Part 4

"I do not take your meaning," said Philip crossly.

"What! It's not a petticoat?"

"Tom, I'll thank you to--to--be quiet!"

Tom choked his laughter.

"Oh, I'm dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?"

"'Tis what I want to know, Tom."

"And I'm to teach you?"

Philip hesitated.

"Is it perhaps--a thing I can best learn alone?" he asked, surprisingly diffident.

"What is it exactly you want to learn?"

"To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?"

"Odd rot, what are ye now?"

Philip's lips curled.

"I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clodhopper."

His uncle regarded him with some kindliness.

"Little vixen," he remarked sapiently.

"I beg your pardon?" Philip was cold.

"Not at all," said Tom hastily. "So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God's sake! What do ye want?"

"I want, or rather, they--he--wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to--"

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Tom. "I have the whole picture! And it's no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn."

"Why, I trust you're pessimistic, sir," said Philip, "for I intend to acquire all these arts--within a year."

"Well, I like your spirit," acknowledged Tom. "Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story."

This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh--although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished finger-nail and looked exceeding wise.

"My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that's neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don't appreciate your sterling qualities--"

"Oh, 'tis not my qualities they object to! 'Tis my lack of vice."

"Don't interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble--what was the word you used?--clodhopper. 'Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. 'Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them."

"I doubt I shall," said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile.

Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew's form appraisingly.

"Ye've a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?"

Philip extended them, laughing.

"Um! a little attention, and I'd not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome."

"Am I?" Philip was startled. "I never knew that before!"

"Then ye know it now. You're the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat," he added sadly. "But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat--what's the girl's name?"

"I don't see why you should assu--"

"Don't be a fool, lad! It's that fair chit, eh? Charlotte--no, damn it, some heathenish name!"

"Cleone," supplied Philip, submitting.

"Ay, that's it--Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye'll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is excel. Excel!"

"I doubt I could not," said Philip. "And, indeed, I've no mind to."

"Then I've done with you." Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.

"No, no, Tom! You must help me!"

A stern eye was fixed on him.

"Ye must put yourself in my hands, then."

"Ay, but--"

"Completely," said Tom inexorably.

Philip collapsed.

"Oh, very well!"

The round, good-tempered face lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought.

"Paris," he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. "You must go there," he explained.

Philip was horrified.

"What! I? To Paris? Never!"

"Then I wash my--"

"But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!"

"The more reason."

"But--but--damn it, I say I will not!"

Tom yawned.

"As ye will."

Philip became more and more unhappy.

"Why should I go to Paris?" he growled.

"You're like a surly bear," reproved Tom. "Where else would you go?"

"Can't I--surely I can learn all I want here?"

"Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!"

Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence.

"To Paris," resumed Tom, "within the week. Luckily, you've more money than is good for you. You've no need to pinch and scrape. I'll take you, clothe you, and introduce you."

Philip brightened.

"Will you? That's devilish good of you, Tom!"

"It is," agreed Tom. "But I dare swear I'll find entertainment there." He chuckled. "And not a word to your father or to anyone. You'll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you."

This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily.

"I suppose I must do it. But--" He rose and walked to the window. "It's all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love--does not suffice. Well, we shall see." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They--he--they--don't care what may be a man's reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else is of consequence. Faugh!"

"Ay, you're taking it hard," nodded his uncle. "But they're all the same, lad--bless 'em!"

"I thought--this one--was different."

"More fool you," said Tom cynically.

Six

The Beginning of the Transformation

Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for the seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr. Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip's right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain.

François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip's legs adoringly.

"But of an excellence, m'sieur! So perfect a calf, m'sieur! So vairy fine a laig," he explained in English.

Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat.

"_Tais--toi, imbécile!_ 'Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!"

"_Mais, monsieur, je--je--cela me donne--mal au cou._"

"_Il faut souffrir pour être bel_," replied the Marquis severely.

"So it seems," said Philip irritably. "Tom, for God's sake, have done!"

His uncle chuckled.

"I've finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!"

Le Marquis de Château-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork.

"I am not altogether satisfied," he said musingly.

Philip warded him off.

