Enter MR. NATHANIEL NOKES, with a small book in his hand, very
     smartly dressed, but in great haste, and with his shirt-collar much
     dishevelled. [Rings the bell violently.]

What’s the good of these confounded French phrase-books?  Who wants to know how to ask for artichoke soup, or how far it is to Dijon?  I want a button sewn on my shirt-collar, and there’s not one word about that.

     Enter Waiter.

Nokes. Hi! what’s-your-name! Voulez-vous—­avoir—­la—­bonte—­de—­[I’m always civil and very distinct, but, somehow, I can never make myself understood.] I am going to be married, my good man; to be married—­tout de suite—­immediately, and there is no time to change my—­my chemise d’homme. [Come, he’ll understand that.] I want this button—­button, button, button sewn on.  Here, here—­here. [Points to his throat.] Don’t you see, you fool? [He thinks I want him to cut my throat.  I shall never be in time at the Legation!] Idiot!  Dolt!  Send Susan, Susan, a moi, to me—­or I’ll kick you into the court-yard. [Exit Waiter, with precipitation.]

Nokes [alone]. And this is what they call a highly-civilized country!  Talk of “a strong government” at home:  what’s the use of its being strong, if it can’t make foreigners speak our language?  What’s the good of missionary enterprise, when here’s a Christian man, within twelve hours of London, who can’t get a shirt-button sewn on for want of the Parisian accent?  I said “button, button, button,” plain enough, I’m sure; and a button’s a button all the world over.  If it had not been for that excellent Susan, the English chambermaid, I should have perished in this place, of what the coroner’s inquests call “want of the necessaries of life.”  All depends, as every one knows, on a man’s shirt-button:  if that goes wrong, everything goes, and one’s attire is a wreck.  But I suppose after to-day my wife will see to that,—­though she is a Montmorenci.  Constance de Montmorenci, that’s her name:  she’s descended (she says) from a Constable of France.  It’s a more English-seeming name than gendarme, and I like her for that; but I am afraid we shan’t have much in common—­except my property.  She don’t speak English very fluently:  she called me “my dove” the other day, instead of “my duck,” which is ridiculous.  She is not twenty, and I am over sixty,—­which is perhaps also ridiculous.

Well, it’s all Charles’s fault, not mine.  If he chooses to go and marry a beggar-girl without my consent, he must take the consequences,—­if there are a dozen of them,—­and support them how he can.  “If you persist in this wicked and perverse resolve,” said I, “I’ll marry also, before the year’s out.”  And now I’m going to do it,—­if I can only get this shirt-button sewn on.  He shall not have a penny of what I have to leave behind me.  The little Nokes-Montmorencis shall have it all.  She’s a most accomplished creature is Constance.  Sings, they tell me,—­for it’s not in English, so I don’t understand it,—­divinely; plays ditto; draws ditto.  Speaks every language (except English) with equal facility and—­Thank goodness, here’s Susan.