as gently as possible. "He'll turn me out of the regiment, will
he?" says he, quite piano; and then added (con molta espressione),
"I'll do for him."
And it is to be remarked how generally, in cases of this nature,
gentlemen stick to their word.
CHAPTER III. IN WHICH A NARCOTIC IS ADMINISTERED, AND A GREAT DEAL
OF GENTEEL SOCIETY DEPICTED.
When the Corporal, who had retreated to the street-door immediately
on hearing the above conversation, returned to the Captain's
lodgings and paid his respects to Mrs. Catherine, he found that lady
in high good-humour. The Count had been with her, she said, along
with a friend of his, Mr. Trippet; had promised her twelve yards of
the lace she coveted so much; had vowed that the child should have
as much more for a cloak; and had not left her until he had sat with
her for an hour, or more, over a bowl of punch, which he made on
purpose for her. Mr. Trippet stayed too. "A mighty pleasant man,"
said she; "only not very wise, and seemingly a good deal in liquor."
"A good deal indeed!" said the Corporal. "He was so tipsy just now
that he could hardly stand. He and his honour were talking to Nan
Fantail in the market-place; and she pulled Trippet's wig off, for
wanting to kiss her."
"The nasty fellow!" said Mrs. Cat, "to demean himself with such low
people as Nan Fantail, indeed! Why, upon my conscience now,
Corporal, it was but an hour ago that Mr. Trippet swore he never saw
such a pair of eyes as mine, and would like to cut the Captain's
throat for the love of me. Nan Fantail, indeed!"
"Nan's an honest girl, Madam Catherine, and was a great favourite of
the Captain's before someone else came in his way. No one can say a
word against her--not a word."
"And pray, Corporal, who ever did?" said Mrs. Cat, rather offended.
"A nasty, ugly slut! I wonder what the men can see in her?"
"She has got a smart way with her, sure enough; it's what amuses the
men, and--"
"And what? You don't mean to say that my Max is fond of her NOW?"
said Mrs. Catherine, looking very fierce.
"Oh, no; not at all: not of HER;--that is--"
"Not of HER!" screamed she. "Of whom, then?"
"Oh, psha! nonsense! Of you, my dear, to be sure; who else should
he care for? And, besides, what business is it of mine?" And
herewith the Corporal began whistling, as if he would have no more
of the conversation. But Mrs. Cat was not to be satisfied,--not
she,--and carried on her cross-questions.
"Why, look you," said the Corporal, after parrying many of
these,--"Why, look you, I'm an old fool, Catherine, and I must blab.
That man has been the best friend I ever had, and so I was quiet;
but I can't keep it in any longer,--no, hang me if I can! It's my
belief he's acting like a rascal by you: he deceives you,
Catherine; he's a scoundrel, Mrs. Hall, that's the truth on't."
Catherine prayed him to tell all he knew; and he resumed.
"He wants you off his hands; he's sick of you, and so brought here
that fool Tom Trippet, who has taken a fancy to you. He has not the
courage to turn you out of doors like a man; though indoors he can
treat you like a beast. But I'll tell you what he'll do. In a
month he will go to Coventry, or pretend to go there, on recruiting
business. No such thing, Mrs. Hall; he's going on MARRIAGE
business; and he'll leave you without a farthing, to starve or to
rot, for him. It's all arranged, I tell you: in a month, you are
to be starved into becoming Tom Trippet's mistress; and his honour
is to marry rich Miss Dripping, the twenty-thousand-pounder from
London; and to purchase a regiment;--and to get old Brock drummed
out of Cutts's too," said the Corporal, under his breath. But he
might have spoken out, if he chose; for the poor young woman had
sunk on the ground in a real honest fit.
"I thought I should give it her," said Mr. Brock as he procured a
glass of water; and, lifting her on to a sofa, sprinkled the same
over her. "Hang it! how pretty she is."
