I must plead guilty to never having been able to discover the peculiar charm of the count’s manners and appearance. I had heard much of the air noble, which was said to be his distinguishing trait, but could see nothing but the air puppyish, if I may so characterize a manner of supreme indifference to the comfort and convenience of those around him. In a ball-room, I have seen him extend himself at full length upon a sofa, after a quadrille, and fan himself with his perfumed handkerchief, while dozens of ladies were near in want of a seat. At other times he would place himself astride of a chair, with his face to the back, and his long legs protruded so as to endanger the necks of those, who might venture to step over them. These little liberties were regarded merely as the elegant abandon of one accustomed to the first society of Europe; and instances were cited of a similar aristocratic disregard of conventional decency among certain English noblemen, who had visited the country.
But what seemed to certify the count’s claims to nobility was the erudition he displayed in all that related to gastronomy. Did you ever notice the air of sagacity with which a chicken sips water, cocking her head after every bill full, and apparently passing judgment upon its quality? Of such an act would Tousky Wousky remind you when he took soup. Occasionally his criticisms would be given with a vivacity and esprit, which would excite general surprise. He could tell at a glance the name of the most recondite Parisian pâté. His decisions in regard to entremets, hors d’œuvres, and vol au vents were unimpeachable; and he would discourse upon sole en matelotte Normande with tears in his eyes. There was something earnest and affecting in the count’s manner when he touched upon these topics; whereas when questioned concerning events having relation to his military career, his answers were confused, imperfect and unsatisfactory.
After some months of investigation and hesitation, Tousky Wousky fixed his eyes upon the daughter of a retired tailor of the name of Remnant. Mature deliberation and inquiry convinced him that she was the most eligible of the candidates that had yet been presented to his notice. Old Remnant had commenced life as a journeyman—sat cross-legged upon the counter from his fourteenth to his twenty-first year—then opened a sort of slop-shop somewhere in Maiden Lane—married his master’s only daughter—succeeded to his business and wealth—and accumulated a large fortune.
Heaven forbid that I should breathe a flippant word against a vocation, in which I have encountered more than one ornament to humanity—men, in whom the Christian virtues of patience and forbearance were signally developed; of whose capacities for long suffering I could relate the most affecting instances. But I blame Remnant, not for having been a tailor, but for his foolish ambition in after life to sink all memorials of the shop, and launch into fashionable life. We all remember the story of the English member of Parliament, who, on being twitted by some sprig of nobility with having been bred a tailor, retorted, “if the gentleman himself had been so bred he would have been a tailor still.” The reply was as just as it was spirited, and showed a noble pride on the part of the speaker, in comparing his past with his present position. Remnant began by discontinuing his annual tribute to the Tailors’ Charitable Fund. Then he neglected to attend their annual ball at Tammany; and finally he cut his old associates in trade when he met them in Broadway—visited Europe, returned, built an elegant house—and set up a carriage with a liveried driver and footman. In all these procedures I have reason to believe that he was mainly influenced by his wife, whose fashionable furor was inextinguishable.
Through his endorsements for certain “genteel” speculators, Remnant contrived to get introduced with his family into what they believed to be the “fashionable circles.” The daughter, Sophia Ann, was a pretty, good-natured, frank, and unpretending girl, who, having received a fair education, bore her part extremely well in gay life, and betrayed few symptoms of the character of her parentage. Rumor whispered that she entertained a secret penchant for young Allen, a clerk in Flash, Fleetwood & Co.'s, establishment in Broadway. It was noticed that she always made her purchases at that shop, and frequently she remained much longer in conversation than was absolutely necessary for the closing of her bargains. Where was the propriety too of negotiating for a pair of gloves or a skein of silk in so very low and mysterious a tone of voice? It was suspicious, to say the least of it.
The ecstasy of Mrs. Remnant when Tousky Wousky condescended to ask an introduction to herself and daughter was beyond all reasonable bounds; and when, the next morning, he honored them with a call, it was as if she and all her family had received a brevet of nobility.
“Who knows, Sophia Ann,” said she after the count had taken his departure, “who knows but the count has been struck with your appearance, and intends making proposals?”
“And if he does, mamma,” replied Sophy, “you may be very sure he will propose in vain, so far as I am concerned. A vulgar, coarse, ill-mannered fop! Did you notice the crumbs of bread upon his odious moustaches?”
“A very good proof of his gentility, my dear. It shows that he has just breakfasted. I am amazed at your language, Sophia Ann.”
“Indeed I thoroughly detest the fellow. I hope you will not invite him to the house.”