Lady Beaumaris was different from her sister almost in all respects, except in beauty, though her beauty even was of a higher style than that of Mrs. Rodney. Imogene was quite natural, though refined. She had a fine disposition. All her impulses were good and naturally noble. She had a greater intellectual range than Sylvia, and was much more cultivated. This she owed to her friendship with Mr. Waldershare, who was entirely devoted to her, and whose main object in life was to make everything contribute to her greatness. “I hope he will come here next week,” she said to Endymion. “I heard from him to-day. He is at Venice. And he gives me such lovely descriptions of that city, that I shall never rest till I have seen it and glided in a gondola.”
“Well, that you can easily do.”
“Not so easily. It will never do to interfere with my lord’s hunting—and when hunting is over there is always something else—Newmarket, or the House of Lords, or rook-shooting.”
“I must say there is something delightful about Paris, which you meet nowhere else,” said Mr. Sidney Wilton to Endymion. “For my part, it has the same effect on me as a bottle of champagne. When I think of what we were doing at this time last year—those dreadful November cabinets—I shudder! By the by, the Count of Ferroll says there is a chance of Lady Montfort coming here; have you heard anything?”
Endymion knew all about it, but he was too discreet even to pretend to exclusive information on that head. He thought it might be true, but supposed it depended on my lord.
“Oh! Montfort will never come. He will bolt at the last moment when the hall is full of packages. Their very sight will frighten him, and he will steal down to Princedown and read ‘Don Quixote.’”
Sidney Wilton was quite right. Lady Montfort arrived without her lord. “He threw me over almost as we were getting into the carriage, and I had quite given it up when dear Lady Roehampton came to my rescue. She wanted to see her brother, and—here we are.”
The arrival of these two great ladies gave a stimulant to gaieties which were already excessive. The court and the ministers rivalled the balls and the banquets which were profusely offered by the ambassadors and bankers. Even the great faubourg relaxed, and its halls of high ceremony and mysterious splendour were opened to those who in London had extended to many of their order a graceful and abounding hospitality. It was with difficulty, however, that they persuaded Lady Montfort to honour with her presence the embassy of her own court.
“I dined with those people once,” she said to Endymion, “but I confess when I thought of those dear Granvilles, their entrees stuck in my throat.”
There was, however, no lack of diplomatic banquets for the successor of Louise of Savoy. The splendid hotel of the Count of Ferroll was the scene of festivals not to be exceeded in Paris, and all in honour of this wondrous dame. Sometimes they were feasts, sometimes they were balls, sometimes they were little dinners, consummate and select, sometimes large receptions, multifarious and amusing. Her pleasure was asked every morn, and whenever she was disengaged, she issued orders to his devoted household. His boxes at opera or play were at her constant disposal; his carriages were at her command, and she rode, in his society, the most beautiful horses in Paris.