Tancred | Page 2

masters. They keep
late hours. The banquet and the ball dismiss them to their homes at a
time when the trades of ordinary regions move in their last sleep, and
dream of opening shutters and decking the windows of their shops.
At night, the chariot whirls round the frequent corners of these little
streets, and the opening valves of the mews vomit forth their legion of
broughams. At night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball at
Holdernesse, or a concert at Lansdowne House, and knowing that, in
either instance, the link-boy will answer when necessary for his
summoned name, ventures to look in at his club, reads the paper, talks
of his master or his mistress, and perhaps throws a main. The shops of
this district, depending almost entirely for their custom on the classes
we have indicated, and kept often by their relations, follow the order of
the place, and are most busy when other places of business are closed.
A gusty March morning had subsided into a sunshiny afternoon, nearly
two years ago, when a young man, slender, above the middle height,
with a physiognomy thoughtful yet delicate, his brown hair worn long,
slight whiskers, on his chin a tuft, knocked at the door of a house in
Carrington Street, May Fair. His mien and his costume denoted a
character of the class of artists. He wore a pair of green trousers,
braided with a black stripe down their sides, puckered towards the
waist, yet fitting with considerable precision to the boot of French
leather that enclosed a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroon
velvet, displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manufacture, and a
black satin cravat, with a coral brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was
frogged and braided like his trousers. As the knocker fell from the
primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand, he uncovered, and
passing his fingers rapidly through his hair, resumed his new silk hat,
which he placed rather on one side of his head.
'Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?' exclaimed a pretty girl, who opened the
door and blushed.

'And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at home? For I want to see
him much.'
'I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander, for he will be very
happy to see you. We have been thinking of hearing of you,' she added,
talking as she ushered her guest up the narrow staircase. 'The good
papa has a little cold: 'tis not much, I hope; caught at Sir Wallinger's, a
large dinner; they would have the kitchen windows open, which spoilt
all the entrées, and papa got a cold; but I think, perhaps, it is as much
vexation as anything else, you know if anything goes wrong, especially
with the entrées------'
'He feels as a great artist must,' said Leander, finishing her sentence.
'However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him a prisoner, for I
am pressed to see him. It is only this morning that I have returned from
Mr. Coningsby's at Hellingsley: the house full, forty covers every day,
and some judges. One does not grudge one's labour if we are
appreciated,' added Leander; 'but I have had my troubles. One of my
marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I had a genius, but on the
third day he lost his head; and had it not been---- Ah! good papa,' he
exclaimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly shook
the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting in an easy
chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a French
newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a white cotton nightcap on his
head.
'Ah! my child,' said Papa Prevost, 'is it you? You see me a prisoner;
Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant's; dressed in a draught;
everything spoiled, and I------' and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped his eau
sucrée.
'We have all our troubles,' said Leander, in a consoling tone; 'but we
will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country;
Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found
him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis. The
son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted.
Camacho's wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a

capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our
marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is to
be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood, high
relatives and grandees