The Newcomes

three minutes together in Madame de Florac's salon, she sees that Clive

  is in love with Ethel Newcome. She takes the boy's hand and says, "J'ai

  votre secret, mon ami;" and her eyes regard him for a moment as fondly,

  as tenderly, as ever they looked at his father. Oh, what tears have they

  shed, gentle eyes! Oh, what faith has it kept, tender heart! If love

  lives through all life; and survives through all sorrow; and remains

  steadfast with us through all changes; and in all darkness of spirit

  burns brightly; and, if we die, deplores us for ever, and loves still

  equally; and exists with the very last gasp and throb of the faithful

  bosom--whence it passes with the pure soul, beyond death; surely it shall

  be immortal? Though we who remain are separated from it, is it not ours

  in Heaven? If we love still those we lose, can we altogether lose those

  we love? Forty years have passed away. Youth and dearest memories revisit

  her, and Hope almost wakes up again out of its grave, as the constant

  lady holds the young man's hand, and looks at the son of Thomas Newcome.

  CHAPTER XLVI

  The Hotel de Florac

  Since the death of the Duc d'Ivry, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots,

  the Comte de Florac, who is now the legitimate owner of the ducal title,

  does not choose to bear it, but continues to be known in the world by his

  old name. The old Count's world is very small. His doctor, and his

  director, who comes daily to play his game of piquet; his daughter's

  children, who amuse him by their laughter, and play round his chair in

  the garden of his hotel; his faithful wife, and one or two friends as old

  as himself, form his society. His son the Abbe is with them but seldom.

  The austerity of his manners frightens his old father, who can little

  comprehend the religionism of the new school. After going to hear his son

  preach through Lent at Notre-Dame, where the Abbe de Florac gathered a

  great congregation, the old Count came away quite puzzled at his son's

  declamations. "I do not understand your new priests," he says; "I knew my

  son had become a Cordelier; I went to hear him, and found he was a

  Jacobin. Let me make my salut in quiet, my good Leonore. My director

  answers for me, and plays a game at trictrac into the bargain with me."

  Our history has but little to do with this venerable nobleman. He has his

  chamber looking out into the garden of his hotel; his faithful old

  domestic to wait upon him; his House of Peers to attend when he is well

  enough, his few acquaintances to help him to pass the evening. The rest

  of the hotel he gives up to his son, the Vicomte de Florac, and Madame la

  Princesse de Moncontour, his daughter-in-law.

  When Florac has told his friends of the Club why it is he has assumed a

  new title--as a means of reconciliation (a reconciliation all

  philosophical, my friends) with his wife nee Higg of Manchester, who

  adores titles like all Anglaises, and has recently made a great

  succession, everybody allows that the measure was dictated by prudence,

  and there is no more laughter at his change of name. The Princess takes

  the first floor of the hotel at the price paid for it by the American

  General, who has returned to his original pigs at Cincinnati. Had not

  Cincinnatus himself pigs on his farm, and was he not a general and member

  of Congress too? The honest Princess has a bedchamber, which, to her

  terror, she is obliged to open of reception-evenings, when gentlemen and

  ladies play cards there. It is fitted up in the style of Louis XVI. In

  her bed is an immense looking-glass, surmounted by stucco cupids: it is

  an alcove which some powdered Venus, before the Revolution, might have

  reposed in. Opposite that looking-glass, between the tall windows, at

  some forty feet distance, is another huge mirror, so that when the poor

  Princess is in bed, in her prim old curl-papers, she sees a vista of

  elderly princesses twinkling away into the dark perspective; and is so

  frightened that she and Betsy, her Lancashire maid, pin up the jonquil

  silk curtains over the bed-mirror after the first night; though the

  Princess never can get it out of her head that her image is still there,

  behind the jonquil hangings, turning as she turns, waking as she wakes,

  etc. The chamber is so vast and lonely that she has a bed made for Betsy

  in the room. It is, of course, whisked away into a closet on

  reception-evenings. A boudoir, rose-tendre, with more cupids and nymphs

  by Boucher, sporting over door-panels--nymphs who may well shock old

  Betsy and her old mistress--is the Pricess's morning-room. "Ah, mum, what

  would Mr. Humper at Manchester, Mr. Jowls of Newcome" (the minister whom,

  in early days, Miss Higg used to sit under) "say if they was browt into

  this room?" But there is no question of Jowls and Mr. Humper, excellent

  dissenting divines, who preached to Miss Higg, being brought into the

  Princesse de Moncontour's boudoir.

