“It was the Emperor sent her on purpose,” cried Purvis, very angry at the disparagement of his history.
“In this unbelieving age, sir, I must say that your fresh innocence is charming; but permit me to tell you that I know old Caroline Meersburg,—she was sister of the fellow that stole the Archduke Michael's dress-sword at the Court ball given for his birthday. I have known her five-and-thirty years. You must have met her, madam, at Lubetskoy's, when he was minister at Naples, the year after the battle of Marengo.”
“I was wearing trousers with frills to them, and hunting butterflies at that time,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with a great effort at a smile.
“I have n't a doubt of it, madam.” And then muttered to himself, “And if childishness mean youth, she will enjoy a perpetual spring!”
“The ceremony,” resumed Purvis, very eager to relate his story, “was dr-droll enough; they cut off a——a——a lock of her hair and tied it up with one of his.”
“A good wig spoiled!” croaked Haggerstone.
“They then brought a b-b-b——”
“A baby, sir?”
“No, not a b-baby, a b-basin—a silver basin—and they poured water over both their hands.”
“A ceremony by no means in accordance with Russian prejudices,” chimed in Haggerstone. “They know far more of train-oil and bears' fat than of brown Windsor!”