He told me there had been a rot in White's club.
"I have heard all about your late tricks in London," said I.
Brummell laughed, and told me that in Calais he sought only French society; because it was his decided opinion that nothing could be more ridiculous than the idea of a man going to the continent, whether from necessity or choice, merely to associate with Englishmen.
I asked him if he did not find Calais a very melancholy residence.
"No," answered Brummell, "not at all. I draw, read, study French, and——"
"Play with that dirty French dog," interrupted I.
"Finissez donc, Louis," said he laughing, and encouraging the animal to play tricks, leap on his robe de chambre de Florence, and make a noise. Then, turning to me. "There are some pretty French actresses at Paris. I had such a sweet green shoe here just now. In short," added Brummell, "I have never been in any place in my life, where I could not amuse myself."
Brummell's table was covered with seals, chains, snuff-boxes and watches: presents, as he said, from Lady Jersey and various other ladies of high rank.
The only talent I could ever discover in this beau was that of having well-fashioned the character of a gentleman, and proved himself a tolerably good actor; yet, to a nice observer, a certain impenetrable, unnatural stiffness of manner proved him but nature's journeyman after all; but then his wig—his new French wig was nature itself.
From what I had heard of the hero's fall, I fully expected to have found him reclined on a couch worn down to a skeleton, and with these lines of the poor Cardinal Wolsey, or the like of them, ever and anon in his mouth: