A hundred such touching hopes, fears, and memories palpitated in her little heart, as she looked with her brightest eyes (the rouge which she wore up to her eyelids made them twinkle) towards the great nobleman.
Of a Star and Garter night Lord Steyne used also to put on his grandest manner and to look and speak like a great prince, as he was.
Becky admired him smiling sumptuously, easy, lofty, and stately.
Ah, bon Dieu, what a pleasant companion he was, what a brilliant wit, what a rich fund of talk, what a grand manner!--and she had exchanged this for Major Loder, reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water, and Captain Rook with his horsejockey jokes and prize-ring slang, and their like.
"I wonder whether he will know me," she thought.
Lord Steyne was talking and laughing with a great and illustrious lady at his side, when he looked up and saw Becky.
She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and she put on the very best smile she could muster, and dropped him a little, timid, imploring curtsey.
He stared aghast at her for a minute, as Macbeth might on beholding Banquo's sudden appearance at his ball-supper, and remained looking at her with open mouth, when that horrid Major Loder pulled her away.
"Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.," was that gentleman's remark: "seeing these nobs grubbing away has made me peckish too.
Let's go and try the old governor's champagne."
Becky thought the Major had had a great deal too much already.
The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill--the Hyde Park of the Roman idlers--possibly in hopes to have another sight of Lord Steyne.
But she met another acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his lordship's confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather familiarly and putting a finger to his hat.
"I knew that Madame was here," he said;
"I followed her from her hotel.
I have some advice to give Madame."
"From the Marquis of Steyne?" Becky asked, resuming as much of her dignity as she could muster, and not a little agitated by hope and expectation.
"No," said the valet; "it is from me.
Rome is very unwholesome."
"Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche--not till after Easter."
"I tell Madame it is unwholesome now.
There is always malaria for some people.
That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seasons.
Look, Madame Crawley, you were always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, parole d'honneur.
Be warned.
Go away from Rome, I tell you--or you will be ill and die."
Becky laughed, though in rage and fury.
"What! assassinate poor little me?" she said.
"How romantic!
Does my lord carry bravos for couriers, and stilettos in the fourgons?
Bah!
I will stay, if but to plague him.
I have those who will defend me whilst I am here."
It was Monsieur Fiche's turn to laugh now.
"Defend you," he said, "and who?
The Major, the Captain, any one of those gambling men whom Madame sees would take her life for a hundred louis.
We know things about Major Loder (he is no more a Major than I am my Lord the Marquis) which would send him to the galleys or worse.
We know everything and have friends everywhere.
We know whom you saw at Paris, and what relations you found there.
Yes, Madame may stare, but we do.
How was it that no minister on the Continent would receive Madame?
She has offended somebody: who never forgives--whose rage redoubled when he saw you.
He was like a madman last night when he came home.
Madame de Belladonna made him a scene about you and fired off in one of her furies."
"Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?" Becky said, relieved a little, for the information she had just got had scared her.
"No--she does not matter--she is always jealous.
I tell you it was Monseigneur.
You did wrong to show yourself to him.
And if you stay here you will repent it.
Mark my words.