WHEN Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s he was welcomed by his host in a magnificent suite of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests who had previously arrived. The first was a stout man, past middle age, whose epicurean countenance twinkled with humour. This was Lord Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the world of luxury and play, keen at a bet, still keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew who the other gentleman, Mr. Bland-ford, really was, but he had the reputation of being enormously rich, and was proportionately respected. He had been about town for the last twenty years, and did not look a day older than at his first appearance. He never spoke of his family, was unmarried, and apparently had no relations; but he had contrived to identify himself with the first men in London, was a member of every club of great repute, and of late years had even become a sort of authority; which was strange, for he had no pretension, was very quiet, and but humbly ambitious; seeking, indeed, no happier success than to merge in the brilliant crowd, an accepted atom of the influential aggregate. As he was not remarkable for his talents or his person, and as his establishment, though well appointed, offered no singular splendour, it was rather strange that a gentleman who had apparently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of a kennel, should have succeeded in planting himself so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from anything not indigenous, unless it be recommended by very powerful qualities. But Mr. Bland-ford was good-tempered, and was now easy and experienced, and there was a vague tradition that he was immensely rich, a rumour which Mr. Blandford always contradicted in a manner which skilfully confirmed its truth.

‘Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?’ enquired Lord Castlefyshe of his host, who nodded assent.

‘You won’t wait for him, I hope?’ said his lordship. ‘By-the-bye, Blandford, you shirked last night.’

‘I promised to look in at the poor duke’s before he went off,’ said Mr. Blandford.

‘Oh! he has gone, has he?’ said Lord Castlefyshe. ‘Does he take his cook with him?’

But here the servant ushered in Count Alcibiades de Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil.

‘Excellent Sharpe, how do you do?’ exclaimed the Count. ‘Castlefyshe, what bÃªtises have you been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester? Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my good Blandford?’

Mr. Bevil was a tall and handsome young man, of a great family and great estate, who passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades de Mirabel. He was always dressed by the same tailor, and it was his pride that his cab or his vis-Ã -vis was constantly mistaken for the equipage of his model; and really now, as the shade stood beside its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looking, with the satin-lined coat thrown open with the same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing a breastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad and brilliant, the uninitiated might have held the resemblance as perfect. The wristbands were turned up with not less compact precision, and were fastened by jewelled studs that glittered with not less radiancy. The satin waistcoat, the creaseless hosen, were the same; and if the foot were not quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. But here, unfortunately, Mr. Bevil’s mimetic powers deserted him.

We start, for soul is wanting there!

The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at all times well; Mr. Bevil never opened his mouth. Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, made every word pleasing and every act appropriate; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the talent to conceal it. The Count Mirabel was gay, careless, generous; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculating, and rather a screw. It seemed that the Count Mirabel’s feelings grew daily more fresh, and his faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing; it seemed that Mr. Bevil could never have been a child, but that he must have issued to the world ready equipped, like Minerva, with a cane instead of a lance, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. His essence of high breeding was never to be astonished, and he never permitted himself to smile, except in the society of intimate friends.

Charles Doricourt was another friend of the Count Mirabel, but not his imitator. His feelings were really worn, but it was a fact he always concealed. He had entered life at a remarkably early age, and had experienced every scrape to which youthful flesh is heir. Any other man but Charles Doricourt must have sunk beneath these accumulated disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. Nature had given him an intrepid soul; experience had cased his heart with iron. But he always smiled; and audacious, cool, and cutting, and very easy, he thoroughly despised mankind, upon whose weaknesses he practised without remorse. But he was polished and amusing, and faithful to his friends. The world admired him, and called him Charley, from which it will be inferred that he was a privileged person, and was applauded for a thousand actions, which in anyone else would have been met with decided reprobation.

‘Who is that young man?’ enquired the Count Mirabel of Mr. Bond Sharpe, taking his host aside, and pretending to look at a picture.

‘He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir Ratcliffe Armine. He has just returned to England after a long absence.’

‘Hum! I like his appearance,’ said the Count. ‘It is very distinguished.’

Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were announced at the same moment; Captain Armine found himself seated next to the Count Mirabel. The dinners at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s were dinners which his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond Sharpe had engaged for his club-house the most celebrated of living artists, a gentleman who, it was said, received a thousand a-year, whose convenience was studied by a chariot, and amusement secured by a box at the French play. There was, therefore, at first little conversation, save criticism on the performances before them, and that chiefly panegyrical; each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and yet, even in these occasional remarks, Ferdinand was pleased with the lively fancy of his neighbour, affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross unction with which Lord Castlefyshe, whose very soul seemed wrapped up in his occupation, occasionally expressed himself.

‘Will you take some wine, Captain Armine?’ said the Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. ‘You have recently returned here?’

‘Very recently,’ said Ferdinand.

‘And you are glad?’

‘As it may be; I hardly know whether to rejoice or not.’

‘Then, by all means rejoice,’ said the Count; ‘for, if you are in doubt, it surely must be best to decide upon being pleased.’

‘I think this is the most infernal country there ever was,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘My dear Catch!’ said the Count Mirabel, ‘you think so, do you? You make a mistake, you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why is it the most infernal? Is it because the women are the handsomest, or because the horses are the best? Is it because it is the only country where you can get a good dinner, or because it is the only country where there are fine wines? Or is it because it is the only place where you can get a coat made, or where you can play without being cheated, or where you can listen to an opera without your ears being destroyed? Now, my dear Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in playing hazard, in eating good dinners, in drinking good wines, in making love, in going to the opera, and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have you to complain?’

‘Oh! the damned climate!’

‘On the contrary, it is the only good climate there is. In England you can go out every day, and at all hours; and then, to those who love variety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the same sky every morning you rise, which, for my part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of ennui.’

‘You reconcile me to my country, Count,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.

‘Ah! you are a sensible man; but that dear Catch is always repeating nonsense which he hears from somebody else. To-morrow,’ he added, in a low voice, ‘he will be for the climate.’

The conversation of men, when they congregate together, is generally dedicated to one of two subjects: politics or women. In the present instance the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, and particularly the most charming portion of it, in the good metropolis of England, that were subject to the poignant criticism or the profound speculation of these practical philosophers. There was scarcely a celebrated beauty in London, from the proud peeress to the vain opera-dancer, whose charms and conduct were not submitted to their masterly analysis. And yet it would be but fair to admit that their critical ability was more eminent and satisfactory than their abstract reasoning upon this interesting topic; for it was curious to observe that, though everyone present piqued himself upon his profound knowledge of the sex, not two of the sages agreed in the constituent principles of female character. One declared that women were governed by their feelings; another maintained that they had no heart; a third propounded that it was all imagination; a fourth that it was all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered something about their passions; and Charley Doricourt declared that they had no passions whatever. But they all agreed in one thing, to wit, that the man who permitted himself a moment’s uneasiness about a woman was a fool.

All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose, and chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distinguished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his approbation to Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘The fact is,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘it is only boys and old men who are plagued by women. They take advantage of either state of childhood. Eh! Castlefyshe?’

‘In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,’ replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. ‘For no one can doubt you plagued your father; I was out of my teens, fortunately, before you played Ã©cartÃ©.’

‘Come, good old Fyshe,’ said Count Mirabel, ‘take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very well that Charley learned everything of you.’

‘He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an actress,’ said his lordship. ‘I ave spent a fortune, but, thank heaven, it was on myself.’

‘Well, as for that,’ said the Count, ‘I think there is something great in being ruined for one’s friends. If I were as rich as I might have been, I would not spend much on myself. My wants are few; a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, the first cook, and pocket-money; that is all I require. I have these, and I get on pretty well; but if I had a princely fortune I would make every good fellow I know quite happy.’

‘Well,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, and cooks, and I have had a great estate; but pocket-money I never could get. Pocket-money was the thing which always cost me the most to buy of all.’

The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of the stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There was something in the management of a great theatre which pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, and all his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an impression that great results might be obtained with his organising energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident that it could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was right: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of this fact until we are past thirty; and then, by some singular process, which we will not now stop to analyse, one’s capital is in general sensibly diminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this.

‘Are you going to Shropshire’s this autumn, Charley?’ said Lord Catchimwhocan.

‘Yes, I shall go.’

