Poor Pop is not very high in the scale of created beings; but, if you fancy there is none lower, you are in egregious error. There was once a man who had a mysterious exhibition of an animal, quite unknown to naturalists, called “the wusser.” Those curious individuals who desired to see the wusser were introduced into an apartment where appeared before them nothing more than a little lean shrivelled hideous blear-eyed mangy pig. Everyone cried out “Swindle!” and “Shame!” “Patience, gentlemen, be heasy,” said the showman: “look at that there hanimal; it's a perfect phenomaly of hugliness: I engage you never see such a pig.” Nobody ever had seen. “Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I'll keep my promise, has per bill; and bad as that there pig is, look at this here” (he showed another). “Look at this here, and you'll see at once that it's A WUSSER.” In like manner the Popjoy breed is bad enough, but it serves only to show off the Galgenstein race; which is WUSSER.
Galgenstein had led a very gay life, as the saying is, for the last fifteen years; such a gay one, that he had lost all capacity of enjoyment by this time, and only possessed inclinations without powers of gratifying them. He had grown to be exquisitely curious and fastidious about meat and drink, for instance, and all that he wanted was an appetite. He carried about with him a French cook, who could not make him eat; a doctor, who could not make him well; a mistress, of whom he was heartily sick after two days; a priest, who had been a favourite of the exemplary Dubois, and by turns used to tickle him by the imposition of penance, or by the repetition of a tale from the recueil of Noce, or La Fare. All his appetites were wasted and worn; only some monstrosity would galvanise them into momentary action. He was in that effete state to which many noblemen of his time had arrived; who were ready to believe in ghost-raising or in gold-making, or to retire into monasteries and wear hair-shirts, or to dabble in conspiracies, or to die in love with little cook-maids of fifteen, or to pine for the smiles or at the frowns of a prince of the blood, or to go mad at the refusal of a chamberlain's key. The last gratification he remembered to have enjoyed was that of riding bareheaded in a soaking rain for three hours by the side of his Grand Duke's mistress's coach; taking the pas of Count Krahwinkel, who challenged him, and was run through the body for this very dispute. Galgenstein gained a rheumatic gout by it, which put him to tortures for many months; and was further gratified with the post of English Envoy. He had a fortune, he asked no salary, and could look the envoy very well. Father O'Flaherty did all the duties, and furthermore acted as a spy over the ambassador—a sinecure post, for the man had no feelings, wishes, or opinions—absolutely none.
“Upon my life, father,” said this worthy man, “I care for nothing. You have been talking for an hour about the Regent's death, and the Duchess of Phalaris, and sly old Fleury, and what not; and I care just as much as if you told me that one of my bauers at Galgenstein had killed a pig; or as if my lacquey, La Rose yonder, had made love to my mistress.”
“He does!” said the reverend gentleman.
“Ah, Monsieur l'Abbe!” said La Rose, who was arranging his master's enormous Court periwig, “you are, helas! wrong. Monsieur le Comte will not be angry at my saying that I wish the accusation were true.”
The Count did not take the slightest notice of La Rose's wit, but continued his own complaints.
“I tell you, Abbe, I care for nothing. I lost a thousand guineas t'other night at basset; I wish to my heart I could have been vexed about it. Egad! I remember the day when to lose a hundred made me half mad for a month. Well, next day I had my revenge at dice, and threw thirteen mains. There was some delay; a call for fresh bones, I think; and would you believe it?—I fell asleep with the box in my hand!”
“A desperate case, indeed,” said the Abbe.
“If it had not been for Krahwinkel, I should have been a dead man, that's positive. That pinking him saved me.”
“I make no doubt of it,” said the Abbe. “Had your Excellency not run him through, he, without a doubt, would have done the same for you.”