The Transformation of Philip Jettan Read online

  “I—beg—your pardon?” said Philip stiffly.

  “But what a modesty!” cried the Marquis, much amused.

  “Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?”

  “But yes! Of course I think it!”

  “Permit me to enlighten you,” said Philip. “My affections are with a lady—at home.”

  “Oh, la, la!” deplored the Marquis. “A lady of the country? A simple country wench?”

  “I thank God, yes,” said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject.

  “Philip, I will take you to Court.”

  Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored.

  “Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then.”

  The shrewd eyes twinkled.

  “The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King.”

  Philip shrugged.

  “Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured.”

  “Sans doute,” bowed the Marquis. “But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour.”

  “M’sieur, I have already told you—”

  “Oh, yes. But you have now the name for—slaying of hearts.”

  Philip dropped his affectation.

  “Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?”

  “It is very fashionable,” said the Marquis mischievously. “You become a figure.”

  “But I—“He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. “They fatigue me.” And he yawned.

  “What! Even la Salévier?”

  “The woman with the enormous wig—oh—ah! She is well enough, but passée, man cher Marquis, passée!”

  “Sangdieu, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?”

  “Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady’s name out of this or any discussion.”

  “Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, hein?”

  Philip smiled.

  “That is absurd, sir.”

  *

  That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September.

  SEVEN

  MR. BANCROFT COMES TO PARIS AND IS ANNOYED

  IN FEBRUARY came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip’s departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his affaire had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes.

  It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris.

  Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands:

  “Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh hien, petit Anglais?”

  A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her.

  “At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!”

  Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss.

  “And where have you been this long while, vaurien?”

  Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.

  “Languishing in outer darkness, chérie.”

  “The darkness of the Court!” laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. “Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!”

  Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle’s hand.

  “Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?”

  Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan.

  “ Voyons! Have you finished with my hand?”

  Instantly he turned back to her.

  “I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!” Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. “And one for the lovely whole. Voilà!”

  “You are indeed a rogue,” she told him. “For you care—not one jot!”

  “If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve,” he answered gaily.

  “You don’t deceive me, le petit Philippe . . . ! So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer—with no heart to lose!”

  “Rumour hath it that ’tis already lost,” smiled De Bergeret. “Eh, Philippe?”

  “Lost an hundred times,” mourned Philip, “and retrieved never!”

  “Oh!” Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. “Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I’ll no more of you!”

  “Alack!” Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. “I give you thanks, mignonne, ’twas very hard.”

  “But you do not say! How is she, la Pompadour?” cried De Salmy.

  Philip pressed a hand to his forehead.

  “La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black.”

  Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan.

  Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Bancroft. “’Tis never Mr. Jettan?”

  “Que lui dit-il?” asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English.

  Philip bowed distantly.

  “M’sieur?”

  “You’ve not forgotten me? Bancroft?”

  “Ah—Mr. Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir.” He bowed again.

  “Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! Nom de Dieu!”

  “Aha, that I understand!” said Mademoiselle relievedly. “It is one of your friends, Philippe?” She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. “L’ami de Philippe—ah, but you should have said!”

  Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip’s friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle’s hand with a good grace.

  “I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was—in a wood.”

  “Tell!” besought the lady.

  Philip threw out his hands.

  “Ah, no, chérie! That meeting was so disastrous to my vanity!”

  “Raison de plus,” decided Mademoiselle. “Tell me about it!”

  “Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted.”

  “You?” cried Mademoiselle. “Impossible!”

  “On the contrary, bien aimée; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?”

  “Not so long since,” said Mr. Bancroft.

  “Six months,” nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin.

  Mademoiselle was still incredulous.

  “A sorry spectacle? Philippe?”

  “I scent an intrigue,” said a little Vicomte. “Clothilde, make him tell!”

  “Of course,” she said. “Philippe!”

  Philip swung neatly round to face her.

  “Chère Clothilde?”

  “Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse—bien! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!”

  “Oh, I’ll give away no man’s secrets!” simpered Bancroft.

  Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde.

  “Petite ange, it’s a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the fol