Hargrave; or, The Adventures Of A Man Of Fashion (Part 2)

hargrave2b    She knelt upon the ground, and used the instrument she had found to remove the soil. There was no difficulty in the task; it lay, lighter than the moist leaves which had concealed it, over a rudely-crushed mass of trinketry, hidden at the distance only of an inch or two beneath the surface. But this was not all: beside, or rather in the midst of this strangely bruised, but still glittering mass, lay a hammer, with a long, white, slender handle, exactly resembling that which she had seen in Mr Hargrave’s hand when he left the building.
    It was not suspicion— Oh no! it could not be suspicion which for an instant suspended the pulsations of her heart. ” What a fool I am to be thus terrified!” she said aloud. “What is it I am afraid of?” and having thus chid the weakness that for a moment had made her feel so deadly sick, she lifted the golden fragments from the earth, and then perceived that they consisted entirely of settings, from whence gems had been violently torn. But, while gazing on these unequivocal traces of rapine and violence, and completing the theory by which she accounted for the manner of Mr Hargrave’s going and coming, her eyes suddenly became fixed and distended; the things she held dropped from her hands, and she would have fallen with them had she not seized the branch of a tree, and, resting her head against it, sustained herself till the sudden faintness had passed.
    A moment before Adèle had accused herself of weakness, but now she wondered at her own strength, which enabled her to stand upright and in full possession of her senses, while convinced—perfectly, soberly convinced—that the ornaments she had just held in her hand were in many places spotted with blood! Alas ! the dreadful tale this told was but too legible. Not robbery alone, but murder had been committed on the premises…

With Prince Frederic’s attendance assured, Mr Hargrave sets about planning a party that like nothing Paris has ever seen; one that requires the redecoration of his mansion, with backdrops and hangings and coloured lanterns transforming the house into an Arabian Nights-like Wonderland:

He conducted the wandering trio through meandering passages, which led—upholsterers only knew how— to tents of Eastern splendour in one direction, and to twilight retreats of flowery sweetness in another; all managed with such mastery of deception, that of three apartments constructed in the gardens and approached from the principal salle de bal, through the aperture of a banished window, not one could be reached but by a complication of arcades, dazzling with a thousand many-coloured lamps…

Though generally much pleased with his arrangements, Hargrave confesses to Madame de Hautrivage and the girls that the “garden” room has turned out rather damp; and he exacts from all three a promise that they won’t risk themselves by entering it after the exercise of dancing.

In addition to the decorations, Hargrave secures another form of entertainment for his guests that borders on a freak-show. When Paris isn’t discussing the recent spate of robberies, it is fixated upon the startling conduct of a wealthy banker, M. Bertrand, who has become so obsessed with a beautiful young woman of the lower classes, he has actually married her!—and not only that, but expresses his passion by loading her with the most extraordinary collection of diamonds ever assembled. And because, next to his bride herself, the thing M. Bertrand loves best is showing her—and her diamonds—off in public, he accepts Hargrave’s invitation to his fête. Argument rages over whether Mme Bertrand is as virtuous as she is beautiful, as her besotted husband contends, or a startlingly successful little god-digger, and Paris is all agog at having an opportunity to decide for itself.

The girls anticipate the fête very differently; almost exchanging characters. The usually more subdued Sabina has been caught up in the excitement of the event, entering wholeheartedly into her father’s preparations and looking forward to a more than usually pleasant evening; while Adèle is still suffering from the consequences of her actions, and can take little pleasure in the party. However, she conceals her feelings from the other two, neither of whom suspects how deeply she is suffering.

The fête is literally and figuratively the centrepiece of Hargrave, finding the main characters both physically and emotionally separated from one another, and requiring Trollope to do some considerable juggling of her plot-threads. It isn’t always successful—the reader tends, in particular, to lose track of the time; of what is happening simultaneously and/or at any given moment—but such a lot is going on that this isn’t altogether surprising.

