Much to Justine’s astonishment, she was directed to pack certain articles of wearing apparel without delay. These were to be ready in two hours’ time. Was madame going again to voyage? That was no business of Justine’s. Was Pierre not to accompany Madame? nor Alphonse? nor even old Busson? If any of these were wanted, madame would herself let them know. And when was madame coming back? Shortly; Justine should learn in a day or two. So, without further parley, madame entered her chair and proceeded to that business which she imagined was the sole cause of her journey to London.
After some hesitation, and a few tiresome interviews with her intendant, the Marquise had lately decided on selling her estates in the West Indies, stipulating only, for the sake of Célandine, that Bartoletti should be retained as overseer at Cash-a-crou. The locality, indeed, had but few agreeable associations connected with it. Months of wearisome exile, concluded by a night of bloodshed and horror, had not endeared Montmirail West in the eyes of its European owner.
It is not now necessary to state that Madame de Montmirail was a lady of considerable enterprise, and especially affected all matters connected with business or speculation. In an hour she made up her mind that London was the best market for her property, and in twenty-four she was in her carriage, on the road to England. Much to her intendant’s admiration, she also expressed her decided intention of managing the whole negotiations herself. The quiet old Frenchman gratefully appreciated an independence of spirit that saved him long journeys, heavy responsibilities, and one or two of his mistress’s sharpest rebukes.
To effect her sale, the preliminaries of which had been already arranged by letter, the Marquise had to proceed as far as St. Margaret’s Hill in the borough of Southwark. Her chairmen, after so long a trot, felt themselves doubtless entitled to refreshment, and took advantage of her protracted interview with the broker whom she visited, to adjourn to a neighbouring tavern for the purpose of recruiting their strength. The beer was so good that, returning past the old Admiralty Office, her leading bearer was compelled to sit down between the poles of his chair, taking off his hat, and proceeding to wipe his brows in a manner extremely ludicrous to the bystanders, and equally provoking to the inmate, who desired to be carried home. His yokefellow, instead of reproving him, burst into a drunken laugh, and the Marquise inside, though half-amused, was yet at the same time provoked to find herself placed in a thoroughly false position by so absurd a casualty.
She let down the window and expostulated, but with no result, except to collect a crowd, who expressed their sympathy with the usual good taste and kind feeling of a metropolitan mob. Madame de Montmirail’s appearance denoted she was a highborn lady, and her accent proclaimed her a foreigner. The combination was irresistible; presently coarse jests and brutal laughter rose to hootings of derision, accompanied by ominous cries—“Down with the Pretender! No Popery! Who heated the warming-pan?” and such catchwords of political rancour and ill-will.
Ere long an apple or two began to fly, then a rotten egg, and the body of a dead cat, followed by a brickbat, while the less drunken chairman had his hat knocked over his eyes. That which began in horse-play was fast growing to a riot, and the Marquise might have found herself roughly handled if it had not been for an irruption of seamen from a neighbouring tavern, who were whiling away their time by drinking strong liquors during the examination of their papers at the Admiralty Office, adjoining. Though not above half a dozen in number, they were soon “alongside the wreck,” as they called it, making a lane through the crowd by the summary process of knocking down everybody who opposed them, but before they had time to give “three cheers for the lady,” their leader, a sedate and weatherworn tar, who had never abandoned his pipe during the heat of the action, dropped it short from between his lips, and stood aghast before the chair window, rolling his hat in his hands, speechless and spell-bound with amazement.
The Marquise recognised him at once.
“It is Smoke-Jack! and welcome!” she exclaimed. “I should know you amongst a thousand! Indeed, I scarcely wanted your assistance more the night you saved us at Cash-a-crou. Ah! I have not forgotten the men of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ nor how to speak to them. Come, bear a hand, my hearty! Is it not so?”
The little nautical slang spoken in her broken English, acted like a charm. Not a man but would have fought for her to the death, or drank her health till all was blue!
They cheered lustily now, they crowded round in enthusiastic admiration, and the youngest of the party, with a forethought beyond all praise, rushed back to the tavern he had quitted, for a jorum of hot punch, in case the lady should feel faint after her accident.