CHAPTER I.

Produced by David Widger

DIARY AND NOTES OF HORACE TEMPLETON, Esq.

VOL. I.

DIARY AND NOTES HORACE TEMPLETON, Esq.

LATE SECRETARY OF LEGATION AT-----.

By Charles James Lever,

Author Of “Harry Lorrequer,” “Knight Of Gwynne,” Etc. Etc.

In Two Volumes. Vol. I.

Second Edition.

London: Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.

HORACE TEMPLETON.

CHAPTER I.

_Hôtel des Princes, Paris_.

It is a strange thing to begin a “Log” when the voyage is nigh ended!

A voyage without chart or compass has it been: and now is land in

sight--the land of the weary and heart-tired!

Here am I, at the Hôtel des Princes, _en route_ for Italy, whither my

doctors have sentenced me! What a sad record would be preserved to the

world if travellers were but to fill up, with good faith, the police

formula at each stage of the journey, which asks, “the object of the

tour!” How terribly often should we read the two short words--“To Die.”

With what sorrowful interest would one gaze at the letters formed by a

trembling hand; and yet how many would have to write them! Truly, the

old Italian adage, “_Vedere Napole es poi morire_” has gained a new

signification; and, unhappily, a far more real one.

This same practice of physicians, of sending their patients to linger

out the last hours of life in a foreign land, is, to my thinking, by

no means so reprehensible as the generality of people make out. It is

a theme, however, on which so many commonplaces can be strung, that

common-place people, who, above all others, love their own eloquence,

never weary of it. Away from his children--from his favourite

haunts--from the doctors that understood his case--from his comfortable

house--from the family apothecary,--such are the changes they ring; and

if dying were to be done often, there would be much reason in all this.

But it is not so; this same change occurs but once, and its approach

brings with it a new train of thoughts and feelings from all that we

have ever felt before. In that twilight hour of life, objects that have

escaped our vision in the blaze of noon-day become clear and distinct;

and, even to the least reflecting of minds, an increased power of

perception and judgment is accorded--the _viaticum_ for the coming

journey!

I remember being greatly affected by the stories in the “Diary of a

Physician,” when first I read them: they were powerfully written--and

_so real!_ Now this is the very quality they want: they are altogether

unreal.

Terrific and heart-stirring as the death-bed scenes are, they are not

true to nature: the vice and the virtue are alike exaggerated. Few, very

few persons can bring themselves by an effort to believe that they are

dying--easy as it seems, often as we talk of it, frequent as the very

expression becomes in a colloquialism, it is still a most difficult

process; but once thoroughly felt, there is an engrossing power, in the

thought that excludes all others.’

At times, indeed, Hope will triumph for a brief interval, and “tell of

bright days to come.” Hope! the glorious phantom that we follow up the

Rhine--through the deep glens of the Tyrol, and over the Alps!--Only

content to die when we have lost it!

There are men to whom the truth, however shocking, is always

revealed--to whom the Lawyer says, “You have no case,” and the Physician

confesses, “You have no constitution.” Happily or unhappily--I will not

deny it may be both--I am one of these. Of the three doctors summoned

to consult on my health, one spoke confidently and cheeringly; he even

assumed that kind of professional jocularity that would imply, “the

patient is making too much of it.” The second, more reserved from

temperament, and graver, counselled caution and great care--hinted at

the danger of the malady--coupling his fears with the hopes he derived

from the prospect of climate. The third (he was younger than either of

the others, and of inferior repute,) closed the door after them, and

resumed his seat.

I waited for some time expecting him to speak, but he sat in silence,

and seemingly in deep thought. “And you, my dear doctor,” said I at

length, “are you equally confident as your learned colleagues? Will the

air of Italy----?” He lifted up his eyes as I got so far, and their

expression I shall not readily forget--so softly tender, so full of

compassionate pity, did they beam. Never did a look convey more of

sorrowing regret, nor more of blank despair. I hesitated---on _his_

account I feared to finish what I had begun; but, as if replying to the

expression of his glance, I added, “But still you advise me to go? You

counsel the journey, at least?”

He blushed deeply before he could answer. He felt ashamed that he had

failed in one great requisite of his art. I hastened to relieve him, by

saying with a joyous air, “Well, I will go. I like the notion myself;

it is at least a truce with physic. It is like drawing a game before one

has completely lost it.”

And so here I am--somewhat wearied and fevered by the unaccustomed

exertion, but less so than I expected.

I sincerely hope it is only the fastidiousness of a sick man, and not

that most insufferable of all affectations--exclusiveness; but I will

own I never disliked the mixed company of a steam-boat so much before.

It is always an unpleasant part of our English travelling-experience,

that little steam trip from our own coast to the French or Belgian

shore. The pleasuring Cockney, only sufferable when sick--the runaway

Bank clerk--the Hamburg Jew--the young lady going to Paris for spring

fashions--the newly-married barrister, with his bit of tawdry finery

from Norwood, silly, simpering, and fidgetty--the Irish landlord, sulky

and familiar by turns; all, even to the _Danseuse_, who, too refined for

such association, sits in her carriage on deck, have a terrible sameness

when seen, as I have done them, something like fifty times; nor can I

suppose their united attractions greatly heightened by the figure of

the pale gentleman, who coughs so incessantly, and whose wan cheek and

colourless eye are seen to such formidable contrast with the bronzed and

resolute face of the courier beside him.

Yet I would far rather think this want of due tolerance for my

travelling companions was a symptom of my malady, than of that truly

English disease--self-importance, I know of nothing that tracks our

steps on the Continent so invariably, nor is there any quality which

earns for us so much ill-will.

It is quite a mistake to suppose that these airs of superiority are only

assumed by persons of a certain rank and fortune--far from it. Every

denizen of Cheapside and the Minories that travels abroad, deems himself

immeasurably above “the foreigner.” Strong in his City estimation, and

charged with the leader in “The Times,” he struts about like an upstart

visiting the servants’ hall, and expecting every possible demonstration

of respect in return for his condescension. Hence the unhappy disparity

between the situation of an Englishman and that of any other native

abroad. Instead of rejoicing at any casualty which presents to him a

chance-meeting with a countryman, he instinctively shrinks from it. He

sees the Frenchman, the Italian, the German, overjoyed at recognition

with some stranger from his own land, while _he_ acknowledges, in such a

contingency, only another reason for guardedness and caution. It is

not that our land is wanting in those sterling qualities which make men

respected and venerated--it is not that we are not, from principle and

practice, both more exacting in all the requisites of good faith, and

more tenacious of truth, than any people of the Continent;--it is simply

that we are the least tolerant to every thing that differs from what we

have at home, that we unscrupulously condemn whatever is un-English;

and, not satisfied with this, we expect foreigners to respect and admire

us for the very censure we pass upon their institutions.

There is, therefore, nothing so compromising to an Englishman abroad as

a countryman; except--_hélas_ that I should say so!--a countrywoman!

Paris is very beautiful in spring. There is something radiant and

gorgeous in the commingled splendour of a great city, with the calmer

beauties of leafy foliage and the sparkling eddies of the bright river.

Better, however, not to dwell longer on this theme, lest my gloomy

thoughts should stray into the dark and crime-trodden alleys of the Bois

de Boulogne, or the still more terrible filets de St. Cloud! How sad

is it when one’s temperament should, as if instinctively, suggest the

mournful view of each object! Rather let me jot down a little incident

of this morning--an event which has set my heart throbbing, and my pulse

fluttering, at a rate that all the Prussic acid I have learned to take

cannot calm down again.

There come now and then moments to the sick man, when to be well and

vigorous he would consent to be poor, unfriended in the world--taking

health alone for his heritage. I felt that half an hour ago--but it is

gone again. And now to my adventure, for, in my unbroken dream of daily

life, it seems such.

I have said I am lodged at the Hôtel des Princes. How different are my

quarters from those I inhabited when first I saw this city! This would

entail a confession, however, and I shall make it some other day. My

salon is No. 21, the first drawing-room to the right as you turn from

the grand staircase, and opening by the three spacious windows on a

balcony overlooking the Rue de Richlieu. It is, indeed, a very splendid

apartment, as much so as immense mirrors, gilding, bronze, and or moulu

can make it. There are soft couches and chairs, and ottomans too, that

would inspire rest, save when the soul itself was restless.