* * *
When Mrs. Catherine came to herself again, Brock's tone with her was
kind, and almost feeling. Nor did the poor wench herself indulge in
any subsequent shiverings and hysterics, such as usually follow the
fainting-fits of persons of higher degree. She pressed him for
further explanations, which he gave, and to which she listened with
a great deal of calmness; nor did many tears, sobs, sighs, or
exclamations of sorrow or anger escape from her: only when the
Corporal was taking his leave, and said to her point-blank,--" Well,
word; but gave a look which made him exclaim, on leaving the room,--
"By heavens! the woman means murder! I would not be the Holofernes
to lie by the side of such a Judith as that--not I!" And he went
his way, immersed in deep thought. When the Captain returned at
night, she did not speak to him; and when he swore at her for being
sulky, she only said she had a headache, and was dreadfully ill;
with which excuse Gustavus Adolphus seemed satisfied, and left her
to herself.
He saw her the next morning for a moment: he was going a-shooting.
Catherine had no friend, as is usual in tragedies and romances,--no
mysterious sorceress of her acquaintance to whom she could apply for
poison,--so she went simply to the apothecaries, pretending at each
that she had a dreadful toothache, and procuring from them as much
laudanum as she thought would suit her purpose.
When she went home again she seemed almost gay. Mr. Brock
complimented her upon the alteration in her appearance; and she was
enabled to receive the Captain at his return from shooting in such a
manner as made him remark that she had got rid of her sulks of the
morning, and might sup with them, if she chose to keep her good-
humour. The supper was got ready, and the gentlemen had the
punch-bowl when the cloth was cleared,--Mrs. Catherine, with her
delicate hands, preparing the liquor.
It is useless to describe the conversation that took place, or to
reckon the number of bowls that were emptied; or to tell how Mr.
Trippet, who was one of the guests, and declined to play at cards
when some of the others began, chose to remain by Mrs. Catherine's
side, and make violent love to her. All this might be told, and the
account, however faithful, would not be very pleasing. No, indeed!
And here, though we are only in the third chapter of this history,
we feel almost sick of the characters that appear in it, and the
adventures which they are called upon to go through. But how can we
help ourselves? The public will hear of nothing but rogues; and the
only way in which poor authors, who must live, can act honestly by
the public and themselves, is to paint such thieves as they are:
not, dandy, poetical, rose-water thieves; but real downright
scoundrels, leading scoundrelly lives, drunken, profligate,
&n
bsp; dissolute, low; as scoundrels will be. They don't quote Plato, like
Eugene Aram; or live like gentlemen, and sing the pleasantest
ballads in the world, like jolly Dick Turpin; or prate eternally
about "to kalon,"* like that precious canting Maltravers, whom we
all of us have read about and pitied; or die whitewashed saints,
like poor "Biss Dadsy" in "Oliver Twist." No, my dear madam, you
and your daughters have no right to admire and sympathise with any
such persons, fictitious or real: you ought to be made cordially to
detest, scorn, loathe, abhor, and abominate all people of this
kidney. Men of genius like those whose works we have above alluded
to, have no business to make these characters interesting or
agreeable; to be feeding your morbid fancies, or indulging their
own, with such monstrous food. For our parts, young ladies, we beg
you to bottle up your tears, and not waste a single drop of them on
any one of the heroes or heroines in this history: they are all
rascals, every soul of them, and behave "as sich." Keep your
sympathy for those who deserve it: don't carry it, for preference,
to the Old Bailey, and grow maudlin over the company assembled
there.
* Anglicised version of the author's original Greek text.
Just, then, have the kindness to fancy that the conversation which
took place over the bowls of punch which Mrs. Catherine prepared,
was such as might be expected to take place where the host was a
dissolute, dare-devil, libertine captain of dragoons, the guests for
the most part of the same class, and the hostess a young woman
originally from a country alehouse, and for the present mistress to
the entertainer of the society. They talked, and they drank, and
they grew tipsy; and very little worth hearing occurred during the
course of the whole evening. Mr. Brock officiated, half as the
servant, half as the companion of the society. Mr. Thomas Trippet
made violent love to Mrs. Catherine, while her lord and master was
playing at dice with the other gentlemen: and on this night,
strange to say, the Captain's fortune seemed to desert him. The
Warwickshire Squire, from whom he had won so much, had an amazing
run of good luck. The Captain called perpetually for more drink,
and higher stakes, and lost almost every throw. Three hundred, four
hundred, six hundred--all his winnings of the previous months were
and, to do him justice, seemed very grave as, sum by sum, the Squire
scored down the Count's losses on the paper before him.
