[_Picks up paper._] Ah, I
see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving
Mr. Brummell--to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But
he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be
in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any
longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred
francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats!
Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has
such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to
enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad
blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr.
Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.
[_Enter_ BRUMMELL, _letter in hand_. ISIDORE _busies himself piling
cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the
mirror_. BRUMMELL _throws himself in the chair before the glass,
examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away_.
BRUMMELL.
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