Mr Hargrave opened a Bramah-locked drawer in his elegant library-table…and taking out a handful of gold coin, locked the drawer again; and returning to the table at which the ladies were sitting, threw the glittering treasure before the two girls…
“Is it not magnificent, Adèle, to have money paid to us in this style?” demanded Sabina with childish glee. “Where in the world, papa, did you get all these beautiful sovereigns?” she added, beginning busily to employ herself by dividing the pieces into two equal portions.
But Adèle happened to have her eyes fixed on her step-father as this question was asked, and was surprised by seeing him bite his under lip, and contract his brows into a frown, which it was very rare to see upon his usually bland and smiling countenance. But the painful feeling, whether of body or mind, passed away in an instant, and he replied,—
“Where did I get this gold, Sabina? From that fertile source of all good things, the banking establishment of Messrs Lafitte and Co. Is it enough for you both? If not, say the word, and I will produce as much more; and that, I think, will about empty my hoards of your admired metal for the present.”
Adèle was startled by hearing him say this: for when he had left his place to seek the money, her eyes accidentally followed him, and she was so placed as to perceive that the small drawer he opened was full of gold pieces, so full, indeed, as to make her more than share the wonder afterwards expressed by Sabina at the sight of a small portion of them. The assertion, therefore, that another such handful as he had laid on the table would ’empty his hoard’ was unintelligible… That her step-father had uttered a decided falsehood was certain. But his reason for doing it appeared so perfectly inscrutable, that she harassed herself in vain to find any plausible explanation of it…
As mentioned in an earlier post, Frances Trollope was another important figure in the development of English detective fiction. As was so often the case, Trollope began writing in order to support herself and her family after her husband’s failure in business; and while she is probably best known these days for her first book, the notorious non-fiction work, Domestic Manners Of The Americans, subsequently she became a prolific writer of fiction. Trollope wrote all manner of books, and often mixed different genres in her novels; and while (unlike her contemporary, Catharine Crowe) she never wrote anything that we could classify as a “detective story”, a number of Trollope’s works feature subplots dealing with crime.
Hargrave; or, The Adventures Of A Man Of Fashion, published in three volumes in 1843, is one of these; and while it does offer a detective plot of sorts, this novel’s perspective means that we would have to classify it as “an inverted detective story”, that is, one told from the point of view of the criminal—or at least, those trying to evade the forces of law and order, which (as we shall see) is not quite the same thing.
But while crime is prominent in the overall narrative, Trollope takes her time getting to that aspect of her novel, which at the outset seems to be more about the romantic difficulties of the two half-sisters at its heart, the daughter and step-daughter of Charles Hargrave: subplots which occupy most of the first half of Hargrave, even while the seeds of the crime subplots are being planted. This meandering approach is only one of several odd things about this book, which refuses at almost every turn to go in the direction you might expect—and this is true not only with respect to the unfolding of its crime story.
Most overtly, this is a novel by an Englishwoman, set in France, which goes out of its way to debunk stereotypes about the French and French society. Trollope herself lived for a time in Paris, and found much to admire there, particularly with respect to the arts; her early works not only reflect this, but tend to feature unflattering sketches of British tourists “doing” the Continent by guide-book, and generally making their country look bad. (We should note, however, that Trollope’s opinions underwent an abrupt change following the Revolution of 1848.)
But whatever else this novel might be, it is dominated by its psychological portrait of Charles Hargrave, for whom it is rightly named. Hargrave opens with a devastating sketch of its anti-hero, whose vanity, superficiality and endless social ambition are laid out for us in a few brief but witty paragraphs:
Those who have not been led by some accident or other to study the effects of vanity in characters where it greatly predominates, have little comprehension of its strength. There is probably no passion, from the very lowest to the most sublime, from the tenderest to the most brutal, which more deeply dyes with its influence the mind where it takes root. Greatly do those mistake who call it a “little” passion,—it is a great, an absorbing, a tremendous one. Its outward bearing, indeed, when the feeling is unskilfully permitted to catch the eye, may often seem trivial, and provoke more smiles than sighs; but its inward strength of influence is not to be judged thereby. As little do the graceful sinuosities of the constrictors’ wavy movements give notice of the deadly gripe into which they can contract themselves, as do the bland devices which purvey to a vain man’s appetite announce the insatiable voracity that is to be fed, or the unscrupulous means which may be resorted to in order to content it.
