“Fact, fact, I assure you,” smiled the wit.
“Very droll,” repeated M. de Ville-Rouge, with impassive muscles.
“When,” continued Carew, “lo and behold, what a falling off was there, as young Roscius says! What a come down! Humpty-Dumpty was nothing to it—poor Lady Jennico’s egg! Ah! well, we all know pride must have a fall. Your fair compatriot, sir, had but amused herself with the fine Englishman, for which I would be loath to blame her. She gave him, it is said, indeed, every pledge of her affection. But when he began to prate of rings and marriage lines, and pressed her to become Mrs. Jennico, she found him a little too presumptuous—at least, I take it so; and being, it would seem, of a merry turn of mind, devised a little joke to play upon him. Pretending to yield at last to his urgency, she gave her consent to a secret marriage, and in the dark chapel palmed off her chambermaid upon him! Ha, ha! So the poor devil, carrying off his bride by night in high glee, thinking himself a very fine fellow indeed, never discovered till he had brought her home that he had given his hand and name to a squinting, sausage-nosed, carroty maid, daughter of the Court confectioner, called in baptism by the Princess’s names, like half the girls in the town. The story goes that the Princess with all the Court were waiting at his house to see the happy pair arrive, and I have had secret, but absolutely incontestable, information that the Princess laughed till she had to be bled.”
M. de Ville-Rouge smiled at last in evident appreciation of the humour of the situation.
“It is, on my honour, a most comic story,” he said. “But how come you so well acquainted with the matter? Surely my poor friend Jennico has ill-chosen his confidant.”
“Devil a word have I heard from Jennico,” said Carew. “Faith, he has ever been the same cheerful, conversational fellow you wot of, and it would take a bold man to question him. But truth, you know, will out—truth will out in time.”
“Ay,” said the Chevalier, and was shaken with silent merriment.
“Half-past eleven,” roared the Baronet, suddenly, stretching out a great paw and snapping his fingers under the beau’s face.
“Zounds!” cried the wit, turning to look at the clock with some discomposure; “no, Jack, no, there is still a fraction of a minute—the half-hour has not struck. And, by Heaven, here’s our man! Had you not better sup with Rosalinda to-night?”