This was a very serious discomfiture, and might, when it got abroad, have sorely damaged the Ricketts's ascendancy in that large circle, who were accustomed to regard her as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew what amount of insubordination might spring out of it! what rebellious notions might gain currency and credit! It was but the winter before when a Duchess, who passed through, on her way to Rome, asked “who Mrs. Ricketts was?” and the shock was felt during the whole season after. The Vandyk for whose authenticity Martha swore, was actually called in question. The “Sevres” cup she had herself painted was the subject of a heresy as astounding. We live in an age of movement and convulsion, no man's landmarks are safe now, and Mrs. Ricketts knew this.
The Onslows, it was clear, would not know her; it only remained, then, to show why she would not know them. It was a rare thing to find a family settling down at Florence against whom a “true bill” might not easily be found of previous misconduct. Few left England without a reason that might readily become an allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce were the light offences; the higher ones we must not speak of. Now the Onslows, as it happened, were not in this category. Sir Stafford's character was unimpeachable, her Ladyship's had nothing more grave against it than the ordinary levities of her station. George “had gone the pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable attached to him. There was no use, there fore, in “trying back” for a charge, and Mrs. Ricketts perceived that they must be arraigned on the very vaguest of evidence. Many a head has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, and many a heart been broken on a surmise!
A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan of proceedings. It was a small auto-da-fe of character at which the Onslows were to be the victims, while the grand inquisitors were worthily represented by the Polish Count, Haggerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, then passing through Florence on his way to England. This gentleman, who was the reputed son of a supposed son of George the Fourth, was received as “very good royalty” in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a wig, a portly chest, and a most imposing pomposity of manner, taken to be exceedingly like his grandfather, just on the same principle as red currant jelly makes middling mutton resemble venison.
To get rid of his importunity, a Minister had made him Consul in some remote village of the East, but finding that there were neither fees nor perquisites, Foglass had left his post to besiege the doors of Downing Street once more, and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an admirable grievance for a Radical Member, and a “very cruel case of oppression” for the morning papers.
Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, unlike most, if not all other humbugs, without the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability. When men are said to live by their wits, their capital is, generally speaking, a very sufficient one; and that interesting class of persons known as adventurers numbers many clever talkers, shrewd observers, subtle tacticians, and admirable billiard-players; with a steady hand on a pistol, but ready to “pocket” either an “insult” or a “ball.” if the occasion require it. None of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He had not one of the qualities which either succeed in the world or in society, and yet, strange to say, this intolerable bore had a kind of popularity, that is to say, people gave him a vacant place at their dinners, and remembered him at picnics.
His whole strength lay in his wig, and a certain slow, measured intonation which he found often attracted attention to what he said, and gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, Munden, and Mathews the semblance of a point they never possessed. Latterly, however, he had grown deaf, and, like most who suffer under that infirmity, taken to speaking in a whisper so low as to be inaudible, a piece of politeness for which even our reader will be grateful, as it will spare him the misery of his twaddle.
Haggerstone and he were intimates were it not a profanation of the word, we should say friends. They were, however, always together; and Haggerstone took pains to speak of his companion as a “monstrous clever fellow, who required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl probably discovered the true secret of the alliance in the fact that they always talked to each other about the nobility, and never gave them their titles, an illusory familiarity with Dukes and Earls that appeared to render them supremely happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and Stanley were in their mouths as “household words.”
After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime; and if these “Imaginary Conversations” gave them pleasure, why need we grumble?
We have scruples about asking our reader even to a description of the Ricketts's dinner. It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a very showy bouquet of flowers: there was a lavish display of what seemed silver; there was a good deal of queer china and impracticable glass; in short, much to look at, and very little to eat. Of this fact the Pole's appreciation was like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed round, all who came after him became soon aware of. Neither the wine nor the dessert were temptations to a long sitting, and the party soon found themselves in the drawing-room.
“Son Excellence is going to England?” said the Pole, addressing Foglass, who had been announced as an Ambassador; “if you do see de Count Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, as well as a poor exile can, who have lost palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de rest.”