The son of a banker, as a young man Hargrave left England for France on the assumption that he would find it easier to stake his claim to a place in Society away from the class system of his home. His good looks, specious charm and inherited fortune gave him a foot in the door, and he consolidated his position by marrying the Vicomtesse de Cordillac, a young widow with a fortune of her own. Their joint incomes allowed Hargrave to indulge his taste for display, for (to use both his and Trollope’s preferred term) magnificence. Nothing is too expensive, too extravagant, too extreme, if it means that Charles Hargrave will hear himself and his entertainments admired and praised by the elite of Parisian society.
The novel proper opens in the wake of Mrs Hargrave’s death. Her daughters grieve deeply for their beloved mother—and naturally, assume that Hargrave must feel as they do. However, the reality is that while he does grieve, Hargrave is more deeply concerned about the fact that the family coffers have begun to run dry. Rather than dwelling upon his late wife, his thoughts are concerned with a new strategy for self-aggrandisement, namely, via his daughters’ marriages; once their tiresome mourning is over, of course:
Little did they guess, poor girls! as they hovered mournfully near him, stilling their own deep grief, lest the sight of it should add to his, that the earnest gaze which was turned first to the one and then to the other fair face, was meditating what colours in the flowery chaplets which his fancy wove, would best set off the clear rich brown of Adèle’s cheek, and which decorate with most effect the fair-haired delicacy of Sabina. They fancied, pretty creatures, that his kind heart was wrung by thinking of their motherless condition; and their pity for each other, and their pity for themselves, and their pity for him, were so increased thereby, that, spite of all they could do to prevent it, the tears burst forth anew, till the bright black eyes of the one, and the soft blue eyes of the other, were so miserably swollen and disfigured as to force the distressed widower to turn his thoughts inwards, where he found the only consolation he was capable of receiving, from remembering that tears were invariably set aside at the same time that black dresses were taken off, and that six months would amply suffice for the use of both.
Fortunately for Mr. Hargrave, his charming wife was taken from him on the 15th of June; the Paris season therefore was over…
When Hargrave married the Vicomtesse, she was the mother of a young daughter, Adèle; the birth of Sabina Hargrave followed. The two girls, three years apart in age, were raised together as sisters, with no distinction made between them. Yet for all that Adèle is not Hargrave’s own child: a point that will assume an ever-increasing importance over the course of the narrative. In addition, Adèle is financially independent due to a fortune inherited from her mother’s family, whereas Sabina is dependent upon her father.
Upon first reading Hargrave I was surprised that Trollope made the entirely French Adèle her heroine, rather than the half-English Sabina; but it could be fairly said that, except in one respect, Adèle is merely masquerading as French. She is the steadier, more sensible sister, thoughtful where Sabina is emotional and impulsive. Adèle is also a great admirer of all things English, to the point of secretly thinking that she would prefer an English husband to a French one. She has even independently converted to Protestantism: a choice which forms the one point of division between herself and Sabina, a devoted Catholic, and which is likewise strongly disapproved by Hargrave, who converted to Catholicism upon marrying the Vicomtesse de Cordillac. The only point at which Adèle is truly French is that her upbringing has prevented her from interacting with young men in terms of normal friendship, leaving her inexperienced to a degree which will create difficulties for her, as we shall see.
The family retires from Paris to Baden-Baden, where Hargrave finds society enough to sustain him in his “grief”, and the girls explore the countryside under the care of their elderly and intensely devoted English servant, Roger Humphries. On one of these expeditions they find a particularly beautiful vista; they also find a young man who explains to Sabina (who speaks fluent German) that the area is known for its legends of a vanishing castle, which may be seen at some times but not at others, and which is supposedly under the influence of the spirits which give to the nearby lake the name of Mummelsee, or Fairy Lake. Sabina is fascinated by this, and begs Adèle to stop again at the same point in the afternoon, so that she may try and catch a glimpse of the castle. The girls do so but, after a long day out, Adèle is dozing in the carriage when they get there. Sabina therefore slips out on her own and returns to the rock platform overhanging the lake, where to her delight see can indeed see the ruins of a once-splendid castle. When the young man reappears, Sabina is at first too enchanted by the scene to consider the circumstances; but when it presently dawns upon her that she is all alone with a strange man, she hurries back to the carriage, embarrassed and flustered, and says nothing to Adèle.
