Men's Wives [78]
strong smell of an extinguished lamp, and Mrs. Berry was snuffing out the,candles on the sideboard. "Hullo, my dear!" shouts Berry: "easy, if you please; we've not done yet!" "Not done yet, Mr. Berry!" groans the lady, in a hollow sepulchral tone. "No, Mrs. B., not done yet. We are going to have some supper, ain't we, George?" "I think it's quite time to go home," said Mr. Fitz-Boodle (who, to say the truth, began to tremble himself). "I think it is, sir; you are quite right, sir; you will pardon me, gentlemen, I have a bad headache, and will retire." "Good-night, my dear!" said that audacious Berry. "Anatole, tell the cook to broil a fowl and bring some wine." If the loving couple had been alone, or if Cutler had not been an attache to the embassy, before whom she was afraid of making herself ridiculous, I am confident that Mrs. Berry would have fainted away on the spot; and that all Berry's courage would have tumbled down lifeless by the side of her. So she only gave a martyrised look, and left the room; and while we partook of the very unnecessary repast, was good enough to sing some hymn-tunes to an exceedingly slow movement in the next room, intimating that she was awake, and that, though suffering, she found her consolations in religion. These melodies did not in the least add to our friend's courage. The devilled fowl had, somehow, no devil in it. The champagne in the glasses looked exceedingly flat and blue. The fact is, that Cutler and I were now both in a state of dire consternation, and soon made a move for our hats, and lighting each a cigar in the hall, made across the little green where the Cupids and nymphs were listening to the dribbling fountain in the dark. "I'm hanged if I don't have a cigar too!" says Berry, rushing after us; and accordingly putting in his pocket a key about the size of a shovel, which hung by the little handle of the outer grille, forth he sallied, and joined us in our fumigation. He stayed with us a couple of hours, and returned homewards in perfect good spirits, having given me his word of honour he would dine with us the next day. He put his immense key into the grille, and unlocked it; but the gate would not open: IT WAS BOLTED WITHIN. He began to make a furious jangling and ringing at the bell; and in oaths, both French and English, called upon the recalcitrant Anatole. After much tolling of the bell, a light came cutting across the crevices of the inner door; it was thrown open, and a figure appeared with a lamp,--a tall slim figure of a woman, clothed in white from head to foot. It was Mrs. Berry, and when Cutler and I saw her, we both ran away as fast as our legs could carry us. Berry, at this, shrieked with a wild laughter. "Remember to-morrow, old boys," shouted he,--"six o'clock;" and we were a quarter of a mile off when the gate closed, and the little mansion of the Avenue de Paris was once more quiet and dark. The next afternoon, as we were playing at billiards, Cutler saw Mrs. Berry drive by in her carriage; and as soon as rather a long rubber was over, I thought I would go and look for our poor friend, and so went down to the Pavilion. Every door was open, as the wont is in France, and I walked in unannounced, and saw this: He was playing a duet with her on the flute. She had been out but for half-an-hour, after not speaking all the morning; and having seen Cutler at the billiard-room window, and suspecting we might take advantage of her absence, she had suddenly returned home again, and had flung herself, weeping, into her Frank's arms, and said she could not bear to leave him in anger. And so, after sitting for a little while sobbing on his knee, she had forgotten and forgiven every thing! The dear angel! I met poor Frank in Bond Street only yesterday; but he crossed over to the other side of the way. He had on goloshes, and is grown very fat and pale. He has shaved off his moustaches, and, instead, wears a respirator. He has taken his name off all his clubs, and lives very grimly in Baker Street. Well, ladies, no doubt you say he is right: and what