Читать книгу A Joyous Adventure - Baroness Orczy - Страница 9

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But this irreconcilable attitude on the part of a few young “bloods” was obviously not shared by the mass of the people.

All they cared about was that peace was now definitely signed. Croakers might prophesy as much as they liked that it would never last, but anyway for the time being fighting was over, and as soon as the news had come through from over the water, feverish joy gave itself vent in thunderous noise, seething crowds, street parades, shouting, dancing and much destruction of property. The police soon gave up any attempt at controlling this mad exuberance of animal spirits. A few broken heads there were, and proprietors of inns and taverns and coffee-houses had much ado to keep rioters out of their halls. Thought of the Peace Treaty had gone to everyone’s head like wine.

While the crowd surged through the streets, invaded the Strand and Trafalgar Fields, yelled itself hoarse in front of the Mansion House, or chanted hymns outside Westminster and St. Paul’s, Society gave vent to its feelings more luxuriously, though no less noisily, inside Drury Lane Theatre. Here, the masked ball, hastily organised to celebrate Peace, was a brilliant success. They had all come; the gilded youth of London had turned out drawers and cupboards for scraps wherewith to fashion dominoes and masks and fantastic costumes in which to array themselves. And array themselves they did as Pierrots and Pierrettes, John Bulls and Mary Stuarts, odalisques and Columbines; and from the hour of ten this motley throng of merry-makers filled the halls and passages of the old playhouse with their shouts and their laughter, hailing one another, running, chasing, calling, drinking; celebrating, in fact, with plenty of noise and irresponsible gaiety, this marvellous Peace that had put an end to ten years of misery and sorrow.

The drop-scene from Herr Gluck’s opera “Alceste,” recently produced at Drury Lane, had been requisitioned so as to form an attractive classical background to this very modern scene, whilst the whole of the parterre had been raised with trestles and boards to the level of the stage, thus providing, through ingenuity and a lavish expenditure of money, an immense dancing floor, whereon, to the strains of an admirable orchestra, English jig and Polish mazurka, French minuet and schottische, as well as the new Austrian waltz, succeeded one another with but short intervals.

The boxes all round were filled with spectators, ostensibly come in order to watch the merry-making below; but in reality these boxes were the favoured recesses where, behind hastily-drawn curtains and under cover of velvet masks, assignations were made and love vows exchanged without fear of detection. It was in Box B on the grand tier, so ’twas averred, that the Duchess of K— finally yielded to Lord M—’s entreaties; and at the back of Box G that H.R.H. himself condescended to sup tête à tête with pretty Minnie Dale, the dancer from Covent Garden.

And those who knew everything and gossiped of more than they knew, declared that the dispossessed King of France, or, at any rate, his brother the Comte d’Artois, had driven over from Hartwell determined to shed his melancholy, if only for one night. But that was probably only a canard, for the French Royal Family took very little part, if any, in society functions; and of a truth, they could not look with any joy on this Peace Treaty which had reconciled their greatest friend, England, with the usurper of their throne.

Be that as it may, one important personage was certainly present at Drury Lane that night. This was Monsieur Otto, the French Ambassador who had negotiated the Peace Treaty. He was attended by his right-hand man, Colonel Lauriston. The two Frenchmen had come to pay their respects to Lady de Genneville in her box; that pretty blonde whose extravagance and irresponsible escapades had given her elderly spouse much cause for uneasiness. The lady was slightly bored by the dry conversation of her visitors, for she had heard much of French gallantry, and was disappointed that these two dry as dust diplomats could talk of nothing but the atrocious English climate, or the marvellous personality of Bonaparte, and seemed totally impervious to the fusillade of her bright eyes.

Fortunately, the door of her box was constantly assailed by other visitors, dominoes, harlequins, sprites or gnomes, all eager to pay homage to the acknowledged Queen of Beauty. There was a constant coming and going in and out of the box, flowers, billets-doux, bonbons were brought by that host of young dandies, who thought it more of an honour to receive a cool smile from Charmion de Genneville’s exquisite lips than marked favours from any other society star.

“Saint-Denys is here. Has your ladyship seen him?” an impudent-looking young Pierrot remarked eagerly.

“No. Where?”

“Just down below the fifth—no!—the sixth box over there, in the grey domino, leaning against the pillar...”

“I see him. I thought he would have been too bored to come.”

“I expect he has planned something for to-night,” remarked a grotesque Pantaloon, whilst a Grand Turk added solemnly, “That’s the best of Saint-Denys, he always has a surprise in store.”

“They say he has planned to have the Duc de Berry crowned King of France in Westminster Abbey,” declared the young Pierrot.

“And to abduct the French Ambassador,” a ferocious-looking pirate averred, “and to hold him in durance...”

But he got no further with this awesome suggestion, for he had received a punch in the ribs from the Pierrot and a pinch on the arm from Pantaloon. Punch and pinch caused him to set up a howl of pain, whilst the lovely Charmion burst into a ripple of laughter.

“My dear Duke,” she said as solemnly as the situation allowed, “let me present you to His Excellency the French Ambassador.”

“Great St. Christopher!” the ferocious-looking pirate—otherwise His Grace of Flint—ejaculated as he tried to beat a hasty retreat. But the others barred the way, and he was forced to make his bow before His Excellency and to encounter the steely glance of Colonel Lauriston, while her ladyship laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.

“I hope,” Monsieur Otto said with a wry attempt at jocularity, “that your Grace’s friend will not succeed in either of his endeavours.”

“It might prove a fresh casus belli,” the Colonel added dryly.

“My God! These Frenchmen have no sense of humour,” thought the three young English jackanapes as they finally bowed themselves out of the presence of the French plenipotentiaries, two of them vowing that Flint never could open his mouth without putting his foot in it.