When the Hargraves’ period of mourning is over, they return to Paris, and Mr Hargrave sets about in earnest the task of attracting all the best people to his house and making himself the most admired and talked-about host in the city. Even before this, Adèle and Sabina have been much courted, but now they find themselves at the centre of a social whirl that appeals more to the outgoing Adèle than to the romantic Sabina (who is “apt to fancy that there was less of mental dignity in mirth than in melancholy”). For Adèle, indeed, this Parisian season has brought a particular happiness in the form of Alfred Coventry, who is the embodiment of her Angliophile dreams. However, Adèle’s upbringing has taught her to hide her feelings at all cost, which leaves Coventry uncertain where he stands with her:
…the manners of her country…in which she had been most carefully educated, so guarded and fenced her in from all approaches not made in the usual way, that in the midst of daily intercourse and devoted attention she had still retained the manner of a young girl who had never dreamed of love. It was, indeed, this reserve, so constantly, and at all times and seasons preserved by Adèle, which had hitherto prevented Coventry from laying his heart at her feet. Like other young men of independent fortune and unobjectionable station and character, he had received his share of coaxing from careful mothers and provident fathers; and though still under thirty, he had learned to tremble at the danger of being married for his acres rather than for himself…
Before he had been six weeks in the habit of daily and nightly conversing with Mademoiselle de Cordillac, he became most deeply attached to her. Yet he still spoke not the important words which were to place all his hopes of earthly happiness in her hands; for still he doubted whether there could be any feeling capable of being fostered into love in one so very free from every recognised symptom of it…
Despite his lingering doubts, Coventry comes to believe that Adèle does care for him and decides to propose. However, he has made up his mind that he will not follow the French custom of proposing for her through her relatives, but will wait until he can speak to her in person. This very English way of going about things creates difficulties when, attempting to call upon Adèle, Coventry is unable to get past her aunt and chaperone, Madame de Hautrivage.
The widowed sister of the late Mrs Hargrave, Madame de Hautrivage is more than happy to live with her brother-in-law and his daughters: though she passes herself off to the world as comfortably circumstanced, she is in fact in dire financial straits, with what money she can scrape together going to maintain the wardrobe which supports her pose. Presenting herself to society as a woman of wealth and fashion, Madame’s one great hope in life is to make a second marriage before her situation is exposed, and under the guise of chaperoning her nieces, she works hard at finding herself a husband.
When Coventry calls, Madame at first assumes it is to request her influence with her niece. However, her determination to bring him to the point, meeting Coventry’s determination not to be brought to the point by a third party, leads the two of them into a cross-purposes conversation from which Coventry emerges believing he has been assured of Adèle’s love for him—while the giddily happy Madame emerges convinced that she and not Adèle is his goal.
Though she had believed, prior to their startling conversation, that Coventry was interested in Adèle, Madame had too high opinion of her niece and her upbringing to suppose that Adèle could be guilty of allowing herself to feel anything for a man who had not proposed for her; but Adèle’s self-conscious reaction when Sabina teases her about Coventry suggests a shocking possibility. Calling Adèle for a private talk, Madame speaks with an anger in which jealousy and outraged propriety are combined:
“What am I to think of this confusion,—this terrified embarrassment, Mademoiselle de Cordillac?” said her aunt, trembling with passion. “Is it possible that you have so completely, so eternally disgraced yourself, as to bestow your affections on a man who is not only totally free from all partiality to you, but actually affianced to another?”
In fact most of Adèle’s confusion stemmed from expecting to hear that Coventry had proposed for her via her aunt; and when Madame goes on to announce herself as his fiancée, she is shocked and astonished—and incredulous. By this time, however, Madame has internalised an image of herself as the consort of a prominent British citizen and parliamentarian, and the conviction with which she speaks has its effect: it never occurs to Adèle that her aunt could be either lying or deluded. Believing, besides, in Madame’s non-existent fortune, Adèle is left with nothing to do but be thankful she has managed to conceal her feelings from Coventry, and to try and wring from Sabina, who is hurting for Adèle and angry and disgusted with Coventry’s mercenary conduct, a promise that she will not behave differently towards him, which might reveal her, Adèle’s, secret.
Meanwhile, the lovely Sabina has attracted the attention of Paris’s most prominent visitor, the younger brother of the ruler of a certain German principality. Prince Frederic is obviously strongly drawn to Sabina—so much so that Adèle is moved to speak a few words of caution to her sister. But Sabina is no fool: she knows very well that she is no wife for a man in Prince Frederic’s position, and thinks too well of him to imagine he would suggest anything other than marriage. She likes and admires Prince Frederic (although she does not tell Adèle that in the first instance, that admiration had its basis in a fancied resemblance between the royal prince and the young stranger of Baden-Baden, who she thinks about more than she should), and she enjoys his company; but she has set a firm and conscious guard over her heart—even as, she is sure, Frederic himself has done.
