Last year he made a considerable sensation by having on his table a
morocco miniature-case locked by a gold key, which he always wore round
his neck, and on which was stamped a serpent--emblem of eternity--with
the letter M in the circle. Sometimes he laid this upon his little
morocco writing-table, as if it were on an altar--generally he had
flowers upon it; in the middle of a conversation he would start up and
kiss it. He would call out from his bed-room to his valet, 'Hicks, bring
me my casket!'
'I don't know who it is,' Waggle would say. 'Who DOES know that fellow's
intrigues! Desborough Wiggle, sir, is the slave of passion. I suppose
you have heard the story of the Italian princess locked up in the
Convent of Saint Barbara, at Rimini? He hasn't told you? Then I'm not
at liberty to speak. Or the countess, about whom he nearly had the duel
with Prince Witikind of Bavaria? Perhaps you haven't even heard about
that beautiful girl at Pentonville, daughter of a most respectable
Dissenting clergyman. She broke her heart when she found he was engaged
(to a most lovely creature of high family, who afterwards proved false
to him), and she's now in Hanwell.'
Waggle's belief in his friend amounts to frantic adoration. 'What a
genius he is, if he would but apply himself!' he whispers to me. 'He
could be anything, sir, but for his passions.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227