‘I don’t think I shall,’ said his lordship; ‘it is such a bore.’

‘It is rather a bore; but he is a good fellow.’

‘I shall go,’ said Count Mirabel.

‘You are not afraid of being bored,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.

‘Between ourselves, I do not understand what this being bored is,’ said the Count. ‘He who is bored appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes the inability of being amused; you must be a dull fellow. Wherever I may be, I thank heaven that I am always diverted.’

‘But you have such nerves, Mirabel,’ said Lord Catchimwhocan. ‘By Jove! I envy you. You are never floored.’

‘Floored! what an idea! What should floor me? I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing that does not amuse me. Why should I be floored?’

‘Why, I do not know; but every other man is floored now and then. As for me, my spirits are sometimes something dreadful.’

‘When you have been losing.’

‘Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe? That would not do. But, by Jove! you are always in good humour, Mirabel, when you lose.’

‘Fancy a man ever being in low spirits,’ said the Count Mirabel. ‘Life is too short for such bÃªtises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calculates unconsciously that it is better to live than to die. Well, then, he has something in his favour. Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The world cannot rob us of that; and if it is better to live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour than a bad one. If a man be convinced that existence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may be increased by good fortune, but it will be essentially independent of it. He who feels that the greatest source of pleasure always remains to him ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on all: every man can go to sleep: if you cannot ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon one; if you have not a fine dinner, there is some amusement in a crust of bread and GruyÃ¨re. Feel slightly, think little, never plan, never brood. Everything depends upon the circulation; take care of it. Take the world as you find it; enjoy everything. Vive la bagatelle!’

Here the gentlemen rose, took their coffee, and ordered their carriages.

‘Come with us,’ said Count Mirabel to Ferdinand.

Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable acquaintance. There was a great prancing and rushing of cabs and vis-Ã -vis at Mr. Bond Sharpe’s door, and in a few minutes the whole party were dashing up St. James’-street, where they stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with lights and illuminated curtains.

‘Come, we will make you an honorary member, mon cher Captain Armine,’ said the Count; ‘and do not say Lasciate ogni speranza when you enter here.’

They ascended a magnificent staircase, and entered a sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which the entrance of Count Mirabel and his friends made no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided along, dropping oracular sentences, without condescending to stop to speak to those whom he addressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford walked away together, towards a further apartment. Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were soon busied with Ã©cartÃ©.

‘Well, Faneville, good general, how do you do?’ said Count Mirabel. ‘Where have you dined to-day? at the Balcombes’? You are a very brave man, mon general! Ah! Stock, good Stock, excellent Stock!’ he continued, addressing Mr. Million de Stockville, ‘that Burgundy you sent me is capital. How are you, my dear fellow? Quite well? Fitzwarrene, I did that for you: your business is all right. Ah! my good Massey, mon cher, mon brave, Anderson will let you have that horse. And what is doing here? Is there any fun? Fitzwarrene, let me introduce you to my friend Captain Armine:’ (in a lower tone) ‘excellent garÃ§on! You will like him very much. We have been all dining at Bond’s.’

‘A good dinner?’

‘Of course a good dinner. I should like to see a man who would give me a bad dinner: that would be a bÃªtise,—to ask me to dine, and then give me a bad dinner.’

‘I say, Mirabel,’ exclaimed a young man, ‘have you seen Horace Poppington about the match?’

‘It is arranged; ‘tis the day after to-morrow, at nine o’clock.’

‘Well, I bet on you, you know.’

‘Of course you bet on me. Would you think of betting on that good Pop, with that gun? Pah! Eh! bien! I shall go in the next room.’ And the Count walked away, followed by Mr. Bevil.

Ferdinand remained talking for some time with Lord Fitzwarrene. By degrees the great saloon had become somewhat thinner: some had stolen away to the House, where a division was expected; quiet men, who just looked in after dinner, had retired; and the play-men were engaged in the contiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached Ferdinand, and Lord Fitzwarrene took this opportunity of withdrawing.

‘I believe you never play, Captain Armine,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe.

‘Never,’ said Ferdinand.

‘You are quite right.’

‘I am rather surprised at your being of that opinion,’ said Ferdinand, with a smile.