Sabina’s sensible reaction is in stark contrast to that of Hargrave, who begins to indulge an extravagant vision of himself as the father-in-law of a prince. To bring this about, he resolves on a season of entertainments such as Paris has never seen:
“He shall see her in all her glory,” thought the intoxicated Hargrave: “he shall see her as no Paris beauty of seventeen was ever seen before—he shall see her as a king’s son might glory to see his wife! And should it come to pass, as my prophetic spirit tells me that it will—should I see my Sabina borne to the feet of her brother-in-law’s throne, what will it matter to me as I follow her thither, and with all the affection of a devoted father consent thenceforward to reside beneath her princely roof, what will it then matter to me how many scurvy creditors ungratefully murmur…?”
Yes; there’s just one problem with Hargrave’s scheme for startling all Paris, and dazzling Prince Frederic into a proposal:
Mr Hargrave, in fact, at this time stood upon the brink of a precipice, one steady glance down which would probably sufficed to make him a maniac for life. This steady glance, however, he had never yet given; nor was there the least chance of his doing so, as long as these buoyant hopes and meteor-like expectations, begot between self-love and imagination, continued to float before him. But Mr Hargrave was deeply and desperately in debt. The large fortune he had brought with him from England had gradually been dissolving away from the year of his marriage with Madame de Cordillac; for her comfortable little income of twenty thousand francs was but a drop in the ocean of extravagance, into which the glory of outdoing the noblest and the wealthiest of her high-born connexions immediately plunged him. From that period, the income of his handsome fortune never sufficed to supply his annual expenditure; and the process of supplying the deficiency, by drawing upon his capital, though at first apparently a slow one, might have awakened any man to its inevitable consequence who had not lapped himself in the elysium of a variety of visions, all as extravagantly wild as that on which he now seemed determined to risk his last stake.
So, not letting a little thing like having no money at all get in the way, Hargrave begins planning a series of entertainments, each more elaborate and expensive than the last, and designed with the aim of making a young royal lose his head.
Meanwhile, the attention of the upper reaches of Parisian society is upon a series of shocking crimes, in which men leaving a certain fashionable gambling establishment have been set upon and robbed. The fact that all three robberies have followed success at the tables suggests the possibility that the thief is someone admitted to this exclusive establishment, or has a confederate who is.
Alfred Coventry—during the comfortable period between his misleading conversation with Madame de Hautrivage and the next time he sees Adèle—hears about the robberies from his best friend, Count Romanhoff, a young Russian:
“Three weeks ago last Monday, M. Jules Roland, the eldest son of the rich Roland, had won a very considerable sum at Riccardo’s. How much it was I cannot exactly tell you, but I know that a portion of it consisted of a thousand napoleons and five hundred sovereigns, won of an Englishman… He turned off the Boulevard into a dark narrow street, and before he had traversed half its length, he was seized from behind in the arms of a tall powerful man, who contrived so effectually to twist his cloak round his arms and over his mouth, that he was rendered as completely defenseless as if a strait waistcoat had been fastened on him, and as incapable of uttering a cry as if he had been gagged. The villain then rifled him of his gold and his notes…”
Coventry, though not a gambler himself, is interested enough when the matter is explained to him, and quite as conscious as his friend of the implications of the circumstances of the robberies. He points out that a process of deduction should, at least, be able to eliminate certain parties from suspicion, and produce a short-list of the men who were present at the salon on all three of the nights in question. He also tries to dissuade Romanhoff from going back (he knows his friend can’t afford gambling losses, though he is rather addicted to the pastime), but to no avail—not least because Romanhoff himself was one of those present on all three occasions:
“Why, do you not see, my dear fellow, that in the present state of affairs it would be as much as a man’s reputation is worth to be absent from Riccardo’s salon? Any habitué who should venture to withdraw himself at this crisis would be very suspiciously noté, you may depend upon it.”
“Then I can only rejoice the more that I am not one of them,” returned Mr Coventry gravely; “and I most sincerely wish, my dear friend, that you were in the same category.”
