Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her To feel much regard for her sister's "protector," When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her; Still, he very well knew In this world there are few But are ready much Christian forgiveness to shew, For other folk's wrongs—if well paid so to do— And he'd seen to what acts "Res angustæ" compel beaux And belles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows, With the magic effect of a handful of crowns Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns;" A few francs well applied He'd no doubt would decide Miss Agnes des Moulins to jump up and ride As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side; For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison, To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison; Then he thought, by the aid Of a veil, and gown made Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'd, They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade, Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid, Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid; That if once introduced to his room, thus array'd, And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay'd, 'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play'd, Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!
With respect to the scheme—though I do not call that a gem— Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem, And that, too, among the decided approvers Of General Sir David Dundas's "Manœuvres." There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever, Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating, "The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!" We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille Had mix'd up the suet and plums for his meal.
The night had set in;—'twas a dark and a gloomy one;— Off went St Foix to his chamber; a roomy one, Five stories high, The first floor from the sky, And lofty enough to afford great facility For playing a game, with the youthful nobility Of "crack corps" a deal in Request, when they're feeling, In dull country quarters, ennui on them stealing; A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side, Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling; Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,— I've seen it here practised at home by our Household troops. He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs; and all's said.— A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're Sure to find not overburthen'd with furniture.
François Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his door With just the same caution he'd practised before; Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu, With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue, Had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw!
And now comes the moment—the watches and clocks All point to eleven!—the bolts and the locks Give way—and the party turn out their bag-fox!— With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright, "A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right," In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white, Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a Sprite!— She approaches the bed With the same silent tread Just as though she had been at least half a year dead! Then seating herself on the "rush-bottom'd chair," Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.
If you're one of the "play-going public," kind reader, And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder, You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene Of Macbeth,—by some thought the crack one of the piece, Which has been so well painted by Mr. M'Clise,— When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,[22] To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place; You remember his stare At the high-back'd arm-chair, Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there, And how, after saying "What man dares I dare!" He proceeds to declare He should not so much care If it came in the shape of a "tiger" or "bear," But he don't like its shaking its long gory hair! While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him, With a horrible grin, Sits, and cocks up his chin, Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him. And Lenox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce; And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross, And says in a huff It's all "Proper stuff!"— All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough; So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion, If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be doubled, And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face Without "speculation," suppose he'd a brace!
I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel- ieve was succeeded in painting the terrible, Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a- droit in depicting it—vide his piece Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease, Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying, With the King and his suite, Standing just at his feet, And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet; While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner, "Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner. But painting's an art I confess I am raw in, The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing: Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read, I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread; François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed, His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead, Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head, As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view, Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw, Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo, Mon Dieu! v'la deux!! By the Pope there are two!!!"
He fell back—one long aspiration he drew. In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu, Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew. He stirr'd not,—he spoke not,—he none of them knew! And Achille cried "Odzooks! I fear, by his looks, Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!"
'Twas too true! Malheureux!! It was done!—he had ended his earthly career,— He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear; —The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!!