The Bertrands attend as promised, and Paris is somewhat disappointed to find them less ridiculous than anticipated: the age difference is not as great as rumour had it, and although shy and very awkward in society, Mme Betrand is young and pretty enough to be excused; and seems, besides, fond of her husband, if not as devoted to him as he is to her. However, her diamonds are all that was expected and more, even if they make her look rather like a walking display-case.

Hargrave’s first concern is with Prince Frederic; but as soon as he has seen the young royal waltzing with Sabina, he turns his attention to the Bertrands—or rather, to Mme Bertrand. Bertrand himself is a passionate whist-player, and so easily disposed of. This done, Hargrave devotes himself to Mme Bertrand, dancing with her repeatedly—despite her clumsiness in the ballroom—flattering her, attending to her needs, and generally giving the impression of a man infatuated—much to the amusement of many and the embarrassment of his daughters, to whom his behaviour seems so out of character as to be inexplicable.

Alfred Coventry does not attend the fête, but Count Romanhoff does—and he’s a man on a mission. Coventry is straining at his leash to leave Paris and has only been held back by the fact that Romanhoff, though he has agreed to join him on his travels to—somewhere; anywhere—has insisted that he can’t leave just yet. Angry and resentful over the hurt his friend has suffered, Romanhoff has nevertheless determined to find out whether there has in fact been some sort of misunderstanding, so that there might yet be a reconciliation, or if Adèle really is the heartless flirt that a bitter Coventry now believes her; and, without saying anything to his friend, he attends the fête for the sole purpose of confronting her.

Romanhoff gets all the attention he could desire from Adèle by telling her that Coventry has ordered his horses for five o’clock the following morning. However, finding somewhere to talk quietly in the midst of the greatest crush of the Paris season isn’t so easy. Adèle mentions that there is a private shortcut to the supper-rooms, which has been created for the convenience of the staff, and leads Romanhoff away from the crowds—and into another embarrassment, when the two of them overhear Hargrave talking to a rather suspicious-looking individual:

    The position in which Mr Hargrave and this man stood prevented either of them perceiving the approach of Count Romanhoff and Adèle, till they were near enough distinctly to hear Mr Hargrave say, “I adore her, Ruperto! Manage this matter for me skilfully, and the price named by you yesterday shall be doubled.”
    Mr Hargrave spoke in French, but the man whispered a reply in Italian, of which Adèle only heard enough to convince her that her step-father’s proposal was agreed to, whatever it was; for her companion, disagreeably aware that he had led the young lady into hearing what was certainly not intended for her, hastily turned in another direction…

The two find a quiet spot, but are further distracted, first by Hargrave behaving completely like his usual well-mannered self with the Duchesse de Vermont, and then a few minutes later being again utterly unlike himself with Mme Bertrand; while for Adèle, there is the added concern of Prince Frederic’s behaviour towards Sabina, which suggests that matters are becoming extremely serious.

But finally Romanhoff gets to the point, arguing his friend’s case. Uncertain himself of the rights and wrongs of the situation, his own manner towards Adèle fluctuates wildly as the various points occur to him. He has, perhaps, come there predisposed against Adèle in spite of his promise to himself that he will remain impartial; and he hardly knows whether to be sorry or cynically satisfied when the reaction he gets from her isn’t what he is expecting or considers appropriate:

…the last words were uttered in a tone of hauteur and indignation, which seemed to imply that it must be a very meek and humble-minded response which would satisfy him. Now, Mademoiselle de Cordillac was at that moment in no humour to be humble and meek to any body. All she wished and wanted on earth was before her—all she had ever asked from Heaven during the misery of the last dreadful fortnight was accorded. She was at liberty to open her whole heart to the only man she had ever dreamed it was possible to love; and that by an act of generosity, and not of degradation. For an instant her bright eye met that of Romanhoff; but there was a flashing joy in it that looked to him like triumph, which puzzled and alarmed him. “Have I undertaken this unauthorised mission,” thought he, ” solely to gratify the vanity of this unfeeling girl?”

