A Story

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by William Makepeace Thackeray

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,

  Mrs. Catherine, and what do you intend to do?" she did not reply a

  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

  swallowed up in the course of a few hours. The Corporal looked on;

  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.

 

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