“Sir,” he said with dignity to the counsellor, “an invitation from one of the royal princes of France is no trumpery invitation. The Comte d’Artois has received much civility from the gentlemen of Edinburgh, and would return it as becomes a prince and a gentleman.”
“Good for you!” cried the counsellor, jumping up and slapping De Bourmont on the back as a butcher slaps a bullock; while Flora’s sweet voice echoed, “Good for you!”
De Bourmont was too much of a gentleman not to know how to take the counsellor’s hearty commendation. He only laughed and rubbed his shoulder.
But he had great curiosity about the invitation. They were strictly confined to the nobility and higher gentry of the town, and how one got to a rich lawyer in the new town puzzled him not a little. He looked at the handwriting and he saw in an instant that it was Bastien’s. The whole thing was revealed in a flash. Bastien wanted to bring the Mackenzies and Lady Betty Stair together before De Bourmont’s eyes and for his discomfiture, because never, since the night of Lady Betty’s arrival, when Bastien had let the Castle Street cat out of the bag, had there been good feeling between the two. De Bourmont had not only won Bastien’s money, but had cut him out with the fair sex; and Bastien was not the fellow to miss a chance of getting even.
De Bourmont said nothing, though, but returned the card into Flora’s white hand, which he squeezed upon the sly. Flora changed color slightly, but her blue eyes met his with cool composure. The womenkind were plainly bent on going to the great ball, and the counsellor at heart felt a secret satisfaction in the invitation, which was the greater compliment because so absolutely unsolicited. Mistress Mackenzie begged De Bourmont to show her how to approach royalty,—for etiquette was strict at Holyrood and no man, woman, or child was allowed to go out of the presence of the royal princes other than backward. De Bourmont, in high good humor, agreed to do this. He put the fine old counsellor in a huge chair to represent the Comte d’Artois.
“And look you, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said, “I would not place any unworthy man to represent his Royal Highness.”
“I appreciate your handsome compliment, sir,” answered the counsellor with dignity.
Then De Bourmont took Mistress Mackenzie in hand. She was wonderfully quick to learn, and advanced, bowed, and retreated, with the tail of her gown over her arm, so easily that De Bourmont taxed her with having been to court.
“Not so much as you, perhaps,” said the counsellor, very significantly.
De Bourmont took no notice of this, which convinced the shrewd Scotchman that the Frenchman was a man of position, because a vulgarian would have jumped at such a suggestion with delight.