_La Fosseuse_’s voice was naturally soft and low, yet ’twas an articulate voice: and every letter of the word _Whiskers_ fell distinctly upon the queen of _Navarre_’s ear—Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears——Whiskers! replied _La Fosseuse_, repeating the word a third time——There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in _Navarre_, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair——Of what? cried _Margaret_, smiling—Of whiskers, said _La Fosseuse_, with infinite modesty.
The word _Whiskers_ still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of _Navarre_, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which _La Fosseuse_ had made of it: the truth was, _La Fosseuse_ had pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery—And as the court of _Margaret_, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion——and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground——it gained full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it——the laity were against it——and for the women,——_they_ were divided.
The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur _De Croix_, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The lady _De Baussiere_ fell deeply in love with him,——_La Battarelle_ did the same—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in _Navarre——La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, fell in love with the Sieur _De Croix_ also——_La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ knew better——_De Croix_ had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to _La Rebours;_ and _La Rebours_ and _La Fosseuse_ were inseparable.
The queen of _Navarre_ was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as _De Croix_ passed through it—He is handsome, said the Lady _Baussiere_——He has a good mien, said _La Battarelle_——He is finely shaped, said _La Guyol_—I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said _La Maronette_, with two such legs——Or who stood so well upon them, said _La Sabatiere_——But he has no whiskers, cried _La Fosseuse_——Not a pile, said _La Rebours._
The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy—_Ave Maria!_——what can _La-Fosseuse_ mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.
_La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere_, retired instantly to their chambers——Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.
The Lady _Carnavallette_ was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal——from St. _Antony_ down to St. _Ursula_ inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. _Francis_, St. _Dominick_, St. _Bennet_, St. _Basil_, St. _Bridget_, had all whiskers.
The Lady _Baussiere_ had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon _La Fosseuse_’s text——She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her——the host passed by—the Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
One denier, cried the order of mercy—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.
——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands——I beg for the unfortunate—good my Lady, ’tis for a prison—for an hospital—’tis for an old man—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire——I call God and all his angels to witness——’tis to clothe the naked——to feed the hungry——’tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.
The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.
——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
He ran begging bare-headed on one side of her palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &c.——Cousin, aunt, sister, mother,——for virtue’s sake, for your own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me——pity me.
——The Lady _Baussiere_ rode on.
Take hold of my whiskers, said the Lady _Baussiere_—The page took hold of her palfrey. She dismounted at the end of the terrace.
There are some trains of certain ideas which leave prints of themselves about our eyes and eye-brows; and there is a consciousness of it, somewhere about the heart, which serves but to make these etchings the stronger—we see, spell, and put them together without a dictionary.
Ha, ha! he, hee! cried _La Guyol_ and _La Sabatiere_, looking close at each other’s prints——Ho, ho! cried _La Battarelle_ and _Maronette_, doing the same:—Whist! cried one—ft, ft,—said a second—hush, quoth a third—poo, poo, replied a fourth—gramercy! cried the Lady _Carnavallette;_——’twas she who bewhisker’d St. _Bridget._
_La Fosseuse_ drew her bodkin from the knot of her hair, and having traced the outline of a small whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of her upper lip, put in into _La Rebours_’ hand—_La Rebours_ shook her head.
The Lady _Baussiere_ coughed thrice into the inside of her muff—_La Guyol_ smiled—Fy, said the Lady _Baussiere._ The queen of _Navarre_ touched her eye with the tip of her fore-finger—as much as to say, I understand you all.
’Twas plain to the whole court the word was ruined: _La Fosseuse_ had given it a wound, and it was not the better for passing through all these defiles——It made a faint stand, however, for a few months, by the expiration of which, the Sieur _De Croix_, finding it high time to leave _Navarre_ for want of whiskers——the word in course became indecent, and (after a few efforts) absolutely unfit for use.
The best word, in the best language of the best world, must have suffered under such combinations.——The curate of _d’Estella_ wrote a book against them, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas, and warning the _Navarois_ against them.
Does not all the world know, said the curate _d’Estella_ at the conclusion of his work, that Noses ran the same fate some centuries ago in most parts of _Europe_, which Whiskers have now done in the kingdom of _Navarre?_—The evil indeed spread no farther then—but have not beds and bolsters, and night-caps and chamber-pots stood upon the brink of destruction ever since? Are not trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles—and spigots and faucets, in danger still from the same association?—Chastity, by nature, the gentlest of all affections—give it but its head——’tis like a ramping and a roaring lion.
The drift of the curate _d’Estella_’s argument was not understood.—They ran the scent the wrong way.—The world bridled his ass at the tail.—And when the _extremes_ of DELICACY, and the _beginnings_ of CONCUPISCENCE, hold their next provincial chapter together, they may decree that bawdy also.
C H A P. II
WHEN my father received the letter which brought him the melancholy account of my brother _Bobby_’s death, he was busy calculating the expence of his riding post from _Calais_ to _Paris_, and so on to _Lyons._
’Twas a most inauspicious journey; my father having had every foot of it to travel over again, and his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost got to the end of it, by _Obadiah_’s opening the door to acquaint him the family was out of yeast—and to ask whether he might not take the great coach-horse early in the morning and ride in search of some.—With all my heart, _Obadiah_, said my father (pursuing his journey)—take the coach-horse, and welcome.——But he wants a shoe, poor creature! said _Obadiah._——Poor creature! said my uncle _Toby_, vibrating the note back again, like a string in unison. Then ride the _Scotch_ horse, quoth my father hastily.—He cannot bear a saddle upon his back, quoth _Obadiah_, for the whole world.——The devil’s in that horse; then take PATRIOT, cried my father, and shut the door.——PATRIOT is sold, said _Obadiah._ Here’s for you! cried my father, making a pause, and looking in my uncle _Toby_’s face, as if the thing had not been a matter of fact.—Your worship ordered me to sell him last _April_, said _Obadiah._—Then go on foot for your pains, cried my father——I had much rather walk than ride, said _Obadiah_, shutting the door.
What plagues, cried my father, going on with his calculation.——But the waters are out, said _Obadiah_,—opening the door again.
Till that moment, my father, who had a map of _Sanson_’s, and a book of the post-roads before him, had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses, with one foot of them fixed upon _Nevers_, the last stage he had paid for—purposing to go on from that point with his journey and calculation, as soon as _Obadiah_ quitted the room: but this second attack of _Obadiah_’s, in opening the door and laying the whole country under water, was too much.——He let go his compasses—or rather with a mixed motion between accident and anger, he threw them upon the table; and then there was nothing for him to do, but to return back to _Calais_ (like many others) as wise as he had set out.