Well. I lounged out after breakfast for a short stroll along the

Boulevards, where the shade of the trees and the well-watered path were

most inviting. Soon wearied--I cannot walk in a crowd--I returned to the

hôtel; slowly toiled up-stairs, waking the echoes with my teasing cough;

and, instead of turning to the right, I went left, taking the wrong

road, as I have so often done in life; and then, mistaking the numerals,

I entered No. 12 instead of No. 21. Who would credit it, that the

misplacement of a unit could prove so singular.

There was one change alone which struck me. I could not find the book

I was reading--a little volume of Auerbach’s village stories of the

Schwartz-Walders. There was, however, another in its place, one

that told of humble life in the provinces--not less truthful and

heart-appealing--but how very unlike! It was Balzac’s story of “Eugénie

Grandet,” the most touching tale I have ever read in any language. I

have read it a hundred times, and ever with renewed delight. Little

troubling myself to think how it came there--for, like an old and valued

friend, its familiar features were always welcome--I began again to read

it.

Whether the result of some peculiar organisation, or the mere

consequence of ill health, I know not, but I have long remarked, that

when a book has taken a strong hold upon me--fascinating my attention

and engaging all my sympathies, I cannot long continue its perusal.

I grow dreary and speculative; losing the thread of the narrative, I

create one for myself, imagining a variety of incidents and scenes quite

foreign to the intention of the writer, and identifying myself usually

with some one personage or other of the story--till the upshot of all

is, I drop off asleep, to awake an hour or so afterwards with a very

tired brain, and a very confused sense of the reality or unreality of my

last waking sensations.

It is, therefore, rather a relief to me, when, as in the present case,

the catastrophe is known to me, and all speculation on the future

denied. Poor Eugénie, how I felt for all your sorrows!--wondrous

spectacle of a heart that could transmute its one absorbing passion into

another, and from love, the fondest and most confiding, beget a pure and

disinterested friendship!

At last the book glided unnoticed from my hand, and I slept. The sofa

where I lay stood in a part of the room where a deep shadow fell from

the closed _jalousies_ of a window, so that any person might easily have

entered or traversed the apartment without noticing me. I slept calmly

and without a stir--my dreaming thoughts full of that poor girl’s love.

How little does any first passion depend upon the excellence of the

object that creates it! How ideal, purely ideal, are those first

emotions of the heart! I knew something of this, too; for, when

young--very young, and very impressionable, with a strong dash of

romance in my nature, that lent its Claude Lorraine tint to all I looked

at, I fell in love. Never was the phrase more fitting. It was no gradual

or even imperceptible declension, but a headlong, reckless plunge; such

as some confident and hardy swimmer, or very often a bold bather, makes

into the water, that all may be quickly over.

I had been appointed _attaché_ at Vienna, where Lord Newington was then

ambassador--a widower with an only daughter. I was very young, fresh

from Woolwich, where I had been studying for the Artillery service, when

the death of a distant relative, who but a year before had refused to

see me, put me in possession of a very large fortune. My guardian, Lord

Elderton, an old _diplomate_, at once removed me from Woolwich, and,

after a short sojourn at his house near Windsor, I was introduced into

what Foreign-office people technically denominate “The Line,” and what

they stoutly uphold as the only career for a gentleman.

I must some day or other jot down a few recollections of my life at

Gortham, Lord Elderton’s seat, where, with Grotius and Puffendorf of a

morning, and old Sir Robert Adams and Lord Hailiebury of an evening, I

was believed to be inhaling the very atmosphere of learned diplomacy.

Tiresome old gentlemen, whose thoughts stood fast at the time of Fox and

Pitt, and, like a clock that went down in the night, steadily pointed to

an hour long bygone. How wearied I was of discussions as to whether the

King of Prussia would declare war, or the Emperor of Austria make peace!

whether we should give up Malta, and lose Hanover! Pitt must, indeed,

have been a man of “dark counsels,” for, whether he wished for an

alliance with France or not was a nightly topic of debate, without a

chance of agreement.