  That paragraph, respecting a conversion in high life, which F. B. in his

  enthusiasm inserted in the Pall Mall Gazette, caused no small excitement

  in the Florac family. The Florac family read the Pall Mall Gazette,

  knowing that Clive's friends were engaged in that periodical. When Madame

  de Florac, who did not often read newspapers, happened to cast her eye

  upon that poetic paragraph of F. B.'s, you may fancy, with what a panic

  it filled the good and pious lady. Her son become a Protestant! After all

  the grief and trouble his wildness had occasioned to her, Paul forsake

  his religion! But that her husband was so ill and aged as not to be able

  to bear her absence, she would have hastened to London to rescue her son

  out of that perdition. She sent for her younger son, who undertook the

  embassy; and the Prince and Princesse de Moncontour, in their hotel at

  London, were one day surprised by the visit of the Abbe de Florac.

  As Paul was quite innocent of any intention of abandoning his religion,

  the mother's kind heart was very speedily set at rest by her envoy. Far

  from Paul's conversion to Protestantism, the Abbe wrote home the most

  encouraging accounts of his sister-in-law's precious dispositions. He had

  communications with Madame de Moncontour's Anglican director, a man of

  not powerful mind, wrote M. l'Abbe, though of considerable repute for

  eloquence in his Sect. The good dispositions of his sister-in-law were

  improved by the French clergyman, who could be most captivating and

  agreeable when a work of conversion was in hand. The visit reconciled the

  family to their English relative, in whom good-nature and many other good

  qualities were to be seen now that there were hopes of reclaiming her. It

  was agreed that Madame de Moncontour should come and inhabit the Hotel de

  Florac at Paris: perhaps the Abbe tempted the worthy lady by pictures of

  the many pleasures and advantages she would enjoy in that capital. She

  was presented at her own court by the French ambassadress of that day:

  and was received at the Tuileries with a cordiality which flattered and

  pleased her.

  Having been presented herself, Madame la Princesse in turn presented to

  her august sovereign Mrs. T.
Higg and Miss Higg, of Manchester, Mrs.

  Samuel Higg, of Newcome; the husbands of those ladies (the Princess's

  brothers) also sporting a court-dress for the first time. Sam Higg's

  neighbour, the member for Newcome; Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., was too ill

  to act as Higg's sponsor before majesty; but Barnes Newcome was

  uncommonly civil to the two Lancashire gentlemen; though their politics

  were different to his, and Sam had voted against Sir Brian at his last

  election. Barnes took them to dine at a club--recommended his tailor--and

  sent Lady Clara Pulleyn to call on Mrs. Higg--who pronounced her to be a

  pretty young woman and most haffable. The Countess of Dorking would have

  been delighted to present these ladies had the Princess not luckily been

  in London to do that office. The Hobson Newcomes were very civil to the

  Lancashire party, and entertained them splendidly at dinner. I believe

  Mrs. and Mr. Hobson themselves went to court this year, the latter in a

  deputy-lieutenant's uniform.

  If Barnes Newcome was so very civil to the Higg family we may suppose he

  had good reason. The Higgs were very strong in Newcome, and it was

  advisable to conciliate them. They were very rich, and their account

  would not be disagreeable at the bank. Madame de Moncontour's--a large

  easy private account--would be more pleasant still. And, Hobson Brothers

  having entered largely into the Anglo-Continental Railway, whereof

  mention has been made, it was a bright thought of Barnes to place the

  Prince of Moncontour, etc. etc., on the French Direction of the Railway;

  and to take the princely prodigal down to Newcome with his new title, and

  reconcile him to his wife and the Higg family. Barnes we may say invented

  the principality: rescued the Vicomte de Florac out of his dirty lodgings

  in Leicester Square, and sent the Prince of Moncontour back to his worthy

  middle-aged wife again. The disagreeable dissenting days were over. A

  brilliant young curate of Doctor Bulders, who also wore long hair,

  straight waistcoats, and no shirt-collars, had already reconciled the

  Vicomtesse de Florac to the persuasion, whereof the ministers are clad in

  that queer uniform. The landlord of their hotel at St. James's got his

  wine from Sherrick, and sent his families to Lady Whittlesea's Chapel.

