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Page 53
Waiter.
SUSAN, _Housemaid at the Hotel of the Four Seasons_.
MRS. CHARLES NOKES.
Landlady.
SCENE I.--_A handsome first-floor apartment in the Hotel of the Four
Seasons, Paris. Outside the window, the court-yard, with fountain, and
little trees in large pots._
_Enter MR. NATHANIEL NOKES, with a small book in his hand, very
smartly dressed, but in great haste, and with his shirt-collar much
dishevelled. [Rings the bell violently.]_
What's the good of these confounded French phrase-books? Who wants to
know how to ask for artichoke soup, or how far it is to Dijon? I want a
button sewn on my shirt-collar, and there's not one word about that.
_Enter Waiter_.
_Nokes._ Hi! what's-your-name! _Voulez-vous--avoir--la--bont�--de--_[I'm
always civil and very distinct, but, somehow, I can never make myself
understood.] I am going to be married, my good man; to be married--_tout
de suite_--immediately, and there is no time to change my--my _chemise
d'homme_. [Come, he'll understand _that_.] I want this button--button,
button, button sewn on. Here, here--_here_. [_Points to his throat._]
Don't you see, you fool? [He thinks I want him to cut my throat. I shall
never be in time at the Legation!] Idiot! Dolt! Send _Susan_, Susan, _�
moi_, to me--or I'll kick you into the court-yard. [_Exit Waiter, with
precipitation._]
_Nokes [alone]._ And this is what they call a highly-civilized country!
Talk of "a strong government" at home: what's the use of its being
strong, if it can't make foreigners speak our language? What's the good
of missionary enterprise, when here's a Christian man, within twelve
hours of London, who can't get a shirt-button sewn on for want of the
Parisian accent? I said "button, button, button," plain enough, I'm
sure; and a button's a button all the world over. If it had not been for
that excellent Susan, the English chambermaid, I should have perished in
this place, of what the coroner's inquests call "want of the necessaries
of life." All depends, as every one knows, on a man's shirt-button: if
_that_ goes wrong, everything goes, and one's attire is a wreck. But I
suppose after to-day my wife will see to that,--though she is a
Montmorenci. Constance de Montmorenci, that's her name: she's descended
(she says) from a Constable of France. It's a more English-seeming name
than _gendarme_, and I like her for that; but I am afraid we shan't have
much in common--except my property. She don't speak English very
fluently: she called me "my dove" the other day, instead of "my duck,"
which is ridiculous. She is not twenty, and I am over sixty,--which is
perhaps also ridiculous.
Well, it's all Charles's fault, not mine. If he chooses to go and marry
a beggar-girl without my consent, he must take the consequences,--if
there are a dozen of them,--and support them how he can. "If you persist
in this wicked and perverse resolve," said I, "_I'll_ marry also, before
the year's out." And now I'm going to do it,--if I can only get this
shirt-button sewn on. He shall not have a penny of what I have to leave
behind me. The little Nokes-Montmorencis shall have it all. She's a most
accomplished creature is Constance. Sings, they tell me,--for it's not
in English, so I don't understand it,--divinely; plays ditto; draws
ditto. Speaks every language (except English) with equal facility
and--Thank goodness, here's Susan.
_Enter SUSAN, with housemaid's broom._
_Susan._ What do you please to want, sir?
_Nokes._ _You_, Susan; you, first of all, and then a shirt-button. I
have not five minutes to spare. My bride is probably already at the
Embassy, expressing her impatience in various continental tongues.
_Vite_,--look sharp, Susan. [_Aside._] Admirable woman!--she carries
buttons about with her. I wonder whether the Montmorenci will do
that.--Take care!--don't run the needle into me!
_Susan._ You must not talk, sir, or else I can't help it. Please to hold
your head up a little higher.
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