Most of the company had taken their hats and staggered off. The
Squire and Mr. Trippet were the only two that remained, the latter
still lingering by Mrs. Catherine's sofa and table; and as she, as
we have stated, had been employed all the evening in mixing the
liquor for the gamesters, he was at the headquarters of love and
drink, and had swallowed so much of each as hardly to be able to
speak.
The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great
long wicks. Mr. Trippet could hardly see the Captain, and thought,
as far as his muzzy reason would let him, that the Captain could not
see him: so he rose from his chair as well as he could, and fell
down on Mrs. Catherine's sofa. His eyes were fixed, his face was
pale, his jaw hung down; and he flung out his arms and said, in a
maudlin voice, "Oh, you byoo-oo-oo-tifile Cathrine, I must have a
kick-kick-iss."
"Beast!" said Mrs. Catherine, and pushed him away. The drunken
wretch fell off the sofa, and on to the floor, where he stayed; and,
after snorting out some unintelligible sounds, went to sleep.
The dice went rattling on; the candles were burning dim, with great
long wicks.
"Seven's the main," cried the Count. "Four. Three to two against
the caster."
"Ponies," said the Warwickshire Squire.
Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, clatter, NINE. Clap, clap, clap,
clap, ELEVEN. Clutter, clutter, clutter, clutter: "Seven it is,"
says the Warwickshire Squire. "That makes eight hundred, Count."
"One throw for two hundred," said the Count. "But stop! Cat, give
us some more punch."
Mrs. Cat came forward; she looked a little pale, and her hand
trembled somewhat. "Here is the punch, Max," said she. It was
steaming hot, in a large glass. "Don't drink it all," said she;
"leave me some."
"How dark it is!" said the Count, eyeing it.
"It's the brandy," said Cat.
"Well, here goes! Squire, curse you! here's your health, and bad
luck to you!" and he gulped off more than half the liquor at a
draught. But presently he put down the glass and cried, "What
infernal poison is this, Cat?"
"Poison!" said she. "It's no poison. Give me the glass." And she
pledged Max, and drank a little of it. "'Tis good punch, Max, and
of my brewing; I don't think you will ever get any better." And she
went back to the sofa again, and sat down, and looked at the
players.
Mr. Brock looked at her white face and fixed eyes with a grim kind
of curiosity. The Count sputtered, and cursed the horrid taste of
the punch still; but he presently took the box, and made his
threatened throw.
As before, the Squire beat him; and having booked his winnings, rose
from table as well as he might and besought to lead him downstairs;
which Mr. Brock did.
Liquor had evidently stupefied the Count: he sat with his head
between his hands, muttering wildly about ill-luck, seven's the
main, bad punch, and so on. The street-door banged to; and the
steps of Brock and the Squire were heard, until they could be heard
no more.
"Max," said she; but he did not answer. "Max," said she again,
laying her hand on his shoulder.
"Curse you," said that gentleman, "keep off, and don't be laying
your paws upon me. Go to bed, you jade, or to--,for what I care;
and give me first some more punch--a gallon more punch, do you
hear?"
The gentleman, by the curses at the commencement of this little
speech, and the request contained at the end of it, showed that his
losses vexed him, and that he was anxious to forget them
temporarily.
"Oh, Max!" whimpered Mrs. Cat, "you--don't--want any more punch?"
"Don't! Shan't I be drunk in my own house, you cursed whimpering
jade, you? Get out!" and with this the Captain proceeded to
administer a blow upon Mrs. Catherine's cheek.
