Beau Brummell, the autocrat of fashion when in his zenith, was in the days of his decline particularly shifty. After George IV. had cut him, and when he was about to depart for France to undertake the consulate of Caen, he made a desperate effort to raise money, and, amongst other people, he wrote to Scrope Davies for a couple of hundred pounds, which he promised to repay on the following morning, giving as a reason for his request, that the banks were shut for the day, and all his money was in the Three per Cents. To this Davies, who happened to know how hard up Brummell was, sent the following laconic reply:—
“My dear George,
“’Tis very unfortunate, but all my money is in the Three per Cents.
“Yours,
“S. Davies.”
Brummell’s appointment at Caen, owing to the representations of Madame la Marquise de Seran, and others who had known him in London, was known in that place some time before he arrived, which had the effect of making all the young Frenchmen of the Carlist party anxious to become acquainted with him. Soon after he was settled down, three of them paid him a morning visit, and, though late in the day, found him deep in the mysteries of his toilet. They naturally wished to retire, but Brummell insisted on their remaining. “Pray stay,” said he, as he laid down the silver tweezers with which he had just removed a straggling hair, “pray remain; I have not yet breakfasted—no excuses. There is a pâté de foie gras, a game pie,” and many other dainties that he enumerated with becoming gastronomic fervour, but which failed to overcome the scruples of the young men, who went away enchanted with Brummell’s politeness and hospitality, one of the trio afterwards remarking that “he must live very well.”
There is not the slightest doubt that the beau was pretty sure his visitors had breakfasted, and it was only the extreme improbability of their accepting his invitation that made him give it. Had they taken him at his word, instead of the magnificent repast which he offered them, his guests would have sat down to an uncommonly plain breakfast, for the polite and hospitable host had nothing but a penny roll and the coffee simmering by his bedroom fire. On another occasion a visitor called on him, and in course of conversation said he was going to dine with a certain Mr. Jones, a retired soap-boiler, who had radically opposed the appointment of a man like Brummell to superintend the British interests at Caen.
“Well I think I shall dine there too,” said Brummell.
“But you haven’t an invitation, have you?”
“No,” was the reply; “but I think I shall dine there all the same.”
As soon as the caller left, Brummell sent a pâté de foie gras, which he had received from Paris, with a grand message to Jones. The courtesy seemed so disinterested, that the Radical sent a pressing invitation by return; and when Brummell’s visitor of the morning joined the party, he saw the beau installed in the seat of honour at the hostess’s right. Brummell told his friend next day how he had managed. The gentleman said, “But I did not see the pie on the table.”