouth.
She received the intimation indeed from Coningsby at dinner with
sufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord Monmouth himself was quite
pleased at the announcement. Sidonia was his especial favourite; he knew
so much, had such an excellent judgment, and was so rich. He had always
something to tell you, was the best man in the world to bet on, and never
wanted anything. A perfect character according to the Monmouth ethics.

In the evening of the day that Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady Monmouth made a
little visit to the charming Duchess de G----t who was 'at home' every
other night in her pretty hotel, with its embroidered white satin
draperies, its fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of famous name,
brave marshals and bright princesses of the olden time, on its walls.
These receptions without form, yet full of elegance, are what English 'at
homes' were before the Continental war, though now, by a curious
perversion of terms, the easy domestic title distinguishes in England a
formally-prepared and elaborately-collected assembly, in which everything
and every person are careful to be as little 'homely' as possible. In
France, on the contrary, 'tis on these occasions, and in this manner, that
society carries on that degree and kind of intercourse which in England we
attempt awkwardly to maintain by the medium of that unpopular species of
visitation styled a morning call; which all complain that they have either
to make or to endure.

Nowhere was this species of reception more happily conducted than at the
Duchess de G----t's. The rooms, though small, decorated with taste,
brightly illumined; a handsome and gracious hostess, the Duke the very
pearl of gentlemen, and sons and daughters worthy of such parents. Every
moment some one came in, and some one went away. In your way from a
dinner to a ball, you stopped to exchange agreeable _on dits_. It seemed
that every woman was pretty, every man a wit. Sure you were to find
yourself surrounded by celebrities, and men were welcomed there, if they
were clever, before they were famous, which showed it was a house that
regarded intellect, and did not seek merely to gratify its vanity by being
surrounded by the distinguished.

Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl, and leaning back on a sofa, Lady
Monmouth was engaged in conversation with the courtly and classic Count
M----e, when, on casually turning her head, she observed entering the
saloon, Sidonia. She just caught his form bowing to the Duchess, and
instantly turned her head and replunged into her conversation with
increased interest. Lady Monmouth was a person who had the power of seeing
all about her, everything and everybody, without appearing to look. She
was conscious that Sidonia was approaching her neighbourhood. Her heart
beat in tumult; she dreaded to catch the eye of that very individual whom
she was so anxious to meet. He was advancing towards the sofa.
Instinctively, Lady Monmouth turned from the Count, and began speaking
earnestly to her other neighbour, a young daughter of the house, innocent
and beautiful, not yet quite fledged, trying her wings in society under
the maternal eye. She was surprised by the extreme interest which her
grand neighbour suddenly took in all her pursuits, her studies, her daily
walks in the Bois de Boulogne. Sidonia, as the Marchioness had
anticipated, had now reached the sofa. But no, it was to the Count, and
not to Lady Monmouth that he was advancing; and they were immediately
engaged in conversation. After some little time, when she had become
accustomed to his voice, and found her own heart throbbing with less
violence, Lucretia turned again, as if by accident, to the Count, and met
the glance of Sidonia. She meant to have received him with haughtiness,
but her self-command deserted her; and slightly rising from the sofa, she
welcomed him with a countenance of extreme pallor and with some
awkwardness.

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