1876 Read Free

lady—”
    “Is that her?” The dwarf looked over his missal at Emma; in fact, pointed that object at her as if he were an imp from hell with a summons.
    “My wife is dead. She died at Paris some years ago. She—”
    “What is your name, miss?” The World to Emma.
    “Je ne comprends pas, monsieur.” Emma’s face was white, her full lips a straight line of irritability. The French words snapped in the room like a whip.
    “My daughter is the Princess d’Agrigente.” Much confusion as we worked as one to get the spelling right. Finally, a compromise: in English she is the Princess of Agrigento. “She is a widow—” I began.
    “What did the Prince do ?”From the Express .
    Emma started to answer, furiously, in English, but a gesture from me stopped her. Raptly John Apgar stared at us, as if at the theatre.
    “The Prince had many interests. His father, as I am sure you all know, was a marshal of France and served under the first Napoleon. He was ennobled in Italy. After Waterloo, when Napoleon was defeated—” For once I was spelling out too much. Impatiently they indicated that Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo was known to them.
    “Got any children, Princess?”
    “Two,” I answered quickly. “In Paris. With their grandmother. The dowager Princess.” Who is charging us—that sovereign bitch from hell— five thousand francs a year for their support, almost a thousand dollars: the entire income Emma realizes from what remains of her husband’s estate. Need I say—yes, I do need to say, even to this journal where it is perfectly irrelevant, that I have never in my life met such a terrible woman as Emma’s mother-in-law. According to legend, she was a prostitute when Lieutenant du Pont, the future marshal and Prince d’Agrigente, met her, but I doubt the story, as she must have been even then as plain—and odoriferous—as an abattoir on an August day.
    “Are you planning to write about the change in New York since you lived here?” This from the charming thin man of the Herald , who knows me as a “valued contributor.”
    “Indeed. I look forward to a tour of the States. East and West. North and South. I shall attend and write about the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia when it opens—”
    “For the Herald ?”Again from the most amiable thin youth.
    “Where else?” Equal amiability from me—if not total sincerity, for I shall sell my wares to the highest bidder.
    “Are you related to Mrs. William Astor?”
    This was as startling a question as I have ever been asked. “Certainly not!” I fear I was too sharp.
    The mystery was promptly solved: apparently Mrs. Astor’s maiden name was the same as my mother’s—Schermerhorn—something I had not known, although even at Paris we have often been told by amused and bemused travellers of the grandeur of Mrs. Astor’s receptions, of the gorgeous splendour of that New York society which she dominates, having managed to unseat her sister-in-law Mrs. John Jacob Astor III who outranks her, at least according to primogeniture, for J.J. Astor III is the eldest son of that family, and its head.
    Once, a half-century ago, I saw the original J.J. Astor crawling along lower Broadway; the old man wore an ermine-lined coat and was supported by my old friend—and his secretary—the poet Fitz-Greene Halleck. All dead.
    Questions about my books. But not many. According to the press, I am a famous author in the United States, but this set of overcoats was not certain just why I am celebrated. On the other hand, they are all familiar with my journalism, not only my pieces for Jamie Bennett’s Herald but also those for the Evening Post , where my literary career began. I am the New York press’s perennial authority on European matters.
    Politics. Sooner or later that subject always comes up with Americans.
    What did I think of the recent arrest and imprisonment of Boss Tweed, who stole millions of dollars from the city of New York whilst building the