“Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal,” said Ormond. “I am not used to French compliment.”
“No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all English bonhommie,” (laying his hand upon his heart)—“upon the honour of a gentleman, your remarks have sometimes perfectly astonished me.”
“Really!” said Ormond; “but I thought you had lived so much in the world, you could not be astonished.”
“I thought so, I own,” said Connal; “but it was reserved for M. Ormond to convince me of my mistake, to revive an old pleasure—more difficult still than to invent a new one! In recompense I hope I give you some new ideas—just throw out opinions for you. Accept—reject—reject now—accept an hour, a year hence, perhaps—just as it strikes—merely materials for thinking, I give you.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and be assured they are not lost upon me. You have given me a great deal to think of seriously.”
“Seriously!—no; that’s your fault, your national fault. Permit me: what you want chiefly in conversation—in every thing, is a certain degree of—of—you have no English word—lightness.”
“Légèreté, perhaps you mean,” said Ormond.
“Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. Légèreté—untranslatable!—You seize my idea.”
He left Ormond, as he fancied, in admiration of the man who, in his own opinion, possessed the whole theory and practice of the art of pleasing, and the science of happiness.
M. de Connal’s conversation and example might have produced a great effect on the mind of a youth of Ormond’s strong passions, lively imagination, and total ignorance of the world, if he had met this brilliant officer in different society. Had he seen Connal only as a man shining in company, or considered him merely as a companion, he must have been dazzled by his fashion, charmed by his gaiety, and imposed upon by his decisive tone.