And when, after a light remark totally disconnected from the matter at hand, Adèle abruptly leaves him, Romanhoff’s alarm and puzzlement turn to anger; and he leaves the fête determined not only that Coventry should know the worst, but that the two of them won’t be remaining in Paris a minute longer than necessary.

In fact, overcome by emotion which she is unable to express to a comparative stranger, and that a young man, Adèle’s one thought is to get a message to Coventry—a letter, to be carried by the faithful Roger Humphries, who has it impressed upon him the absolute necessity of reaching Coventry’s hotel before five o’clock. Roger is only too willing but, given that he is dressed in the elaborate livery that Hargrave demands his servants wear during an entertainment, he finds it necessary to stop long enough to change his shoes before setting out—with the result that Coventry and Romanhoff make their hurried departure exactly six minutes before Roger arrives at the hotel.

Though she does not hesitate to take the drastic step of sending, in effect, a love letter, Adèle is only too aware of how her conduct might be viewed by a third party. Shaken by this thought, though not dissuaded, and flustered by the night’s events, she retires from the party to her own room—which happens to overlook the garden and the outside walls of Hargrave’s arrangements for his fête

Meanwhile, though a number of the guests do depart after supper—among them Prince Frederic, following his usual line of conduct, and more aware than ever of the necessity of separating himself from Sabina—Hargrave’s party continues on into the early hours of the morning, with most of those remaining congregating in the ballroom either to dance, if they have the energy, or to amuse themselves with the efforts of the remaining determinedly energetic few. Amongst the latter are Hargrave and Mme Bertrand, who at one point even dance through an opening in the room’s hangings and out towards the garden. Sabina, who has not danced since the departure of the prince and would gladly go to bed, saw Adèle slip away earlier, and feels that she must stay to play hostess. She is therefore present when the last guests demand a cotillion to end the dance:

Just at the moment when the seemingly endless cotillion was at its highest point of vivacity, Sabina observed her father enter the room by a door leading from the supper-room; he was alone, and she was on the point of rising to meet him, when she perceived him very abruptly, as it seemed to her, seize the hand of a partnerless lady, and dart forward with her into the middle of the dance, with an air of frolic and defiance of etiquette both equally foreign to his usual style and manner. Sabina disliked the cotillion. and never danced in it; but she felt now that she disliked it more than ever, as the rude vortex of its mirth seemed to constrain her father to put off his graceful stateliness in order to join in its turbulent evolutions. As the figure of the dance brought him nearer to her, however, an idea occurred greatly more painful than any suggested by the circumstances of his condescending to join in a dance which she did not admire,—she thought he was intoxicated! and the strangely unsettled expression of his eye, as well as a most unwonted want of sedateness in all his movements, fully justified the idea…

To Sabina’s relief, Hargrave pulls himself together as soon as the dance is over, and devotes himself to the task of bidding farewell to his last guests: a duty which devolves into dealing with a scene in the vestibule.

M. Bertrand has at last emerged from the card-room, to discover that his wife is nowhere to be found. Three other guests, M. de Beauvet, M. de Soissons and Lord Hartwell, are the recipients of his panicked complaints before the arrival of Hargrave, whose calm suggestion that Mme Bertrand was tired and went home on her own is passionately rejected by her husband. Moreover, the Bertrand carriage is found waiting in the courtyard:

“Gracious Heavens!” cried the unhappy husband… “Oh! doubtless she was carried off…and must now, with all that mine of wealth about her, be far beyond the reach of pursuit. Yet think not,” he added, with a burst of very genuine tears,—“think not, gentlemen, that I am wretch enough to think of the loss of diamonds at such a moment as this. Alas! the naming of them only shews what I think to be the cause of my loss. She would not have left me, do not think it, gentlemen; she has been snatched away during the hurry and crowding which probably took place on leaving the supper-room, and, ere this time, may have been both robbed and murdered!” And again the poor man wept bitterly.