All these discussions, far from tending to excite my ardour for the

career, served to make me dread it, as the most tiresome of all possible

pursuits. The light gossip, too, over which they regaled themselves with

such excellent relish, was insupportably dull. Who could care for the

pointless repartees of defunct Grand Dukes, or the meaningless caprices

of long-buried Archduchesses?

If, then, I was glad to escape from Gortham and its weary company, I had

formed no very sanguine expectations of pleasure at Vienna.

I saw very little of the Continent in this my first journey. I was

consigned to the charge of a cabinet messenger, who had orders to

deliver me “safe” at Vienna. Poor M’Kaye, slight as I was, he left me

very little of the small _coupé_ we travelled in. He weighed something

more than twenty stone, a heaving mass of fat and fretting: the great

misery of his life being that Washington Irving had held him up to

European ridicule, for he was the original “Stout Gentleman” whose heavy

perambulations overhead suggested that inimitable sketch.

We arrived at Vienna some hours after dark, and after speedily

traversing the narrow and winding streets of the capital, drew up within

the _porte-cochère_ of the English embassy. There was a grand ball

at the embassy--a sovereign’s birth-day, or a coronation, I forget

which--but I can well remember the dazzling splendour of the grand

staircase, a blaze of wax-lights, and glittering with the brilliant

lustre of jewelled dresses and gorgeous uniforms; but, perhaps, even

more struck by the frequent announcement of names which were familiar

to me as almost historical personages--the Ester-hazies, the

Schwarzenbergs, and the Lichtensteins, when suddenly, with almost

a shock, I heard my own untitled name called aloud, “Mr. Horace

Templeton.” It is, I believe, a very old gentry name, and has maintained

a fair repute for some half-dozen centuries; but, I own, it clinked

somewhat meagre on the ear amid the high-sounding syllables of Austrian

nobility.

I stood within the doorway of the grand salon, almost stunned by the

sudden transition from the dark monotony of a night-journey to the

noonday blaze of splendour before me, when a gentle tap from a bouquet

on my arm aroused me, and a very silvery voice, in accents every one of

which sank into my heart, bade me welcome to Vienna. It was Lady Blanche

Newington that spoke--the most lovely creature that ever beauty and

station combined to form. Fascinations like hers were new to me: she

mingled gentleness of manner with a spiritual liveliness, that seemed

ever ready to say the right thing at the right moment. The ease with

which, in different languages, she addressed the various individuals

of the company, employing all the little delicate forms of those

conventionalities French and Italian so abound in, and through all, an

unobtrusive solicitude to please, that was most captivating.

My whole occupation that night was to steal after her unobserved, and

gaze with delight at traits of manner that my ardent imagination had

already elevated into graces of mind. I was very much in love--so much

so that, ere a few weeks went over, iny brother attachés saw it, and

tormented me unceasingly on the subject. Nay, they went further: they

actually told Lady Blanche herself, so that I dreaded to meet her, not

knowing how she might treat my presumption. I fancied all manner of

changes in her bearing towards me--reserve, coldness, perhaps disdain.

Nothing of the kind! She was only more familiar and cordial than ever.

Had I known more of the world, or of the feminine part of it, I should

have read this differently: as it was, it overwhelmed me with delight.

There was a frankness in her tone towards me, too; for, now, she

discussed the temper and character of our mutual acquaintances, and with

a shrewdness of criticism strange in one so young. At last we came

to talk of a certain Count de Favancourt, the secretary of the French

embassy; and as I mentioned his name she said, somewhat abruptly,

“I half suspect you don’t like the Count?”

“Who could?” replied I, eagerly; “is he not a ‘_Fat?_’”--using that

precious monosyllable by which his countrymen designate a certain class

of pretenders.

She laughed, and I went on, not sorry to have an opportunity of

severity on one for whom I had conceived an especial hatred--indeed,

not altogether without cause, since he had, on more than one occasion,

marked the difference of our official rank in a manner sufficiently

pointed to be offensive;

and yet, the rigid etiquette observable to another embassy forbade all

notice of whatever could be passed over.

Like a very young man, I did not bound my criticism on the Count by

what I saw and observed in his manner, but extended it to every possible

deduction I could draw from his air and bearing; winding up all by a

very broadly-hinted doubt that those ferocious whiskers and that deep

baritone were any thing but a lion’s skin over a very craven heart.

