The instant he had uttered the words, he was sorry for having spoken them—for it was Blanche who had herself invited Mirobolant to escort her, nor could the artist do otherwise than comply with a lady's command. Blanche in her flutter did not hear what Arthur said; but Mirobolant heard him, and cast a furious glance at him over his shoulder, which rather amused Mr. Pen. He was in a mischievous and sulky humor; wanting perhaps to pick a quarrel with somebody; but the idea of having insulted a cook, or that such an individual should have any feeling of honor at all, did not much enter into the mind of this lofty young aristocrat, the apothecary's son.
It had never entered that poor artist's head, that he as a man was not equal to any other mortal, or that there was any thing in his position so degrading as to prevent him from giving his arm to a lady who asked for it. He had seen in the fêtes in his own country fine ladies, not certainly demoiselles (but the demoiselle Anglaise he knew was a great deal more free than the spinster in France) join in the dance with Blaise or Pierre; and he would have taken Blanche up to Lady Clavering, and possibly have asked her to dance too, but he heard Pen's exclamation, which struck him as if it had shot him, and cruelly humiliated and angered him. She did not know what caused him to start, and to grind a Gascon oath between his teeth.
But Strong, who was acquainted with the poor fellow's state of mind, having had the interesting information from our friend Madame Fribsby, was luckily in the way when wanted, and saying something rapidly in Spanish, which the other understood, the Chevalier begged Miss Amory to come and take an ice before she went back to Lady Clavering. Upon which the unhappy Mirobolant relinquished the arm which he had held for a minute, and with a most profound and piteous bow, fell back. "Don't you know who it is?" Strong asked of Miss Amory, as he led her away. "It is the Chef Mirobolant."
"How should I know?" asked Blanche. "He has a croix; he is very distingué; he has beautiful eyes."
"The poor fellow is mad for your beaux yeux, I believe," Strong said. "He is a very good cook, but he is not quite right in the head."
"What did you say to him in the unknown tongue?" asked Miss Blanche.
"He is a Gascon, and comes from the borders of Spain," Strong answered. "I told him he would lose his place if he walked with you."
"Poor Monsieur Mirobolant!" said Blanche.
"Did you see the look he gave Pendennis?"—Strong asked, enjoying the idea of the mischief—"I think he would like to run little Pen through with one of his spits."
"He is an odious, conceited, clumsy creature, that Mr. Pen," said Blanche.