  The Rev. Charles Honeyman's eloquence and amiability were appreciated by

  his new disciple--thus the historian has traced here step by step how all

  these people became acquainted.

  Sam Higg, whose name was very good on 'Change in Manchester and London,

  joined the direction of the Anglo-Continental. A brother had died lately,

  leaving his money amongst them, and his wealth had added considerably to

  Madame de Florac's means; his sister invested a portion of her capital in

  the railway in her husband's name. The shares were at a premium, and gave

  a good dividend. The Prince de Moncontour took his place with great

  gravity at the Paris board, whither Barnes made frequent flying visits.

  The sense of capitalism sobered and dignified Paul de Florac: at the age

  of five-and-forty he was actually giving up being a young man, and was

  not ill pleased at having to enlarge his waistcoats, and to show a little

  grey in his moustache. His errors were forgotten: he was bien vu by the

  Government. He might have had the Embassy Extraordinary to Queen Pomare;

  but the health of Madame la Princesse was delicate. He paid his wife

  visits every morning: appeared at her parties and her opera box, and was

  seen constantly with her in public. He gave quiet little dinners still,

  at which Clive was present sometimes: and had a private door and key to

  his apartments, which were separated by all the dreary length of the

  reception-rooms from the mirrored chamber and jonquil couch where the

  Princess and Betsy reposed. When some of his London friends visited Paris

  he showed us these rooms and introduced us duly to Madame la Princesse.

  He was as simple and as much at home in the midst of these splendours, as

  in the dirty little lodgings in Leicester Square, where he painted his

  own boots, and cooked his herring over the tongs. As for Clive, he was

  the infant of the house: Madame la Princesse could not resist his kind

  face; and Paul was as fond of him in his way as Paul's mother in hers.

  Would he live at the Hotel de Florac? There was an excellent atelier in

  the pavilion, with a chamber for his servant. "No! you will be most at

  ease in apartments of your own. You will have here but the society of

  women. I do not rise till late: and my affairs, my board, call me away

  for the greater part of the day. Thou wilt but be ennuyd to play trictrac

  with my old father. My mother waits on him. My sister au second is given

  up entirely to her children, who always have the pituite. Madame la

  Princesse is not amusing for a young man. Come and go when thou wilt,

  Clive, my garcon, my son: thy cover is laid. Wilt thou take the portraits

  of all the family? Hast thou want of money? I had at thy age and almost

  ever since, mon ami: but now we swim in gold, and when there is a louis

  in my purse, there are ten francs for thee." To show his mother that he

  did not think of the Reformed Religion, Paul did not miss going to mass

  with her on Sunday. Sometimes Madame Paul went too, between whom and her

  mother-in-law there could not be any liking, but there was now great

  civility. They saw each other once a day: Madame Paul always paid her

  visit to the Comte de Florac: and Betsy, her maid, made the old gentleman

  laugh by her briskness and talk. She brought back to her mistress the

  most wonderful stories which the old man told her about his doings during

  the emigration--before he married Madame la Comtesse--when he gave

  lessons in dancing, parbleu! There was his fiddle still, a trophy of

  those old times. He chirped, and coughed, and sang, in his cracked old

  voice, as he talked about them. "Lor! bless you, mum," says Betsy, "he

  must have been a terrible old man!" He remembered the times well enough,

  but the stories he sometimes told over twice or thrice in an hour. I am

  afraid he had not repented sufficiently of those wicked old times: else

  why did he laugh and giggle so when he recalled them? He would laugh and

  giggle till he was choked with his old cough: and old S. Jean, his man,

  came and beat M. le Comte on the back, and made M. le Comte take a

  spoonful of his syrup.

