"I was hardly surprised at receiving your amiable billet. I have been meditating on our little chat t'other day, my good Madame Fétis," pursued Topsparkle, lolling negligently forward in the commodious chair, with his elbow on his knee, and drawing figures upon the dusty carpet with the amber tip of his cane, "and as I am deeply concerned in the health—above all in the mental health—of your excellent husband, I felt an anxiety to hear more from the same source; so instead of sending a footman to make inquiries, I have come myself. I know the uneasiness of a wife's affection, and that her tenderness may exaggerate the signs of evil—"
"Indeed, sir, I don't exaggerate my husband's condition," exclaimed the lady, with a fretful air; "it grows worse and worse; and I dread the day when I shall see him carried off to Bedlam in a strait waistcoat. 'Twas only last night that he had a worse outbreak than ever, and the night before that—"
"The night before that you had Jack Spencer, and Lord Lavendale, and a party to supper and cards," interrupted Topsparkle, tapping Madame's plump arm with the tips of his skinny fingers. "Oh, I have heard of your banquetings and revelries, ma belle, and the money that is lost and won under this modest roof of yours."
"Indeed, sir, it was a very sober party. There were no ladies, and there was no broken glass, nor an item of furniture damaged. I protest we should never make both ends meet by such parties as that, though I own Mr. Spencer flings a guinea where any other gentleman would give a shilling. But 'tis the mad-cap evenings—when the ladies and gentlemen take to romping over their supper, or when there are swords drawn at cards, and the furniture damaged—that bring grist to the mill."
"And so there was not much diversion at Mr. Spencer's party—'twas a grave and sedate assembly," said Topsparkle, with a trivial gossiping air, as of one who talked from sheer idleness; "but those quiet evenings are more dangerous than your romping revelries. I'll warrant the play was high."
Madame shook her head gloomily.
"Ay, I'll warrant it was, your honour, for that silly husband of mine tossed about in a wakeful fever till daylight, and raved like a lunatic towards nine o'clock, when he fell asleep—raved about Venice and one Borromeo. Does your honour remember any friend of my husband's by that name?"
"Borromeo?" repeated Topsparkle meditatively. "No, the name is strange to me. And so your husband talked in his sleep, and about Venice? Do his thoughts often turn that way?"
"'Tis the first time I have heard him. His ravings have been mostly about your honour's house in Soho Square. What can there be in that splendid mansion which should give Louis such a horror of it? He is always prating of ghosts. Do you really think 'tis haunted, sir?"
"Not one whit more than this cosy little parlour of yours, my fair friend; but servants are superstitious, and have a way of inventing a ghost for every fine old house. Mine was once occupied by Lord Grey, who was beheaded after Monmouth's rebellion; and those fools of mine have concocted a story that his headless figure stalks in the corridors between midnight and cock-crow. There are no ghosts in Soho Square, madam, save such childish inventions as I tell you of; but I fear your husband is in a very bad way, and that these ravings of his are but too sure an indication of the brandy-drinker's disease. You must be careful of him, my good Madame Fétis, if you would not see him expire in a madhouse."