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M. Beaucaire twirled the tip of his slender mustache around the end of his white forefinger. Then he said: "Monsieur and me goin' to Lady Malbourne's ball to-night M. le Duc and me!" The Englishman roared, "Curse your impudence!" "Sit quiet. Oh, yes, that's all; we goin' together." "No!" "Certain.
Do you think I have not calculate', that I shall make a failure of my little enterprise?" "Bah!" "Will monsieur not reseat himself?" M. Beaucaire made a low bow. "So. We must not be too tire' for Lady Malbourne's rout. Ha, ha! And you, Jean, Victor, and you others, retire; go in the hallway. Attend at the entrance, Francois. So; now we shall talk. Monsieur, I wish you to think very cool.
So I say, 'Take me to Lady Malbourne's ball as "Chateaurien." I throw off my wig, and shave, and behol', I am M. le Duc de Castle Nowhere. Ha, ha! You see?" The young man's manner suddenly changed. He became haughty, menacing. He stretched out his arm, and pointed at Winterset. "Now I am no 'Beaucaire, messieurs. I am a French gentleman.
I should have cartels from the fathers, brothers, and lovers of every wench and madam in the place, even I. You would be thrust from Lady Malbourne's door five minutes after you entered it." "No, no, no!" "Half the gentlemen in Bath have been here to play. They would know you, wouldn't they, fool? You've had thousands out of Bantison, Rakell, Guilford, and Townbrake.
The chairmen swarmed in the street at Lady Malbourne's door, where the joyous vulgar fought with muddied footmen and tipsy link-boys for places of vantage whence to catch a glimpse of quality and of raiment at its utmost. Dawn was in the east, and the guests were departing.