  Between two such women as Madame de Florac and Lady Kew, of course there

  could be little liking or sympathy. Religion, love, duty, the family,

  were the French lady's constant occupation,--duty and the family,

  perhaps, Lady Kew's aim too,--only the notions of duty were different in

  either person. Lady Kew's idea of duty to her relatives being to push

  them on in the world: Madame de Florac's to soothe, to pray, to attend

  them with constant watchfulness, to strive to mend them with pious

  counsel. I don't know that one lady was happier than the other. Madame de

  Florac's eldest son was a kindly prodigal: her second had given his whole

  heart to the Church: her daughter had centred hers on her own children,

  and was jealous if thei
r grandmother laid a finger on them. So Leonore de

  Florac was quite alone. It seemed as if Heaven had turned away all her

  children's hearts from her. Her daily business in life was to nurse a

  selfish old man, into whose service she had been forced in early youth,

  by a paternal decree which she never questioned; giving him obedience,

  striving to give him respect,--everything but her heart, which had gone

  out of her keeping. Many a good woman's life is no more cheerful; a

  spring of beauty, a little warmth and sunshine of love, a bitter

  disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic tears, then a long

  monotonous story of submission. "Not here, my daughter, is to be your

  happiness," says the priest; "whom Heaven loves it afflicts." And he

  points out to her the agonies of suffering saints of her sex; assures her

  of their present beatitudes and glories; exhorts her to bear her pains

  with a faith like theirs; and is empowered to promise her a like reward.

  The other matron is not less alone. Her husband and son are dead, without

  a tear for either,--to weep was not in Lady Kew's nature. Her grandson,

  whom she had loved perhaps more than any human being, is rebellious and

  estranged from her; her children, separated from her, save one whose

  sickness and bodily infirmity the mother resents as disgraces to herself.

  Her darling schemes fail somehow. She moves from town to town, and ball

  to ball, and hall to castle, for ever uneasy and always alone. She sees

  people scared at her coming; is received by sufferance and fear rather

  than by welcome; likes perhaps the terror which she inspires, and to

  enter over the breach rather than through the hospitable gate. She will

  try and command wherever she goes; and trample over dependants and

  society, with a grim consciousness that it dislikes her, a rage at its

  cowardice, and an unbending will to domineer. To be old, proud, lonely,

  and not have a friend in the world--that is her lot in it. As the French

  lady may be said to resemble the bird which the fables say feeds her

  young with her blood; this one, if she has a little natural liking for

  her brood, goes hunting hither and thither and robs meat for them; And

  so, I suppose, to make the simile good, we must compare the Marquis of

  Farintosh to a lamb for the nonce, and Miss Ethel Newcome to a young

  eaglet. Is it not a rare provision of nature (or fiction of poets, who

  have their own natural history) that the strong-winged bird can soar to

  the sun and gaze at it, and then come down from heaven and pounce on a

  piece of carrion?

  After she became acquainted with certain circumstances, Madame de Florac

  was very interested about Ethel Newcome, and strove in her modest way to

  become intimate with her. Miss Newcome and Lady Kew attended Madame de

  Moncontour's Wednesday evenings. "It is as well, my dear, for the

  interests of the family that we should be particularly civil to these

  people," Lady Kew said; and accordingly she came to the Hotel de Florac,

  and was perfectly insolent to Madame la Princesse every Thursday evening.

  Towards Madame de Florac, even Lady Kew could not be rude. She was so

  gentle as to give no excuse for assault: Lady Kew vouchsafed you to

  pronounce that Madame de Florac was "tres grande dame;"--"of the sort

  which is almost impossible to find nowadays," Lady Kew said, who thought

  she possessed this dignity in her own person. When Madame de Florac,

  blushing, asked Ethel to come and see her, Ethel's grandmother consented

  with the utmost willingness. "She is very devote, I have heard, and will

  try and convert you. Of course you will hold your own about that sort of

  thing; and have the good sense to keep off theology. There is no Roman

  Catholic parti in England or Scotland that is to be thought for a moment.

  You will see they will marry young Lord Derwenwater to an Italian

  princess; but he is only seventeen, and his directors never lose sight of

  him. Sir Bartholomew Bawkes will have a fine property when Lord Campion