CHAPTER XLII.
Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls; de la le jeu,
le luxe, la dissipation, le vin, les femmes, l'ignorance,
la medisance, l'envie, l'oubli de soi-meme et de Dieu.
--La Bruyere.
The next day I resolved to call upon Tyrrell, seeing that he had not yet
kept his promise of anticipating me, and being very desirous not to lose
any opportunity of improving my acquaintance with him; accordingly, I
sent my valet to make inquiries as to his abode. I found that he lodged
in the same hotel as myself; and having previously ascertained that he
was at home, I made up my features into their most winning expression,
and was ushered by the head waiter into the gamester's apartment.
He was sitting by the fire in a listless, yet thoughtful attitude. His
muscular and rather handsome person, was indued in a dressing-gown of
rich brocade, thrown on with a slovenly nonchalance. His stockings were
about his heels, his hair was dishevelled, and the light streaming
through the half-drawn window-curtains, rested upon the grey flakes with
which its darker luxuriance was interspersed, and the cross light in
which he had the imprudence or misfortune to sit (odious cross light,
which even I already begin carefully to avoid), fully developed the deep
wrinkles which years and dissipation had planted round his eyes and
mouth. I was quite startled at the oldness and haggardness of his
appearance.
He rose gracefully enough when I was announced; and no sooner had the
waiter retired, than he came up to me, shook me warmly by the hand, and
said, "Let me thank you now for the attention you formerly shewed me,
when I was less able to express my acknowledgments. I shall be proud to
cultivate your intimacy."
I answered him in the same strain, and in the course of conversation,
made myself so entertaining, that he agreed to spend the remainder of the
day with me. We ordered our horses at three, and our dinner at seven, and
I left him till the former were ready, in order to allow him time for his
toilet.
During our ride we talked principally on general subjects, on the various
differences of France and England, on horses, on wines, on women, on
politics, on all things, except that which had created our acquaintance.
His remarks were those of a strong, ill-regulated mind, which had made
experience supply the place of the reasoning faculties; there was a
looseness in his sentiments, and a licentiousness in his opinions, which
startled even me (used as I had been to rakes of all schools); his
philosophy was of that species which thinks that the best maxim of wisdom
is--to despise. Of men he spoke with the bitterness of hatred; of women,
with the levity of contempt. France had taught him its debaucheries, but
not the elegance which refines them: if his sentiments were low, the
language in which they were clothed was meaner still: and that which
makes the morality of the upper classes, and which no criminal is
supposed to be hardy enough to reject; that religion which has no
scoffers, that code which has no impugners, that honour among gentlemen,
which constitutes the moving principle of the society in which they live,
he seemed to imagine, even in its most fundamental laws, was an authority
to which nothing but the inexperience of the young, and the credulity of
the romantic, could accede.
Upon the whole, he seemed to me a "bold, bad man," with just enough of
intellect to teach him to be a villain, without that higher degree which
shews him that it is the worst course for his interest; and just enough
of daring to make him indifferent to the dangers of guilt, though it was
not sufficient to make him conquer and control them. For the rest, he
loved trotting better than cantering--piqued himself upon being manly--
wore doe-skin gloves--drank port wine, par preference, and considered
beef-steaks and oysters as the most delicate dish in the whole carte. I
think, now, reader, you have a tolerably good view of his character.
After dinner, when we were discussing the second bottle, I thought it
would not be a bad opportunity to question him upon his acquaintance with
Glanville. His countenance fell directly I mentioned that name. However,
he rallied himself. "Oh," said he, "you mean the soi-disant Warburton. I
knew him some years back--he was a poor silly youth, half mad, I believe,
and particularly hostile to me, owing to some foolish disagreement when
he was quite a boy."
"What was the cause?" said I.
"Nothing--nothing of any consequence," answered Tyrrell; and then added,
with an air of coxcombry, "I believe I was more fortunate than he, in an
affaire du coeur. Poor Granville is a little romantic, you know. But
enough of this now: shall we go to the rooms?"
"With pleasure," said I; and to the rooms we went.