The others try to determine when Mme Bertrand was last seen. Sabina mentions that she saw her at supper, while Hargrave, contradicting M. Bertrand’s version of events, asserts that he danced with her after supper, and thinks he saw her dancing with someone else later again, although he cannot remember who.

An hysterical M. Bertrand then departs the house, probably, the others think, to alert the police. As soon as he has gone, Hargrave shrugs to the others that, in his opinion, this is not an abduction, but an elopement. Pausing only to send Sabina to bed, he then repeats to the men various incidents that occurred and words uttered by Mme Bertrand during the evening that make him suspect that her disappearance is voluntary. With this reassurance, the others take their departure.

On her way upstairs, Sabina hesitates outside Adèle’s door, longing to talk to her about what has happened but worried that her early retirement from the party means that she was unwell. Not wanting to wake her, she passes on to her own room. But she need not have worried: Adèle has been too agitated to sleep, and instead has spent the night pacing her room, listening to the music and other sounds from below. These are still audible even with the coming of the dawn. Adèle sits at her windows, enjoying the cool of the April morning—and sees something strange: a person, or persons, in the garden, moving amongst the shadows cast by the temporary buildings and their surrounding decorative evergreens. She also hears a noise that sounds like a muffled cry.

Reluctantly, Adèle recalls the words she overheard spoken by her step-father to the uncouth stranger; wondering if this activity has something to do with their plan.

It is some time after this that Adèle hears Sabina outside her door. She stays still and silent, hoping that her sister will not come in; feeling unable to discuss with her either her own situation, or what she thinks she knows of Hargrave’s doings. Left securely alone, Adèle then drops into a doze, only to be wakened by a noise in the garden. By this time it is full daylight, and she watches as Hargrave emerges from behind the canvas hangings, carrying something she cannot see clearly—a tool, she thinks—and slips around the corner of the pavilion. Minutes later he returns; there is no sign of the tool, but instead he is carrying something bundled up in a large silk handkerchief.

Between her fruitless conjectures over what she has witnessed, and her impatience at Roger’s apparent failure to return, Adèle is thoroughly awake again, and decides to dress herself: she doesn’t want a maid’s prying eyes on her. While brushing out her very long hair, she accidentally knocks her brush sharply against her dressing-table, and as she fears, the noise brings to her room the last person she wants to see. She tries to hide her excited state from Hargrave, but his mention of an incident in the house alarms her; though his own evident unconcern and declared determination to get some sleep reassure her. Secure that he has retired to rest, she decides to slip downstairs and see if Roger has in fact returned but perhaps hesitated to wake her.

There is no sign of him, however, and with nothing to do and no-one up to talk to, Adèle’s thoughts turn back to what she saw from her window. She makes her way to the “garden” room, the furthest point of the redecorations, and from there into the garden itself—not without realising for the first time how the design of this final room makes the point of exit almost impossible to find, if someone did not know it was there. Outside, she finds herself quite bewildered as to what her step-father could have been doing in the little that remains of their undisturbed grounds—or are they undisturbed?

…her steps were arrested by the sight of a trowel, such as masons use. She stooped and took it up. Could this be the implement which she had discerned in her step-father’s hand as he went out?—she thought not. She had distinctly seen what appeared to be a longer, slenderer, and a lighter-coloured handle than that of the implement she had found, and she let it drop on the place from whence she had taken it. Before she passed on, however, she gave another glance to it as it lay upon the ground; and as she turned her eyes from it…they were attracted by the gleaming of some bright but minute object, lying at the edge of a heap of withered leaves which seemed raked together from an abundance of others with which the ground was covered. She moved the moist and dirty-looking mass with her foot, for its appearance was not inviting to her ungloved fingers; but this daintiness speedily vanished before what her foot disclosed; and stooping, without further ceremony, she plunged her hand into the wet mass, and drew thence a long chain of gold, the clasp of which had evidently been torn off, as well as something which had been attached to the centre, for the link from which it had hung had been wrenched asunder…

Adèle’s further explorations uncover a mass of such damaged gold—jewellery settings, from which the jewels themselves have been torn away—and which in some places is clearly spotted with blood.

