But the day passed away and no messenger returned--no Becky. Mr.

Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past

five, when such of the gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford

to pay for the banquet came and partook of it in the splendid front

parlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley's temporary

lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her)

appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the

honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of which the

Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whether he would "stand"

a bottle of champagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies

drank to his 'ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, "looked

towards him."

In the midst of this repast, however, the doorbell was heard--young

Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered the summons,

and coming back, told the Colonel that the messenger had returned with

a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave him. "No ceramony, Colonel,

I beg," said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand, and he opened the

letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful letter, highly scented,

on a pink paper, and with a light green seal.

MON PAUVRE CHER PETIT, (Mrs. Crawley wrote) I could not sleep ONE WINK for thinking of what had become of my odious

old monstre, and only got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr.

Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a composing draught and left

orders with Finette that I should be disturbed ON NO ACCOUNT. So that

my poor old man's messenger, who had bien mauvaise mine Finette says,

and sentoit le Genievre, remained in the hall for some hours waiting my

bell. You may fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt

letter.

Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was

dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate--I assure you I

couldn't without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre a terre

to Nathan's. I saw him--I wept--I cried--I fell at his odious knees.

Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he

said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove home with the

intention of paying that triste visite chez mon oncle (when every

trinket I have should be at your disposal though they would not fetch a

hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already),

and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who

had come to compliment me upon last night's performances. Paddington

came in, too, drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did

Champignac, and his chef--everybody with foison of compliments and

pretty speeches--plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and

was thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier.




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