Then
it was that with a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to engage
places for the houri's benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme, Mademoiselle
Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him in the French language in a
dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! issuing from the adjoining
dining-room (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter pots upon a
darkling tablecloth), could that lean, scraggy, old, beetle-browed yellow
face, who cried, "Ou es tu donc, maman?" with such a shrill nasal voice--
could that elderly vixen be that blooming and divine Saltarelli? Clive
drew her picture as she was, and a likeness of Madame Rogomme, her mamma;
a Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and scented at once with tobacco and
eau-de-cologne, occupied Clive's stall on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's
night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gandish's to whom Newcome ceded his
place, and who laughed (as he always did at Clive's jokes) when the
latter told the story of his interview with the dancer. "Paid five pound
to see that woman! I could have took you behind the scenes" (or "beide
the seeds," Mr.
Pages:
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461