Robbery and murder present themselves to Adèle’s shocked mind as she hurriedly puts things back the way they were, wishing she hadn’t done anything that might involve her as a witness. This, then, is the “incident” that Hargrave referred to, and explains his presence in the garden: he, too, must have been looking for evidence.

Shaken by this experience, worried by Roger’s non-appearance, and exhausted by the night’s events, Adèle slips back into her room and cries herself to sleep.

Later that day, the weary family members rise and dress, and Sabina gives Adèle a circumstantial account of what passed after she retired. Adèle does not mention her own experiences, but tries to reconcile her knowledge with what Sabina tells her. She is particularly interested in the cotillion, since she heard the music clearly in her room, and knows that the lengthy dance was underway when she caught her first glimpse of the stranger in the garden. Sabina’s description of Hargrave’s late entry seems to confirm her suspicion that it was he she saw. Furthermore, she cannot help but remember the muffled cry, and to weigh it against Hargrave’s statement about when he last saw Mme Bertrand in the ballroom. Her thoughts distress her to a degree which she cannot hide from Sabina, although she makes one firm resolution:

But the more these hateful suspicions settled upon her mind, the more earnest became her wish to conceal them completely and for ever from Sabina. She knew the tender devotion of her attachment to this mysterious father, and she felt that either her life or her reason would probably be the sacrifice were she to know such thoughts had ever been conceived concerning him. But Sabina’s eye was upon her, and she feared that she would sink before it. There was one way, and one only that suggested itself, by which such a turn might be given to their conversation as might account for her own weakness without disclosing the real cause of it. Adèle related with as much distinctness as was in her power all that Count Romanhoff had said to her, and the sudden resolution of sending to Coventry, which had been its result…

Sabina is, as hoped, completely distracted. She sympathises with Adèle, insisting that she was quite right to send a message to Coventry in spite of the potential for scandal, should anyone find out; but when she learns that Adèle has had no answer, she assumes she has been too scared to inquire of Roger, and scolds her for being so cowardly. The self-conscious Adèle doesn’t tell her that she knows Roger isn’t back, but accepts these strictures and allows Sabina to send for him—and find out for herself there’s no sign of him.

Puzzled, Sabina casts around for an explanation, and finally concludes that, discovering that Coventry had departed Paris, Roger went after him. She intends this theory to soothe the distressed Adèle, who in truth isn’t even thinking about her own situation, except as it serves her to conceal her real thoughts from Sabina. She encourages Sabina to talk about the party—although not about Mme Bertrand—and learns from her that Prince Frederic intends departing Paris, and that he will make an announcement to that effect at his own party. This being the case, Sabina also confesses that she might have been in danger had, as she puts it, Frederic been “less royal”. As it is, they parted the night before understanding one another and their relative positions, with mutual respect and more feeling on both sides than either cared to admit.

So where is Roger?

After the hurried departure of M. Bertrand, the three other witnesses to his tragedy also depart. Lord Hartwell’s carriage is at the door, but M. de Beauvet and M. de Soissons have to walk to a nearby lane to find theirs—where they see an odd sight: an elderly man with a great-coat over his livery at the back gate of the Hargrave mansion who, when he realises he has been seen, turns and hurries away again. Given the events of the night, the two men go in pursuit, in company with another Hargrave servant whom they call to their assistance. The three corner Roger in an alley, where his evident agitation and his refusal to explain himself increase their suspicions, and he finds himself subjected to a citizen’s arrest.

