Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would not give herself the trouble—she had no curiosity. But nevertheless she asked several questions about la Comtesse de Barnac; and all the time saying she did not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she drew from her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal had uttered, and was secretly mortified and surprised to find he had said so little. She could not dress herself to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt’s hands. Whatever he might think, she should take care to show him at dinner that young ladies in this country were not ciphers.
At dinner, however, as before, all Dora’s preconcerted airs of disdain and determination to show that she was somebody, gave way, she did not know how, before M. de Connal’s easy assurance and polite indifference. His knowledge of the world, and his talents for conversation, with the variety of subjects he had flowing in from all parts of the world, gave him advantages with which there was no possibility of contending.
He talked, and carved—all life, and gaiety, and fashion: he spoke of battles, of princes, plays, operas, wine, women, cardinals, religion, politics, poetry, and turkeys stuffed with truffles—and Paris for ever!—Dash on! at every thing!—hit or miss—sure of the applause of Mademoiselle—and, as he thought, secure of the admiration of the whole company of natives, from le beau-père, at the foot of the table, to the boy who waited, or who did not wait, opposite to him, but who stood entranced with wonder at all that M. de Connal said, and all that he did—even to the fashion in which he stowed trusses of salad into his mouth with a fork, and talked—through it all.
And Dora, what did she think?—she thought she was very much mortified that there was room for her to say so little. The question now was not what she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought of her. After beginning with various little mock defences, avertings of the head, and twists of the neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions resolvable into mauvaise honte and pride, as dinner proceeded, and Monsieur de Connal’s success was undoubted, she silently gave up her resolution “not to admire.”
Before the first course was over, Connal perceived that he had her eye: “Before the second is over,” thought he, “I shall have her ear; and by the time we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for the heart.”
Though he seemed to have talked without any design, except to amuse himself and the company in general, yet in all he had said there had been a prospective view to his object. He chose his means well, and in Mademoiselle he found, at once, a happy dupe and a confederate. Without previous concert, they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to prepare the young lady’s imagination for a French lover or a French husband. M. de Connal was well aware that no matter who touched her heart, if he could pique her vanity.
After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr. Connal began to enter upon the question of the intended union between the families—Ormond left the room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de Connal took an early opportunity of declaring that there was no truth in the report of his going to be married in England: he confessed that such a thing had been in question—he must speak with delicacy—but the family and connexions did not suit him; he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in favour of ancient family—Irish family; he had always wished to marry an Irish woman—for that reason he had avoided opportunities that might have occurred of connecting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France; he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance with the O’Shanes. Nothing could be more fortunate for him than the friendship which had subsisted between his father and Mr. O’Shane.—And the promise?—Relinquish it!—Oh! that, he assured Mr. O’Shane, was quite impossible, provided the young lady herself should not make a decided objection—he should abide by her decision—he could not possibly think of pressing his suit, if there should appear any repugnance: in that case, he should be infinitely mortified—he should be absolutely in despair; but he should know how to submit—cost him what it would: he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part to sacrifice his wishes, to what the young lady might conceive to be for her happiness.
He added a profusion of compliments on the young lady’s charms, with a declaration of the effect they had already produced on his heart.
This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which Corny did not at all like. But Mademoiselle, who was summoned to Corny’s private council, gave it as her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in love—quite as much as a French husband ever was. She was glad that her brother-in-law was bound by his promise to a gentleman who would really be a proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every thing couleur de rose; and she urged, that, since M. de Connal had come to Ireland for the express purpose of forwarding his present suit, he ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he might endeavour to make himself acceptable to Dora.
To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for, he said, she understood French politeness, and all that, better than he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due expressions of infinite delight.