Lord Mowbray slipped his arm into that of Lebeau, and in this attitude they went out together, which seemed to announce the return of confidence and friendly feeling. Mons. Lebeau was an adept in the art of pleasing, and in order to make good his return to grace he employed all the resources of his wit, which was by no means of mediocre quality. A curious fellow was this same Lebeau, who had almost ceased to be a Frenchman without wholly becoming an Englishman. He had distinguished himself among the tutors who were furnished to lordlings and who were termed "bear-keepers." He was clever, knew the world, was "up" in literature, could recite from the poets, and in case of need was able to turn a verse as easily as one twirled a snuff-box. He had had a tragedy produced and hissed off the stage somewhere, for he had tasted the cup of a man of letters, living by dedications to the great and by writing homilies for churchmen, rich in skekels but poor in intellect. He would frequently say, "Had I delivered all the sermons which I have written, I should be a cardinal." In turn, doctor upon a vessel of the East India Company, actor, professor of mathematics, courier to an ambassador, Parisian correspondent to a German prince who boasted thirty-three subjects, what callings had he not fulfilled? By what sallies had he not attempted fortune? His life resembled one of those old-fashioned romances, filled, as it was, with adventures which we should consider impossible. An event upon which he never cared to enlarge—some sort of an irregular duel with a personage of dignity—had obliged him to leave his native land. In a London brothel he had made the acquaintance of the late Lord Mowbray, who had taken him into his service on condition that he would procure him something new in the way of emotion. "I am bored to death," explained his lordship; "amuse me. I have used up every resource and am used up myself; invent some plan to revive me. Bear in mind your ability as an author and make my life a poem of delights, an unedited romance. Instead of committing your fancies to paper, realize them with my guineas and for my benefit. To begin with, there is my villa, my 'Folly,' which is being built at Chelsea. Give your orders: the mason, the painter, the upholsterer will obey you." Lebeau accepted the engagement and acquitted himself to the perfect satisfaction of his new patron.
It was he who first invented those marvellous traps by means of which the table disappeared after the first course and came up again laid with a fresh service, which relieved the guests of the espionage of the attendants. It was he, again, who devised, or revived from ancient usage, the perfumed rain, the hail of roses; who offered to his master's friends a fête such as Cleopatra gave, a Trimalcion supper and a Borgian night festival; who realized for enchanted senses a corner of the Orient, a dream of the Thousand and One Nights, while the snowflakes fell and the wintry wind outside swept over the denuded country. And Lord Mowbray had the satisfaction of saying to those who congratulated him, "This is a mere nothing."
His friends in their jealousy often said to him, "Lebeau is robbing you." Whereupon he would shrug his shoulders and reply, "How can you expect such a clever fellow not to be a little bit of a swindler?"
Let us give an example of one of his surprising devices. As Lord Mowbray was strolling one evening along the Cheyne Walk by the water he was suddenly seized by three or four ruffians, stripped of his clothing, bound, gagged, and finally thrown into the river. There he gave all up for lost, and, believing himself at death's door, fainted away. He recovered, to find himself at the bottom of a gigantic pie, whence he emerged, to the profound astonishment of a dozen or more of his friends who had assembled for supper.
"What do you think of that for a new sensation, my lord?" inquired Lebeau modestly.
"You own no equal!" exclaimed Mowbray enthusiastically. "I would not part with you for ten thousand pounds!"
But Lebeau inspired contrary sentiments in poor Lady Mowbray, who saw in him her husband's evil genius. When he was about she lost all hope of reclaiming her faithless spouse. A slow fever having succeeded the birth of her only son, she made no effort to live. Why should she? Her son would be enticed from her, as her husband had been. The child, as by some inconceivable hereditary repugnance, avoided her, fled her caresses. She herself, to her deep mortification, never experienced that mysterious and potent attachment which eternally binds the existence of mother and child; and it was under these cruel conditions of life that Lady Mowbray, overwhelmed with misery, weary of suffering, and longing for rest, sank into the arms of death.
She expired unpitied, conjugal love in the higher ranks of society being regarded as a ridiculous anomaly. However, the cynical joy of Lord Mowbray, even in that epoch of irony and indifference, caused a shudder among the less delicate. Henceforth he was in no way hampered. A career of untrammelled debauchery lay open before him; but an unexpected event arrested him with ruthless abruptness. He suddenly disappeared, and the circumstances of his taking-off, at once ignoble and sinister, finally became known in the social walks where he had been best known. He had lost his life in attempting to experiment upon himself in the mysterious sensations which, he was informed, attended the final convulsions of those doomed to die by hanging. Whether through mismanagement or crime, the cord had not been cut in time, and Death still guarded his secret from the one who had essayed to violate it.
Among the deceased nobleman's papers were found sundry instructions for the education of his son, among which one doctrine, far worse than atheism, was drawn up in cold, dry, incisive terms, to suit the custom of the time.
"Man," it maintained, "should live in accordance with nature. Now, nature commands us to flee pain and seek pleasure. Certain philosophers of antiquity have clearly perceived this truth, and that, too, at an epoch when the human mind was not yet encumbered and obscured by vain prejudices. But they have not ventured to demonstrate their theory even unto the end; they have imagined a substance called the soul, the tendencies of which are at constant variance with those of the body. They have arrayed pleasure in the guise of virtue, and have thus opened the way for the Christian folly. Christianity is the most formidable opponent of happiness, and during long ages has rendered the world well-nigh uninhabitable. From infancy we are imbued with the mawkish doctrines; I, myself, have had the utmost difficulty in relieving myself of the yoke and I have but imperfectly succeeded. That is why, should I die before my son has attained his majority, I expressly desire that he shall grow up without receiving the teachings of any religion whatsoever. Later he will understand these aberrations when he comes to a full appreciation of the long series of human errors. Let his mind be developed, stocked with facts, and ornamented with agreeable reflections; let him be schooled in all that pertains to bodily exercise where strength and address are required. By increasing his vigor, his passions will increase and consequently his relish for life. Let him be instructed not to govern or struggle with himself, but to follow in all things the only instinct which can be his certain guide,—that which attracts man to pleasure. Monsieur Lebeau appears to me a man of the world and the one best fitted to take charge of this education."