Unfortunately for Roger, the other servant is Louis Querin, a footman, who hates him for a variety of petty reasons that none the less add up to a virulent total. Overjoyed at seeing the man he considers his enemy in danger of arrest, Querin does everything he can to blacken Roger’s name. The gentleman believe him, having no reason not to, and send him back to the house under a warning to tell no-one what has happened, in case Roger has confederates. Roger himself gets carried away and handed over to the police as a suspect in the disappearance of Mme Bertrand.

Meanwhile, Hargrave is receiving the expected visit of his hostile creditor, M. Marsen, who receives the long-delayed repayment of his loan—as agreed, chiefly in the form of jewels.

Marsen has barely departed when Hargrave is called upon by M. de Beauvet and M. de Soissons, who tell him that they have been inquiring into the circumstances of Mme Bertrand’s disappearance. This announcement turns Hargrave rather pale, but he gets his colour back when they add that Roger Humphries is in police custody, being asked by officialdom to explain his suspicious behaviour. After a moment’s thought, Hargrave expresses his great surprise, and his belief in Roger’s innocence, before again suggesting that Mme Bertrand eloped with a lover, and there’s no need for fuss, still less for the police…

However, M. de Soissons is acquainted with some people who are acquainted with the Bertrands, and is able to assert on their authority that despite the lowness of her origins, Mme Bertrand has, since her marriage, conducted herself modestly, and shown every sign of being attached to her husband for more than his wealth; that, conversely, the police do not believe that having secured such a marriage, she would have thrown it all away so quickly; that they are treating the incident as an abduction, and are inclined to look for suspects amongst those present at Hargrave’s fête:

“Nay, then,” returned Mr Hargrave, sighing, while his deportment suddenly changed from gay to grave,—“nay, then, if this be the case, I fear, indeed, that old Roger may have had a hand in it. The old man has often shewn himself avaricious; it is, as we all know, the vice of age—and I will not deny the having been long aware that it was his. But if robbery has been intended, gentlemen, depend upon it that it has been perpetrated under the mask of love; and that all the guilt which lies at the door of old Roger is that he has received a bribe,—a heavy one, I doubt not, to render the elopement easy.”

For his part, M. de Soissons does not think that Roger’s so-far obstinate silence under police questioning is in accord with him assisting an elopement. The two visitors then request Hargrave to accompany them to witness further questioning, at which they have agreed to act on behalf of M. Bertrand, but Hargrave refuses on the basis of Roger’s long service in his household: he feels, consequently, that he should stay aloof from the proceedings.

Hargrave then joins the girls, a meeting from which Adèle excuses herself as quickly as possible. Hargrave is concerned about her, but not as concerned as he is to hear how Sabina left matters with Prince Frederic. Sabina cannot answer without emotion—which her father, at first, completely misinterprets:

    The pause she made sufficed to let loose the coursers of Mr Hargrave’s imagination, and on they galloped even to the utmost goal of his wishes. “My darling, sweet Sabina!” he exclaimed, “fear not to trust your father! Tell me what he said!—tell me all!”
    “Nay, papa,” replied Sabina gently, “it was not much; only I have seen him so often lately that I was rather sorry for it. He only said that he was going to leave Paris immediately after his own ball…”
    “Leave Paris!” cried Mr Hargrave, gasping,—“leave Paris immediately! It is impossible, Sabina! You do not believe he was in earnest?”
    “Oh, yes, papa, he was quite in earnest,” said Sabina quietly; her composure restored, as it seemed, by her father’s want of it.
    “Then he is—” vehemently ejaculated Mr Hargrave; but suddenly stopping himself, he added, in a tone as light as he could contrive to make it, “a very capricious fellow.”

But Hargrave isn’t the man to give up without a fight. Pulling himself together, and ignoring Sabina’s quiet insistence that there can never be anything between herself and Prince Frederic, he tells himself that there is still one last chance, the prince’s own ball: one last chance to throw Sabina in his way, one last chance for the prince’s heart to overrule his royal training:

“So!” he exclaimed, as he once again enclosed himself himself in his library, “the plot thickens upon me. Glory, honour, and magnificence for life, or ruin, exposure, and death!”