“Nonsense, Alfred; you positively look at me with as pitiful a visage as if you thought that, whether going to the salon or staying away from it, I was equally liable to suspicion. Why, think for a moment of the noble names to be found in the set you are thus condemning wholesale? I am not the only intimate friend you have among them: there are D’Obigny, Castello, Reindenberg, De Bruton, Hargrave, Fitzjames, D’Arusez, and a dozen others, at least…”
From here the conversation passes to anticipation of the grand ball which is to be the first of the Hargrave entertainments. Romanhoff has a few words of appreciation for the beautiful daughters of the house, and a few otherwise for Madame de Hautrivage—
“But heavens, that woman is a horror,—she positively expects one to make love to her!”
—but Coventry isn’t listening: he is making up his mind that he will find an opportunity at the ball to propose to Adèle.
The ball itself is a stunning success, as usual with anything undertaken by Hargrave. The recent robberies remain the main topic of conversation amongst the guests, and Prince Frederic, who has not heard the full story, requests that Count Romanhoff tell it. Romanhoff does, but becomes slightly embarrassed when the question of who was at the salon on all three nights is raised. Seeing this, the prince so pointedly changes the subject that the others gathered take the hint and drop the matter (at least in his hearing).
As far as Hargrave’s hopes go, the evening only serves to increase them: Prince Frederic’s admiration of Sabina is evident, and he dances with her as frequently as propriety allows. Nevertheless, several people notice that Hargrave is not in his usual spirits—and he is not the only one. For Alfred Coventry, the evening becomes one of bewildering mortification. Adèle’s determination that he will never guess her secret drives her into behaviour that is totally out of character: she is coolly friendly and dances with him when asked, but her conversation is completely superficial, and she eludes all his attempts to secure a private word with her. With no idea of what has passed between Adèle and her aunt, Coventry is at first confused, then angry and hurt; he leaves the ball convinced that he has had the misfortune to fall in love with a heartless coquette.
Coventry’s behaviour with respect to herself and Adèle informs Madame de Hautrivage that she has made an embarrassing blunder, and her only thought is how to retrieve her position. Confronting the weary and miserable Adèle at breakfast the next morning, Madame puts on an air of great amusement:
“Don’t look so tremendously grave, because it is too ridiculous to turn les petites plaisanteries d’un esprit, gai comme le mien, into sober earnest! But the fact is, that I told you all that long story about M. Coventry merely to try a little experiment. I wanted to find out whether you really were as vulgarly in love, in la mode Anglaise, as I suspected… For shame, Adèle!—how could you be so foolish as to imagine that I was myself going to marry young M. Alfred de Coventry?”
Adèle is so relieved, she barely gets angry; all she thinks of is finding a chance to apologise and reconcile. It is the worried Sabina who points out that getting Coventry back to the house may not be so easy. However, there has been some suggestion of Mr Hargrave holding a small private dinner for Prince Frederic, intended as a pleasant relief from crowded social gatherings and stiff official functions, with very few, very select guests. The girls agree to ask their father to invite Mr Coventry: surely he will read correctly an invitation so flattering?
In their efforts to bring about this end, the girls press for the dinner party without realising the interpretation that Hargrave is putting upon their words—that he sees only Sabina’s eagerness for Prince Frederic to be invited to their house again, not the manoeuvring to secure an invitation for Alfred Coventry.
Hargrave is a man of notable taste, who has always guided his daughters’ choice of gowns: a fact which has helped secure them the reputation as two of the best-dressed young women in Paris. He now throws himself into the task of designing appropriate outfits for their dinner: nothing so elaborate as to suggest a state function, when the attraction of the dinner is that it is a mere “family party”; but nothing so simple as to suggest a lack of proper respect. The girls are more than happy to fall in with his suggestions, and agree to spend their morning passing on his designs to their chosen modiste. They only need some money…
Hargrave’s possession of a drawer full of gold sovereigns startles Adèle, although not as much as his misstating of his own financial position—to the extent of telling a lie about it. Though disturbed and confused, she says nothing to Sabina; finally accepting, although not without some effort, Sabina’s own laughing explanation of, “National partiality” in response to Madame de Hautrivage’s grumbling about “troublesome coin”. Perhaps Mr Hargrave merely wished to avoid being scolded or sneered at by his sister-in-law for indulging in some nostalgia for England, in allowing himself to be weighed down with inconvenient sovereigns; Adèle can certainly understand that…
The dinner-party goes ahead and is another triumph for Hargrave—although not for Adèle: Alfred Coventry does not attend, having left Paris for a time. As far as Prince Frederic’s appreciation of the small, elite gathering goes, however, Hargrave has exactly anticipated his feelings of gratitude and enjoyment; accidentally surpassed them, indeed, since he was unaware of the prince’s deep love of music when he hired for the evening three of the leading performers of the Italian opera to sing for his guests.