Mr. Bond Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. ‘There will always be votaries enough,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe, ‘whatever may be my opinion.’

‘This is a magnificent establishment of yours,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Yes; it is a very magnificent establishment. I have spared no expense to produce the most perfect thing of the kind in Europe; and it is the most perfect thing of the kind. I am confident that no noble in any country has an establishment better appointed. I despatched an agent to the Continent to procure this furniture: his commission had no limit, and he was absent two years. My cook was with Charles X.; the cellar is the most choice and considerable that was ever collected. I take a pride in the thing, but I lose money by it.’

‘Indeed!’

‘I have made a fortune; there is no doubt of that; but I did not make it here.’

‘It is a great thing to make a fortune,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Very great,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. ‘There is only one thing greater, and that is, to keep it when made.’

Ferdinand smiled.

‘Many men make fortunes; few can keep them,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. ‘Money is power, and rare are the heads that can withstand the possession of great power.’

‘At any rate, it is to be hoped that you have discovered this more important secret,’ said Ferdinand; ‘though I confess to judge from my own experience, I should fear that you are too generous.’

‘I had forgotten that to which you allude,’ said his companion, quietly. ‘But with regard to myself, whatever may be my end, I have not yet reached my acme.’

‘You have at least my good wishes,’ said Ferdinand.

‘I may some day claim them,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe. ‘My position,’ he continued, ‘is difficult. I have risen by pursuits which the world does not consider reputable, yet if I had not had recourse to them, I should be less than nothing. My mind, I think, is equal to my fortune; I am still young, and I would now avail myself of my power and establish myself in the land, a recognised member of society. But this cannot be. Society shrinks from an obscure foundling, a prizefighter, a leg, a hell-keeper, and an usurer. Debarred therefore from a fair theatre for my energy and capital, I am forced to occupy, perhaps exhaust, myself in multiplied speculations. Hitherto they have flourished, and perhaps my theatre, or my newspaper, may be as profitable as my stud. But I would gladly emancipate myself. These efforts seem to me, as it were, unnecessary and unnatural. The great object has been gained. It is a tempting of fate. I have sometimes thought myself the Napoleon of the sporting world; I may yet find my St. Helena.’ ‘Forewarned, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe.’ ‘I move in a magic circle: it is difficult to extricate myself from it. Now, for instance, there is not a man in the room who is not my slave. You see how they treat me. They place me upon an equality with them. They know my weakness; they fool me to the top of my bent. And yet there is not a man in that room who, if I were to break to-morrow, would walk down St. James’-street to serve me. Yes! there is one; there is the Count. He has a great and generous soul. I believe Count Mirabel sympathises with my situation. I believe he does not think, because a man has risen from an origin the most ignoble and obscure to a powerful position, by great courage and dexterity, and let me add also, by some profound thought, by struggling too, be it remembered, with a class of society as little scrupulous, though not so skilful as himself, that he is necessarily an infamous character. What if, at eighteen years of age, without a friend in the world, trusting to the powerful frame and intrepid spirit with which Nature had endowed me, I flung myself into the ring? Who should be a gladiator if I were not? Is that a crime? What if, at a later period, with a brain for calculation which none can rival, I invariably succeeded in that in which the greatest men in the country fail! Am I to be branded because I have made half a million by a good book? What if I have kept a gambling-house? From the back parlour of an oyster-shop my hazard table has been removed to this palace. Had the play been foul, this metamorphosis would never have occurred. It is true I am an usurer. My dear sir, if all the usurers in this great metropolis could only pass in procession before you at this moment, how you would start! You might find some Right Honourables among them; many a great functionary, many a grave magistrate; fathers of families, the very models of respectable characters, patrons and presidents of charitable institutions, and subscribers for the suppression of those very gaming-houses whose victims, in nine cases out of ten, are their principal customers. I speak not in bitterness. On the whole, I must not complain of the world, but I have seen a great deal of mankind, and more than most, of what is considered its worst portion. The world, Captain Armine, believe me, is neither so bad nor so good as some are apt to suppose. And after all,’ said Mr. Bond Sharpe, shrugging up his shoulders, ‘perhaps we ought to say with our friend the Count, Vive la bagatelle! Will you take some supper?’