I saw little of my friend the Marquis, beyond meeting him at the usual promenades, and bowing to him at the theatres, where he never failed to present himself. A casual observer would have thought that De la Pailleterie had no other earthly vocation than to perambulate Paris as a mere votary of pleasure. Once or twice, however, towards evening, I encountered him in his uniform of the National Guard, with fire in his eye, haste in his step, and a settled deliberation on his forehead; and I could not help, as I gazed upon him, feeling transported backwards to the period of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
At length I received the expected billet, and on the appointed evening rendered myself punctually at his house. The rooms were already more than half filled by the company.
“Are the Ides of March come?” said I, pressing the proffered hand of Monte-Christo.
“Come—but not yet over,” he replied. “You have seen the new play which has produced such a marked sensation?”
“I have. Wonderful production! Whose is it?”
A mysterious smile played upon the lip of my friend.
“Come,” said he, “let me introduce you to a countryman, a sympathiser; one who, like you, is desirous that our poor country should participate in the blessings of the British loom. Mr Hutton Bagsby—Mr Dunshunner.”
Bagsby was a punchy man, with a bald head, and a nose which betokened his habitual addiction to the fiery grape of Portugal.
“Servant, sir!” said he. “Understand you’re a free-trader, supporter of Cobden’s principles, and inclined to go the whole hog. Glad to see a man of common understanding here. Damme, sir, when I speak to these French fellows about calico, they begin to talk about fraternity; which, as I take it, means eating frogs, for I don’t pretend to understand their outlandish gibberish.”
“Every nation has its hobby, you know, Mr Bagsby,” I replied. “We consider ourselves more practical than the French, and stick to the main chance; they, on the other hand, are occupied with social grievances, and what they call the rights of labour.”