Prince Frederic is moved offer fervent praise of Hargrave’s brilliance to to Sabina:
…such a feeling of gratitude and delight seized upon Sabina, that her eyes spoke her thanks much more eloquently than any words could have done, and so sweetly, innocently beautiful did she look the while, that the poor Prince felt for the first time that there was danger near him…
The two girls rehash the party the next day with very different feelings. Adèle is moved to warn Sabina again about Prince Frederic, but in response she both denies that she has allowed herself to grow attached to him, and that he has given her any sign of more than simple admiration. For Adèle, the misery of knowing her situation is her own fault—that she should have trusted her instincts instead of listening to her aunt—has her almost at breaking point. Finally, though reluctantly, she yields to Sabina’s counsel and sends Roger Humphries to make inquiries at Coventry’s hotel: knowing that there is no-one she can trust more than the devoted old servant, yet mortified at having to confess her secret to him.
Old Roger is only too flattered to be entrusted with such a mission, and promptly sets out; but the news (when the girls can extract it from Roger’s habitual circumlocution) is not good: Coventry is expected back in Paris, but only for as long as it will take him to pack up and leave altogether:
…it was only now that she was fully aware how wholly she had bestowed upon Coventry the affection of her heart. She spoke not, but she wept bitterly; and not the less so from the conviction that she had used him ill. The genuine worth and unmistakable nobleness of heart, which she had had sufficient opportunity of observing, ought, as she felt only too plainly, to have saved him from such hasty condemnation; and every sad moment of meditation on the past only brought with it the strengthened conviction that she had been loved, and was loved no longer…
Meanwhile, Hargrave, too, is meditating on the previous night’s events, to very different effect:
…his reverie changed from contemplation of the past to the most intoxicating anticipations for the future. He seemed to feel upon his heaving breast the delicious weight of stars and crosses of orders innumerable. Sweet sounds murmured in his ears as of whispering throngs of nobles, whose words, being interpreted, were “See! that graceful, noble gentleman is the father of Prince Frederic!” Long suites of gorgeous rooms opened in a palpable vista before him, and among them his heart told him he should find a home… “Ay, there will be my resting-place, and without the cursed, cursed necessity of seeking means to pay for it!…”
Hargrave is then brought down to earth with a thud: his steward, Jenkyns, interrupts his daydreams to announce that he has just been confronted by a very angry creditor, from whom Hargrave once borrowed one hundred and fifty thousand francs at high interest, and on a promise to pay back the capital on demand at any time after a two-year period. The creditor, M. Marsen, not only needs his money urgently, as he is about to leave France: he is furious that a letter demanding it has had no response.
Hargrave insists that he received no such letter, but assures Jenkyns that of course he will pay M. Marsen back—provided he is allowed the same one-month period originally agreed in which to get the money together. This, as it turns out, is not acceptable to M. Marsen, since all other aspects of their agreement have been violated; but after some argument, he agrees to accept payment in one week; agrees, too, to accept a package of jewels in lieu of cash, since Hargrave insists he will not be able to convert the gems into ready money in the time allowed. Marsen even agrees to keep the nature of their transaction a secret, after Hargrave expresses some shame at having to sell family jewels to pay his debt.
Another bullet dodged, Hargrave goes back to planning one, last glorious entertainment for Prince Frederic, to be held in a week’s time. He starts by sending him a personalised invitation, to ensure the prince’s presence, and the friendly note he receives in return almost sends him into a delirium of joy; particularly since it includes in exchange an invitation for the Hargrave family to attend a fancy-dress ball to be arranged and hosted by the prince himself: just the occasion for a public announcement, thinks Hargrave:
“I have not lived so long in the very centre and heart of society without learning to interpret the signs and tokens belonging to it. Sabina is the elected wife of a prince, and I am destined to stand in the position of brother to a king! And poor Jenkyns thought to scare me by talking of a pressing claim for a few thousand pounds! What a whimsical incongruity it seems!”
And Mr Hargrave laughed—laughed heartily at the jest he saw in it…
[To be continued…]