The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  “Clo doesn’t hate Philip,” said Sir Maurice. “She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite’s letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?”

  “No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it’s because he has had affaires in Paris, even if that was not one. He’s too dangerously popular.”

  “So it seemed from Satterthwaite’s account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it.”

  “He’s novel, y’see. I’d a letter from Château-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of ce cher petit Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!”

  Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards.

  “By Gad, if Philip’s so great a success, it’s—it’s more than ever I expected,” he ended lamely.

  “Wait till you see him!” smiled Thomas. “The boy’s for all the world like a bit o’ quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he opens his mouth, and—here he is!”

  A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the library from the hall.

  “Mordieu, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, vieux crépin, for the love of God!”

  “Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him, he’d leave me,” remarked Tom. “With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now what’s to do?”

  “Doucement, malheureux! Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms off with the coat? Ah, voilà! Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care not to crease it. Yes, that is well!”

  Then came Moggat’s voice, very self-conscious.

  “C’est comme moosoo désire?”

  There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh.

  “Voyons, c’est fameux! Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where’s my uncle? In the library?”

  Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room.

  “Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain—” He broke off. The next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice’s thin hands pressed to his lips. “Father!”

  Tom coughed and walked to the window.

  Sir Maurice drew his hands away. He took Philip’s chin in his long fingers and forced his head up. Silently he scrutinised his son’s face. Then he smiled.

  “You patched and painted puppy-dog,” he mimicked softly.

  Philip laughed. His hands found Sir Maurice’s again and gripped hard.

  “Alack, too true! Father, you’re looking older.”

  “Impudent young scapegrace! What would you? I have but one son.”

  “And you missed him?”

  “A little,” acknowledged Sir Maurice.

  Philip rose to his feet.

  “Ah, but I am glad! And you are sorry you sent him away?”

  “Not now. But when I received this—very.” Sir Maurice held out the sheet of paper.

  “That! Bah!” Philip sent it whirling into the fire. “For that I apologise. If you had not been hurt—oh, heaven knows what I should have done! Where is your baggage, Father?”

  “Here by now.”

  “Here? But no, no! It must go to Curzon Street!”

  “My dear son, I thank you very much, but an old man is better with an old man.”

  Tom wheeled round.

  “What’s that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I’m as young as ever I was!”

  “In any case, it is to Curzon Street that you come, Father.”

  “As often as you wish, dear boy, but I’ll stay with Tom.” Then, as Philip prepared to argue the point, “No, Philip, my mind is made up. Sit down and tell me the tale of your ridiculous duel with Bancroft.”

  “Oh, that!” Philip laughed. “It was amusing, but scandalous. My sympathies were with my adversary.”

  “And what was the ode you threatened to read?”

  “An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion. They took it from me—Paul and Louis—oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They do not like my verse.”

  Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Gad, Philip, but I wish I’d been there! To hear you declaim an ode of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible Philip?”

  “Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!”

  Sir Maurice sat up again.

  “Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?”

  ‘That,” said his son, “is on the knees of the gods.”

  “I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?”

  “Parfaitement! ” bowed Philip. “I play now—a little game.”

  “And Cleone?”

  “Cleone . . . I don’t know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady Malmerstoke stands my friend.”

  “Trust Sally,” said Tom.

  Philip’s eyes sparkled.

  “Ah, Tom, Tom, art a rogue! Father, he is in love with her ladyship!”

  “He always has been,” answered Sir Maurice. “Even before old Malmerstoke died.”

  Tom cleared his throat.

  “I—”

  “Then why do you not wed her?” demanded Philip.

  “She would not. Now she says—perhaps. We are very good friends,” he added contentedly. “I doubt neither of us is at the age when one loves with heat.”

  “Philip, how do you like Paris?” interrupted Sir Maurice.

  “I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is beyond all words.”

  “Ay. I thought the same. But in the end one is glad to come home.”

  “May it please heaven, then, to make the end far, far away,” said Philip. “When I go back, you will go with me, Father.”

  “Ah, I am too old for that now,” answered Sir Maurice. He smiled reminiscently.

  “Too old? Quelle absurdité! M. de Château-Banvau has made me swear to bring you. M. de Richelieu asked when he was to see your face again. A score—”

  “De Richelieu? Where did you meet him, boy?”

  “At Versailles. He was very kind to me for your sake.”

  “Ay, he would be. So you went to Versailles, then!”

  “Often.”

  “Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted you to Versailles?”

  “Many things,” parried Philip.

  “Female things?”

  “What curiosity! Sometimes, yes, but not au sérieux.”

  “Little Philip without a heart, eh?”

  “Who told you that?” Philip leaned forward.

  “Satterthwaite wrote it, or something like it.”

  “Le petit Philippe au Coeur Perdu. Most of them would give their eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!”

  “Is it still Cleone?” Sir Maurice looked sharply across at him.

  “It has—never been anyone else,” answered Philip simply.

  “I am glad. I want you to marry her, Philip.”

  “Sir,” said Philip superbly, “I have every intention of so doing.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF MISTRESS CLEONE

  FRANÇOIS, THERE is one below who desires m’sieu’.’

  François shook out a fine lace ruffle.

  “Qui est-ce?”

  “Le père de M’sieur,” answered Jacques gloomily.

  François cast the ruffle aside.

  “Le père de M’sieur! I go at once.” He vanished out of the door and scuttled downstairs to the library. Sir Maurice was startled by his sudden entrance, and raised his eyeglass the better to observe this very abrupt, diminutive creature.

  François bowed very low.

  “M’sieu,” eet ees zat my mastaire ’e ees wiz hees barbier. Eef m’sieu’ would come up to ze chamber of my mastaire?”

  Sir Maurice smiled.

  “Assurément. Vous allez marcher en tête?”

  François’ face broke into a deli