Lucile [12]
warm air without Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were about. In the gloom he sat gloomy.
XXIII.
Gay sounds from below Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes and by twos, The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will, As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill, Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er His late travelling companion, now passing before The inn, at the window of which he still sat, In full toilet,--boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove, As he turned down the avenue. Watching above, From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd, To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd, By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd, That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the hall, Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopped with and chatter'd, Walk'd on with a look which implied . . . "I feel flatter'd!"
XXIV.
His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom.
XXV.
Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin; He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile: He had thought about many things; thought a great deal Of himself, of his past life, his future, his present: He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor crescent; Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour! He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and power: Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, and A poet's asylum in some distant land: Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt, In particular; also he had thought much about His digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and last, He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'd If he thought any more of such matters at all: So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball.
XXVI.
I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet, That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the nonce Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once. I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one. And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd fast, He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, The church clock strike Twelve.
XXVII.
The last waltz was just o'er. The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a mutter Went about in the room as a young man, whose face Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and warm Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, Left the ballroom.
XXVIII.
The hubbub of comment and praise Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. "Ma foi!" Said a Frenchman beside him, . . . "That lucky Luvois Has obtained all the gifts of the gods . . . rank and wealth, And good looks, and then such inexhaustible health! He that hath shall have more; and this truth, I surmise, Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes Of la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than all, He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball." "Is it true," asked a lady aggressively fat, Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat By another that look'd like a needle, all steel And tenuity--"Luvois will marry Lucile?" The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, As though it were bent upon driving a stitch Through somebody's character. "Madam," replied, Interposing, a young man who sat by their side, And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, "I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that, If Luvois has proposed,
XXIII.
Gay sounds from below Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes and by twos, The idlers of Luchon were strolling at will, As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill, Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er His late travelling companion, now passing before The inn, at the window of which he still sat, In full toilet,--boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove, As he turned down the avenue. Watching above, From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd, To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd, By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd, That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the hall, Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopped with and chatter'd, Walk'd on with a look which implied . . . "I feel flatter'd!"
XXIV.
His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom.
XXV.
Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin; He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile: He had thought about many things; thought a great deal Of himself, of his past life, his future, his present: He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor crescent; Of the gay world, so sad! life, so sweet and so sour! He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and power: Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, and A poet's asylum in some distant land: Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no doubt, In particular; also he had thought much about His digestion, his debts, and his dinner: and last, He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'd If he thought any more of such matters at all: So he rose and resolved to set out for the ball.
XXVI.
I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet, That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a pet, Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the nonce Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once. I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one. And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd fast, He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, The church clock strike Twelve.
XXVII.
The last waltz was just o'er. The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a mutter Went about in the room as a young man, whose face Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and warm Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, Left the ballroom.
XXVIII.
The hubbub of comment and praise Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. "Ma foi!" Said a Frenchman beside him, . . . "That lucky Luvois Has obtained all the gifts of the gods . . . rank and wealth, And good looks, and then such inexhaustible health! He that hath shall have more; and this truth, I surmise, Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes Of la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than all, He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball." "Is it true," asked a lady aggressively fat, Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat By another that look'd like a needle, all steel And tenuity--"Luvois will marry Lucile?" The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, As though it were bent upon driving a stitch Through somebody's character. "Madam," replied, Interposing, a young man who sat by their side, And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, "I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that, If Luvois has proposed,