Down at the offices of the Correctional Police, M. de Beauvet and M. de Soissons give their depositions, while Louis Querin does everything he can to make trouble for Roger. His personal enmity is obvious, but still the police are impressed by his assertion that Roger was absent from his duties for several hours during the party, before making his surreptitious attempt to re-enter the grounds of the Hargrave mansion.

As for Roger, he is happy to answer questions—up to a point: he refuses absolutely to account for his movements, to explain where he had been before being spotted at the gate. He is also willing to be searched—up to a point: he turns out his pockets and removes his coat and his waistcoat without hesitation, offering to remove his boots and stockings; pleased that, as he anticipated, the police do not think to inspect his cravat; where, amongst its numerous folds, is nestled Adèle’s note to Alfred Coventry.

But the contents of his pockets cause more trouble for Roger, since they include several gold sovereigns of the type stolen from M. Roland outside Riccardo’s. Roger explains readily enough that the coins were part of his wages, paid to him by his master, Mr Hargrave. The police decide that this is a statement requiring further investigation. Roger is returned to his cell, and Louis Querin, much to his delight, is retained as a police-agent: if Roger is guilty, he may have had confederates, possibly amongst the other servants. Querin is to keep his eyes and ears open, and his mouth shut.

That afternoon, M. Collet of the police and several of his men arrive to inspect the Hargrave mansion, including the garden-gate where Roger was seized, and the small patch of ground surrounding the still-standing canvas rooms. They note, as Adèle did, how hard it is to see the exit into the garden from the inside (a feature which they later learn was designed by Mr Hargrave); and they also find the marks of a woman’s footprints—as well as signs that she may have been dragged through the garden. Finally, they locate the buried items:

Precisely the same process which had been performed by Mademoiselle de Cordillac about nine hours before was now repeated by the agents of the police…but the discoveries of those who followed her went farther, for M. Collet himself using the trowel found on the ground, with considerable strength and agility, perceived that the earth had been moved to a greater depth than that of the spot where the settings of the mutilated trinkets lay, and presently came to the corner of a delicate white silk pocket-handkerchief, which, having been seized and dragged from its dark receptacle, was perceived to be copiously stained with blood…

What the police don’t know is that they are being watched. Before their arrival, a restless Adèle had ventured out for some air; she was at the hidden exit when the police began their work, and retreated no further than an aperture left for the servants to pass refreshments and dishes through, from where she could both hear and see, without being seen herself. Horrified by the discoveries, she slips back to her room to contemplate their implications:

With the resolute calmness which an urgent necessity is almost sure to inspire in such a mind as Adèle’s, she once more set herself to examine all the facts which had come to her knowledge since this dreadful period of her existence began. She had heard Mr Hargrave engage an agent to assist him in obtaining possession of some female whom he professed to adore. He had paid a degree of attention to Madame Bertrand, which might easily enough be interpreted into making love to her. Madame Bertrand has subsequently disappeared, and Adèle had great reason to believe that Mr Hargrave had assisted in her abduction. This was bad enough, and sufficiently lamentable to cause her the deepest regret; but how immensely distant was such regret from the feelings which must follow upon believing that her step-father was guilty of the crimes which she could not doubt that the agents of the police were prepared to lay to his door! But how was she to separate and divide events which were so closely woven together? How separate the abduction of Madame Bertrand from the horrible fate which had too evidently followed it?

In fact, she can’t: unable to reconcile the evidence before her with the step-father who raised her, Adèle can only conclude that there is something she doesn’t know, something that will throw a whole new light upon these terrible events and allow Hargrave to exonerate himself from, at least, the worst of the charges. She makes up her mind that, painful as the scene must be, she will seek out her step-father, lay before him all that she knows, and ask him to explain.