Contrary to her custom, she did not avenge it, or seek to do so, as
on the many former occasions when disputes of this nature had arisen
between the Count and her; but now Mrs. Catherine fell on her knees
and, clasping her hands and looking pitifully in the Count's face,
cried, "Oh, Count, forgive me, forgive me!"
"Forgive you! What for? Because I slapped your face? Ha, ha!
I'll forgive you again, if you don't mind."
"Oh, no, no, no!" said she, wringing her hands. "It isn't that.
&n
bsp; Max, dear Max, will you forgive me? It isn't the blow--I don't mind
that; it's--"
"It's what, you--maudlin fool?"
"IT'S THE PUNCH!"
The Count, who was more than half seas over, here assumed an air of
much tipsy gravity. "The punch! No, I never will forgive you that
last glass of punch. Of all the foul, beastly drinks I ever tasted,
that was the worst. No, I never will forgive you that punch."
"Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!" said she.
"I tell you it is that,--you! That punch, I say that punch was no
better than paw--aw-oison." And here the Count's head sank back,
and he fell to snore.
"IT WAS POISON!" said she.
"WHAT!" screamed he, waking up at once, and spurning her away from
him. "What, you infernal murderess, have you killed me?"
"Oh, Max!--don't kill me, Max! It was laudanum--indeed it was. You
were going to be married, and I was furious, and I went and got--"
"Hold your tongue, you fiend," roared out the Count; and with more
presence of mind than politeness, he flung the remainder of the
liquor (and, indeed, the glass with it) at the head of Mrs.
Catherine. But the poisoned chalice missed its mark, and fell right
on the nose of Mr. Tom Trippet, who was left asleep and unobserved
under the table.
Bleeding, staggering, swearing, indeed a ghastly sight, up sprang
Mr. Trippet, and drew his rapier. "Come on," says he; "never say
die! What's the row? I'm ready for a dozen of you." And he made
many blind and furious passes about the room.
"Curse you, we'll die together!" shouted the Count, as he too pulled
out his toledo, and sprang at Mrs. Catherine.
"Help! murder! thieves!" shrieked she. "Save me, Mr. Trippet, save
me!" and she placed that gentleman between herself and the Count,
and then made for the door of the bedroom, and gained it, and bolted
it.
"Out of the way, Trippet," roared the Count--"out of the way, you
drunken beast! I'll murder her, I will--I'll have the devil's
life." And here he gave a swinging cut at Mr. Trippet's sword: it
sent the weapon whirling clean out of his hand, and through a window
into the street.
"Take my life, then," said Mr. Trippet: "I'm drunk, but I'm a man,
and, damme! will never say die."
"I don't want your life, you stupid fool. Hark you, Trippet, wake
and be sober, if you can. That woman has heard of my marriage with
Miss Dripping."
"Twenty thousand pound," ejaculated Trippet.
"She has been jealous, I tell you, and POISONED us. She has put
laudanum into the punch."
"What, in MY punch?" said Trippet, growing quite sober and losing
his courage. "O Lord! O Lord!"
"Don't stand howling there, but run for a doctor; 'tis our only
chance." And away ran Mr. Trippet, as if the deuce were at his
heels.
The Count had forgotten his murderous intentions regarding his
mistress, or had deferred them at least, under the consciousness of
his own pressing danger. And it must be said, in the praise of a
man who had fought for and against Marlborough and Tallard, that his
courage in this trying and novel predicament never for a moment
deserted him, but that he showed the greatest daring, as well as
ingenuity, in meeting and averting the danger. He flew to the
sideboard, where were the relics of a supper, and seizing the
mustard and salt pots, and a bottle of oil, he emptied them all into
a jug, into which he further poured a vast quantity of hot water.
This pleasing mixture he then, without a moment's hesitation, placed
to his lips, and swallowed as much of it as nature would allow him.
But when he had imbibed about a quart, the anticipated effect was
produced, and he was enabled, by the power of this ingenious
extemporaneous emetic, to get rid of much of the poison which Mrs.
Catherine had administered to him.