The last words were scarcely uttered, when a servant announced the Count

de Favancourt. There is something, to a young person at least--I fancy I

should not mind it now--so overwhelming on the sudden appearance of any

one on whom the conversation has taken a turn of severity, that I arose

confused and uneasy--I believe I blushed; at all events, I perceived

that Lady Blanche remarked my discomfiture, and her eyes glanced on

me with an expression I never observed before. As for the Count, he

advanced and made his deep reverence without ever noticing me, nor, even

while taking his seat, once shewed any consciousness of my presence.

Burning with indignation that I could scarce repress, I turned towards

a table, and affected to occupy myself tossing over the prints and

drawings that lay about--my maddened thoughts rendered still more

insufferable from fancying that Lady Blanche and the Count seemed on far

better and more intimate footing than I had ever known them before.

Some other visitors being announced, I took the occasion to retire

unobserved, and had just reached the landing of the stairs when I heard

a foot behind me. I turned--it was Favancourt. For the first time in my

life, I perceived a smile upon his countenance--an expression, I own,

that became it even less than his habitual stern scowl.

“You have done me the honour, sir,” said he, “to make some observations

on my manner, which, I regret to learn, has not acquired your favourable

opinion. Now, I have a strong sense of the _inconvenance_ of any thing

like a rupture of amicable relations between the embassy I have the

honour to serve and that to which you belong. It is, then, exceedingly

unpleasant for me to notice your remarks--it is impossible for me to let

them pass unnoticed.”

He made a pause at these words, and so long that I felt bound to speak,

and, in a voice that passion had rendered slightly tremulous, said,

“Am I to receive this, sir, in the light of a rebuke? because, as yet,

I only perceive it conveys the expression of your own regret that you

cannot demand an explanation I am most ready to afford you.

“My demand is somewhat different, sir, but, I trust, will be as readily

accorded. It is this: that you resign your position as _attaché_ to

this embassy, and leave Vienna at once. There is no necessity that any

unfavourable notice of this affair should follow you to another mission,

or to England.”

“Stop, sir, I beg of you: I cannot be answerable for my temper, if you

persist to outrage it. While you may press me to acknowledge that,

while half an hour ago I only deemed you a ‘Fat,’ I now account you an

imbecile.’”

“Enough!” said the Count, passing down the stairs before me.

When I reached my lodgings, I found a “friend” from him, who arranged

a speedy meeting. We fought that same evening, behind the Prater, and I

received his ball in my shoulder--mine, pierced his hat. I was recalled

before my wound permitted me to leave my bed. The day I left Vienna,

Lady Blanche was married to Count Favancourt!

Some fourteen years had elapsed since that event and the time in which

I now lay sleeping on the sofa; and yet, after all that long

interval--with all its scenes of varied interests, its stormy passions,

its hopes, its failures, its successes--the image of Blanche was before

my mind’s eye, as brightly, joyously fair, as on the evening I first

beheld her. I had forgotten all, that time and worldly knowledge had

taught me, that, of all her attractions, her beauty only was real--that

the graceful elegance of her bearing was only manner--that her

gentleness was manner--her winning softness and delicacy mere

manner--that all the fair endowments that seemed the rich promise of

a gifted mind, united to a nature so bounteously endowed, were mere

manner. She was _spirituelle_, lively, animated, and brilliant--all,

from nothing but manner. To this knowledge I did not come without many a

severe lesson. The teaching has been perfect, however, and made me

what I am! Alas! how is it that mere gilding can look so like solid

gold--nay, be made to cover more graceful tracery, and forms more purely

elegant, than the real metal?

I have said that I slept; and, as I lay, dreams came over me--dreams of

that long-past time, when the few shadows that fell over my path in life

were rather spots where, like the traveller on a sunny road, one halts

to breathe awhile, and taste in the cool shade the balmy influence of

repose. I thought of Blanche, too, as first I had seen her, and when

first she taught my heart to feel the ecstasy of loving, breathing into

my nature high hopes and longings, and making of life itself an ideal of

delight and happiness. And, as I dreamed, there stole over my senses

a faint, thrilling memory of that young joy my heart had known, and a

feeling like that of health and ardent buoyancy, which for years long I

had not experienced. _Her_ voice, tremulous with feeling, vibrating

in all the passionate expression of an Italian song, was in my ears--I

could hear the words--my very heart throbbed to their soft syllables as

she sung the lines of Metastasio,--

“E tu, qui sa si te

Ti sovrerai di me.”