She cannot do it immediately, however, because Hargrave is out taking a drive:

During the course of which drive he had met nine-tenths of the elegant idlers of Paris, to nearly all of whom he was known, and with any of whom he stopped to hear and to utter a light word or two upon the misfortune of the unlucky millionaire, who had lost the pretty wife he had purchased, before he had got tired of her. To all of these Mr Hargrave related, with much humour, the tragic-comic scene which had been performed in his ball the preceding night, declaring, that though he could not help but laugh at the recollection of poor M. Bertrand’s gesticulate despair, it had really affected him very differently at the time, and that, all jesting apart, he was very sorry for him…

After such a tiring afternoon, following on from an exhausting night, and with yet another evening party ahead of him, at the home of a certain Ambassador, Hargrave decides that he’s earned a nap, and takes it on the couch in his library. It is here that Adèle finds him, when she has worked her courage up sufficiently to confront him.

Adèle, as we have seen, is trying desperately to believe that Hargrave is not guilty of any, or all, of the acts of which she cannot help suspecting him; yet the fact that he immediately speaks lightly of Mme Bertrand, in effect doing for her the same routine that he has been doing in the park—that there is something, as she thinks, so revoltingly incongruous, in his jocular tone—causes her to change her mind in a moment:

    “Do not, father!” said Adèle, in a voice that might have startled any man, let his nerves have been in what state they would. Though speaking to her, he had as yet hardly looked in her face, for he lay stretched with apparent listlessness on his back, with his half-closed eyes fixed upon the ceiling. But now he started up and gazed at her with orbs that seemed starting from their sockets. All self-command was for the moment lost, and fear and guilt looked out through every feature.
    Adèle felt as if the dark curtain which concealed the truth had been drawn up before her eyes, and that all which her soul shrunk from looking on, was now disclosed…

But luckily for Hargrave, all of Adèle’s most urgent thoughts and feelings are centred not upon him, but upon Sabina, who she determines must be protected from the truth at all cost, and most of all from the horror of having her father exposed as the worst of criminals. For Sabina’s sake, she will do anything to save Hargrave—in fact, whatever it takes:

    “Father! there must be no questions asked, and I must manage for you,” she said, with a degree of sedate steadiness that did more towards bringing the unhappy man out of his seeming trance than any exclamations could have done.
    “You know it all then, Adèle?” he replied, his fixed features relaxing and his pale lips trembling…
    “All, father, all! And you must leave Paris this night, and France with all the speed we may…”

[To be continued…]

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6 Comments to “Hargrave; or, The Adventures Of A Man Of Fashion (Part 2)”

  1. So the cotillion has a rude vortex of mirth and turbulent evolutions? I had always heard (usually from Ms. Heyer) that the waltz was considered scandalous when it was first introduced, but I never heard anything against the cotillion. The description makes it sound like an 18th century version of twerking.

    • Well, it could be. In fact the cotillion started out as the most formal of these “figure dances”, but when it was used to end an all-night ball, as here, it could turn into a bit of a romp—and be kept going as long as people could stand.

      In England the cotillion got overtaken by the quadrille (which was simpler), and in America it devolved into the square dance—Trollope makes the French cotillion sound like an upper-class version of the latter, with a ballroom instead of a barn. 🙂

      The waltz was scandalous because it was the first dance where the man put his arm around the woman instead of just holding her hand, but by the end of the Regency it was generally accepted everywhere.

  2. There’s always somebody who thinks anything new and fun is too sexy and shouldn’t be allowed. We’re maybe not too surprised that the sound saxophone was greeted with fainting and popped monocles, but hey, they had the same reaction centuries earlier when the violin appeared on the scene.

    • True, though I guess in the case of the waltz it was a bit of a quantum leap. That reaction to a new sound is fascinating…

  3. “Fly at once – all is discovered!”

    I am going to have to find a copy of this.

    • Frances Trollope’s novels are annoyingly difficult to find, generally, but this was reissued in a “Pocket Classics” edition some years ago, and inexpensive copies aren’t too difficult to find online.

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