“Marobblan was his name, sir; Marobblan’s gone away, sir,” Morgan said,—and the Major, this time, with hearty sympathy, said, “he was devilish sorry to lose him.”
“There’s been a tremenjuous row about that Mosseer Marobblan,” Morgan continued “At a ball at Baymouth, sir, bless his impadence, he challenged Mr. Harthur to fight a jewel, sir, which Mr. Arthur was very near knocking him down, and pitchin’ him outawinder, and serve him right; but Chevalier Strong, sir, came up and stopped the shindy—I beg pardon, the holtercation, sir—them French cooks has as much pride and hinsolence as if they was real gentlemen.”
“I heard something of that quarrel,” said the Major; “but Mirobolant was not turned off for that?”
“No, sir—that affair, sir, which Mr. Harthur forgave it him and beayved most handsome, was hushed hup: it was about Miss Hamory, sir, that he ad is dismissial. Those French fellers, they fancy everybody is in love with ’em; and he climbed up the large grape vine to her winder, sir, and was a trying to get in, when he was caught, sir; and Mr. Strong came out, and they got the garden-engine and played on him, and there was no end of a row, sir.”
“Confound his impudence! You don’t mean to say Miss Amory encouraged him,” cried the Major, amazed at a peculiar expression in Mr. Morgan’s countenance.
Morgan resumed his imperturbable demeanour. “Know nothing about it, sir. Servants don’t know them kind of things the least. Most probbly there was nothing in it—so many lies is told about families—Marobblan went away, bag and baggage, saucepans, and pianna, and all—the feller ad a pianna, and wrote potry in French, and he took a lodging at Clavering, and he hankered about the primises, and it was said that Madam Fribsy, the milliner, brought letters to Miss Hamory, though I don’t believe a word about it; nor that he tried to pison hisself with charcoal, which it was all a humbug betwigst him and Madam Fribsy; and he was nearly shot by the keeper in the park.”
In the course of that very day, it chanced that the Major had stationed himself in the great window of Bays’s Club in Saint James’s Street, at the hour in the afternoon when you see a half-score of respectable old bucks similarly recreating themselves (Bays’s is rather an old-fashioned place of resort now, and many of its members more than middle-aged; but in the time of the Prince Regent, these old fellows occupied the same window, and were some of the very greatest dandies in this empire)—Major Pendennis was looking from the great window, and spied his nephew Arthur walking down the street in company with his friend Mr. Popjoy.
“Look!” said Popjoy to Pen, as they passed, “did you ever pass Bays’s at four o’clock, without seeing that collection of old fogies? It’s a regular museum. They ought to be cast in wax, and set up at Madame Tussaud’s—”
“—In a chamber of old horrors by themselves,” Pen said, laughing.
“—In the chamber of horrors! Gad, doosid good!” Pop cried. “They are old rogues, most of ’em, and no mistake. There’s old Blondel; there’s my Uncle Colchicum, the most confounded old sinner in Europe; there’s—hullo! there’s somebody rapping the window and nodding at us.”