"Yes! but what did he say?"

"Say, sir, why nothing; he slept the whole way.' "Slept the whole way, and you call it pleasant. Perhaps he snored?"

"Yes he did, sir!" then added gravely, "but I assure you Mr. Brummell snored like a gentleman."

For a week Brummell stayed in Paris, being entertained by Lord Stuart de Rothesay, the Prince of Benevento, and other great people. It was his last entrance into high life; and though he may not have thought of it in that light, he made the most of the week's enjoyment. The day after his arrival in the capital he sought through all the jewellers' shops for a snuff-box; and not finding one that he liked, he ordered one that should be worthy of him, valued at 4,000 francs! And his income was only 2,000 francs! That same week, in the Rue Matignon, a great pile of boxes and packets, enough to hold the sartorial possessions of an Emperor, were being got ready for departure. They belonged to Count d'Orsay, who was on the eve of coming to England. This was the nearest to a meeting which the two greatest Beaux who have ever existed made.

In reading of his life in Caen the chief impression given is one of unending anxiety from debt and lack of means. Many of his patrons believing him to be in receipt of a sufficient income sent him no more delicately offered presents; and this irresponsible spender of money found himself reduced to keeping up the appearance of a gentleman on £80 a year. It was an utter impossibility. In 1831 he wrote: "For ten days I have actually not had five francs in my possession, and I have not the means of procuring either wood or peat for my scanty fire, or of getting my things from the washerwoman." And this sort of thing continued until his death. His was a more

The Beau Penniless

261

or less useless life, brightened now and then by little kindnesses done, such as teaching the daughter of his landlady how to write English and correcting the themes she brought home from school. Captain Jesse knew him when at Caen, and says his appearance was peculiar only from its extreme neatness; and adds that his habit of criticism was unimpaired: "he remarked everything in a stranger's dress, his very shoe-strings not escaping criticism."

In 1832 came the terrible decree for abolishing the Consulate at Caen. There are several versions of this affair. One, that the Government wrote to Brummell asking whether he really considered a Consul necessary at Caen; another, that hoping to gain the Consulship at Havre or Leghorn he volunteered the information that there was no work for him to do at Caen. "Your Lordship will also bear in mind that my bread depends upon the trifling emoluments which I receive as Consul at Caen. Should your Lordship, therefore, on my suggestion, think fit to abolish the office, I trust some means of subsistence will be provided me by the Government." So, says a Caen gentleman, ran part of Brummell's letter to Lord Palmerston. But wherever lay the cause the Consulate was abolished. Palmerston made many promises, and left the Beau penniless, to die "a driveller and a show."

As soon as the news got abroad his creditors flocked around him, one of whom vowed that if he appeared in the street he would have him arrested, and if he stayed at home he would starve him into coming into the street. This was prevented by a number of young Frenchmen going to this creditor with the threat that if he molested Brummell they would never dine at his shop again. In the midst of his troubles he had a

no ne gre ristes vive.

Cu Moe & peaing the buriy gre

The Torsone scodel, bee cold and forlorn

hid the Chat song winded his strime born: And we Mith, who was grieved for the loss of a Sister,

Bard over the body and lient) kissed her.

Brummell's Poetic Effusions

The corse was embalmed at the set of the sun,
And enclosed in a case which the Silkworm had spun;
By the help of the Hornet, the coffin was laid
On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made.

In weepers and scarves came the Butterflies all,
And six of their number supported the pall.
And the Spider came there, in his mourning so black,
But the fire of the Glowworm soon frightened him back.
The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng,
And slowly led with him the Bookworm along,
Who wept his poor neighbour's unfortunate doom,
And wrote these few lines to be placed on her tomb:

EPITAPH

At this solemn spot, where the green rushes wave,
Here sadly we bent o'er the Butterfly's grave;

'Twas here we to Beauty our obsequies paid

And hallow'd the mound which her ashes had made.

And here shall the daisy and violet blow,

And the lily discover her bosom of snow;

While under the leaf, in the evenings of spring,

Still mourning his friend, shall the Grasshopper sing.'

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In his best days Brummell kept an album for poetry, to which Sheridan and other well-known persons contributed, and he was in the habit of writing effusions himself. He also painted in water-colours, and could sing well; in fact, he had some quite respectable "parlour tricks."

It was in the spring of 1834 that Brummell had another stroke. He was dining at the table d'hôte, when he found that the soup was trickling down his chin. With a terrible suspicion in his mind he put his napkin to his face and quietly went out to seek a mirror in a little room near at hand, and it was with a sinking heart that he found his mouth all awry. For some weeks

he was ill, and when he was convalescing he made a sketch from memory of Lady Worcester, which he sent to a friend, with the words: "It is the first thing I have attempted since my resurrection; for you must know that I have been in the other world, and I can assure you I found it no paradise."

Lord Alvanley and various other friends in England clubbed together to allow Brummell £120 a year, making Armstrong their agent in disbursing it. Of this half was to go to the proprietor of L'Hôtel d'Angleterre, where the Beau lodged and boarded, the rest was for his other expenses. It should have been enough; yet when he was incapable of seeing to his own affairs at all he was for years in the most abject poverty.

But before things had become so bad a very terrible misfortune fell upon him. M. Leveux, the Calais banker -to whom as long as he retained the consulship Brummell had remitted the £320 a year, and so had repaid something more than half the amount due-determined to throw him into prison for the remainder, hoping that his English friends would pay the debt. So one morning in 1835 his dwelling was surrounded by gendarmes, while the gateway and back entrance were lined with subordinates; as the French said, "No debtor had ever been so handsomely arrested before in Caen.”

The juge de paix with two gendarmes passed through the Beau's salon into his bedroom, where he was asleep. His first intimation of his trouble was when he was roughly awakened by the soldiers. When he really saw that it was not a horrible dream he gave way to a burst of grief, and the scene was all through of a most distressing kind. He was not even allowed to dress alone, and had to slip into his clothes in a hurry, such as he had probably never known before.