"No, no, m'sieur! I am sure it is perfection!"

The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly.

"It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!"

The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis' hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief.

The Marquis nodded.

"Yes, Tom, you are right. It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe."

Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table.

"What now? Have you nearly finished?"

"Now the rouge. François, haste!"

Philip tried to rebel.

"I will not be painted and powdered!"

The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye.

"_Plaît--il?_"

"M'sieur--I--I will not!"

"Philippe--if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, _hein_?"

"But, m'sieur, can I not go without paint?"

"You can not."

Philip smiled ruefully.

"Then do your worst!"

"It is not my worst, _ingrat_. It is my best!"

"Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir."

The Marquis' lips twitched. He signed to François.

Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire ear-ring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully.

But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger.

The Marquis found him _fort amusant_, but troublesome.

"Forget it, little fool!"

"Forget it?" cried Philip. "How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?"

"_Quelle absurdité!_ The sword, Tom!"

"How can I dance in a sword?" protested Philip.

"It is _de rigueur_," said the Marquis.

Philip fingered the jewelled hilt.

"A pretty plaything," he said. "I have never spent so much money on fripperies before."

François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip's fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuff-box, and a handkerchief.

Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.

"Well, my friend?"

But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief.

"Well!" The Marquis grew impatient. "You have nothing to say?"

Philip turned.

"_C'est merveilleux!_" he breathed.

The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head.

"In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! _C'est gauche, c'est impossible!_"

Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less _gauche_.

"It is my intention," said the Marquis. "A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil."

"Faith, I'm proud of ye now!" cried Tom. "Why, lad, you'll be more modish than ever Maurice was!"

Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off.

"Oh?" queried the Marquis. "Why?"

"I don't like it."

"You don't like it? Why not?"

"I don't know. I'll only wear sapphires and diamonds."

"By heaven, the boy's right!" exclaimed Tom. "He should be all blue!"

"In a month--two months--I shall present you at Versailles," decided the Marquis. "François, remove that abominable ruby. And now--_en avant_!"

And so went Philip to his first ball.

* * * * *

At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew's feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him.

After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue, and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside.

François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M'sieur consider them? M'sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M'sieur would not wear them; they offended him.

Before very long "le jeune Anglais" was looked for and welcomed. Ladies liked him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and _bals masqués_, and to card-parties and _soirées_. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him.

However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels.

* * * * *

Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip's friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the _affaire_ ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip.

The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare.

"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, mon 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 bien, 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 folly of my ways, and now--_me voici_!"

"I said that I scented an intrigue," said the Vicomte tranquilly.

"But wait, wait! _You_ in the country, Philippe? You jest!"

"On my honour, no, _chérie_! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society."

"Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?"

"I have a natural aptitude," smiled Philip. "Now are you satisfied?"

"_Je n'en reviendrai jamais!_" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. "_Jamais, jamais, jamais!_"

"I am not at all satisfied."

Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte.

"What more would you have?"

"I would know of what like she is."

"She?"

"The lady to whom your heart is lost."

"That's an hundred she's," replied Philip airily. "And they are all different!"

"I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel," drawled Bancroft.

All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly.

"Proceed, _mon ami_. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?"

"Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!"

Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge.

"If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady's name," he said softly.

There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach.

"The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff.

"He is very fastidious," sneered Bancroft.

M. le Comte closed his snuff-box and stepped back. He became politely bored.

"The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?"

Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up.

"I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away from the little group.

Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip.

"Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood.

"It's too fatiguing," said Philip. "I'll come."

"Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot.

"A creature of no importance," shrugged Philip.

"So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger?"

"Yes," admitted Philip. "I do not like the colour of his coat."

"You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like anything about him. He was here before--last year. His conversation lacks _finesse_. He is tolerated in London, _hein_?"

"I don't know. I trust not."

"_Hé, hé!_ So he interfered between you and the lady?"

Philip withdrew his arm.

"Saint-Dantin!"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks--a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?"

"Am I cold?"

"At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?"

"Certainly it is so. It's unfashionable to possess a heart."

"Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue."

"So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject."