disgruntled.
Sanford regarded the speakers lazily in turn as they spoke, and sipped his coffee in silence. After a moment he said, “What do the local people think of having Bonaparte so close to them? Do they go in fear of an escape?”
“He will certainly try it,” Sir Henry answered, “but we are prepared for him.”
“I cannot think it at all likely myself he’ll make a dash for it,” Sanford replied. “His better option would he to negotiate his freedom.”
“Liverpool would never hear of it!” Sir Henry objected at once. “You don’t think the Duke of Sussex and his set carry sufficient weight to give him any measure of freedom?” He withheld the hated word Whig in deference to his guest’s politics.
“Sussex’s influence is negligible. He likes to play the liberal, but is not influential in the corridors of power. It is more likely Lord Holland who would be of use on that score. He and Brougham are liberal in their views concerning the General. Along with a few of the more enlightened literati, such as Hobhouse, and of course Capell Lofft, the eminent barrister. Byron considers him one of the three greatest men of the century,” Sanford said.
“Beau Brummel and himself complete the triumvirate in the poet’s estimation, I understand,” Benson said with a bland smile.
Sanford regarded him unperturbed. “I think Byron is mistaken to include himself. Coleridge is the more accomplished poet.”
Marie could scarcely suppress a smile, and David had even more difficulty holding in a guffaw. Sir Henry was incapable of containing his wrath. “Brummel, that Jack dandy! He has no claim to fame. He is a nobody.”
“He invented the starched collar,” Sanford pointed out, his eyes widening till they were three-quarters open.
David’s titters were not to be ignored at this point. Staring at him and subjecting his high shirt points to a sneering examination, Sanford continued, “Of course he never dreamed some people would carry it to laughable lengths.”
With this leveler he turned back to Sir Henry. “You have a neighbor, a Mr. Hazy, who is active in negotiating Napoleon’s freedom. I must go to see him.”
Sir Henry sat stunned into silence.. Mr. Hazy, the local lunatic, who had sworn himself to the legal freeing of that monster, Bonaparte, was a disgrace so the neighborhood That the godson of Lord Bathurst, a high Tory, should be on terms with him was a crushing revelation. “You cannot mean you are in favor of the scheme!”
“Certainly I am,” Sanford replied matter-of-factly.
“He ought to he executed! I have a petition going around to that effect.”
“Why is it the common minds always want to execute the giants who come amongst us?” Sanford asked, in the weary tones of one who knew he would get no sensible reply. “Jesus Christ, Socrates, Charles I—the world has only to see a genius to want to put an end to him,” he complained, lumping the Deity, philosopher and bad monarch together.
“Giant devil !” Sir Henry yelped, pulling from his pocket the petition, already bearing a hundred signatures, some forty of them from his own household. “Here is the paper will see Bonaparte in a grave, where be belongs. Your godfather, Lord Bathurst, supports me,” he added, rather prematurely, as the letter to him had received no reply.
“Oh, Bathurst ,” Sanford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pray don’t hold me responsible for his antique views. One has nothing to say in the selection of his godparents. He would not have been my choice, I promise you.” He took the petition and scanned it with a derisive smile. “I see you have succumbed, Mr. Benson.”
“I am in favor of executing Bonaparte,” Benson replied, with a smile of anticipation, enjoying the ruckus. “I take it you don’t mean to add your signature, milord?”
“I would as lief sign my best nag over to the pound. This is madness. Bonaparte ought to be returned to Elba, or some more salubrious
Sanford regarded the speakers lazily in turn as they spoke, and sipped his coffee in silence. After a moment he said, “What do the local people think of having Bonaparte so close to them? Do they go in fear of an escape?”
“He will certainly try it,” Sir Henry answered, “but we are prepared for him.”
“I cannot think it at all likely myself he’ll make a dash for it,” Sanford replied. “His better option would he to negotiate his freedom.”
“Liverpool would never hear of it!” Sir Henry objected at once. “You don’t think the Duke of Sussex and his set carry sufficient weight to give him any measure of freedom?” He withheld the hated word Whig in deference to his guest’s politics.
“Sussex’s influence is negligible. He likes to play the liberal, but is not influential in the corridors of power. It is more likely Lord Holland who would be of use on that score. He and Brougham are liberal in their views concerning the General. Along with a few of the more enlightened literati, such as Hobhouse, and of course Capell Lofft, the eminent barrister. Byron considers him one of the three greatest men of the century,” Sanford said.
“Beau Brummel and himself complete the triumvirate in the poet’s estimation, I understand,” Benson said with a bland smile.
Sanford regarded him unperturbed. “I think Byron is mistaken to include himself. Coleridge is the more accomplished poet.”
Marie could scarcely suppress a smile, and David had even more difficulty holding in a guffaw. Sir Henry was incapable of containing his wrath. “Brummel, that Jack dandy! He has no claim to fame. He is a nobody.”
“He invented the starched collar,” Sanford pointed out, his eyes widening till they were three-quarters open.
David’s titters were not to be ignored at this point. Staring at him and subjecting his high shirt points to a sneering examination, Sanford continued, “Of course he never dreamed some people would carry it to laughable lengths.”
With this leveler he turned back to Sir Henry. “You have a neighbor, a Mr. Hazy, who is active in negotiating Napoleon’s freedom. I must go to see him.”
Sir Henry sat stunned into silence.. Mr. Hazy, the local lunatic, who had sworn himself to the legal freeing of that monster, Bonaparte, was a disgrace so the neighborhood That the godson of Lord Bathurst, a high Tory, should be on terms with him was a crushing revelation. “You cannot mean you are in favor of the scheme!”
“Certainly I am,” Sanford replied matter-of-factly.
“He ought to he executed! I have a petition going around to that effect.”
“Why is it the common minds always want to execute the giants who come amongst us?” Sanford asked, in the weary tones of one who knew he would get no sensible reply. “Jesus Christ, Socrates, Charles I—the world has only to see a genius to want to put an end to him,” he complained, lumping the Deity, philosopher and bad monarch together.
“Giant devil !” Sir Henry yelped, pulling from his pocket the petition, already bearing a hundred signatures, some forty of them from his own household. “Here is the paper will see Bonaparte in a grave, where be belongs. Your godfather, Lord Bathurst, supports me,” he added, rather prematurely, as the letter to him had received no reply.
“Oh, Bathurst ,” Sanford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pray don’t hold me responsible for his antique views. One has nothing to say in the selection of his godparents. He would not have been my choice, I promise you.” He took the petition and scanned it with a derisive smile. “I see you have succumbed, Mr. Benson.”
“I am in favor of executing Bonaparte,” Benson replied, with a smile of anticipation, enjoying the ruckus. “I take it you don’t mean to add your signature, milord?”
“I would as lief sign my best nag over to the pound. This is madness. Bonaparte ought to be returned to Elba, or some more salubrious
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