I started--there she was before me, bending over the harp, whose cords

still trembled with the dying sounds; the same Blanche I had known and

loved, but slightly changed indeed: more beautiful perhaps in womanhood

than as a girl. Her long and silky hair fell over her white wrist and

taper hand in loose and careless tresses, for she had taken off her

bonnet, which lay on the floor beside her; her attitude was that of

weariness--nay, there was a sigh! Good Heavens! is she weeping? My book

fell to the ground; she started up, and, in a voice not louder than a

whisper, exclaimed, “Mr. Templeton!”

“Blanche!--Lady Blanche!” cried I, as my head swam round in a strange

confusion, and a dim and misty vapour danced before my eyes.

“Is this a visit, Mr. Templeton?” said she, with that soft smile I had

loved so well; “am I to take this surprise for a visit?”

“I really--I cannot understand--I thought--I was certain that I was in

my own apartment. I believed I was in Paris, in the Hôtel des Princes.”

“Yes, and most correct were all your imaginings; only that at this

moment you are _chez moi_--this is our apartment, No. 12.”

“Oh, forgive me, I beg, Lady Blanche!--the similarity of the rooms, the

inattentive habit of an invalid, has led to this mistake.”

“I heard you had been ill,” said she, in an accent full of melting

tenderness; while taking a seat on a sofa, by a look rather than an

actual gesture she motioned me to sit beside her: “you are much paler

than you used to be.”

“I have been ill,” said I, struggling to repress emotion and a fit of

coughing together.

“It is that dreadful life of England, depend upon it,” said she eagerly;

“that fearful career of high excitement and dissipation combined--the

fatigues of parliament--the cares and anxieties of party--the tremendous

exertions for success--the torturing dread of failure. Why didn’t you

remain in diplomacy?”

“It looked so very like idling,” said I, laughingly, and endeavouring to

assume something of her own easy tone.

“So it is. But what better can one have, after all?” said she, with a

faint sigh.

“When they are happy,” added I, stealing a glance at her beneath my

eyelids. She turned away, however, before I had succeeded, and I could

merely mark that her breathing was quick and hurried.

“I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt?” said she hastily, and

with a manner that shewed how difficult it was to disguise agitation.

“He would be delighted to see you again! He is always talking of your

success in the House, and often prophesies the most brilliant

advancement for you.”

“I have outlived resentment,” said I, in a low whisper: “would that I

could add, other feelings were as easily forgotten.”

Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full and lustrous eyes

upon me, and then suddenly aware of my words, or reading the explanation

in my own looks, she blushed deeply, and after a pause said,

“And what are your plans now? do you remain here some time?”

“No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there

nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land.”

“Italy!” interrupted she, blushing still deeper. “Favancourt is now

asking for a mission there--Naples is vacant.”

This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she hastily withdrew

them, and we were both silent.

“Have you been to the Opera yet?” said she, with a voice full of all its

habitual softness.

“You forget,” said I, smiling, “that I am an invalid: besides, I only

arrived here last night.”

“Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The Duc de Blancard has

given us his box while we stay here, and we shall always have a place

for you; and I pray you to come; if not for the music, for my sake,” she

added hastily: “for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid than

our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but ministerial intrigue, the

tactics of the _centre droit_ and the opposition, with a little very

tiresome gossip of the Tuileries; and Favancourt thinks himself

political, when he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real

chit-chat about London and our own people. _Apropos_, what became of

Lady Frances Gunnington? did she really marry the young cornet of

dragoons and sail for India?”

“The saddest is to be told: he was killed in the Punjaub, and she is now

coming home a widow.”

“How very sad!--was she as pretty as they said?--handsomer than Lucy Fox

I have heard!”

“I almost think so.”

“That is great praise from you, if there be any truth in _on dits_. Had

not you a kind of tenderness in that quarter?”

“Me!”

“Nay, don’t affect surprise: we heard the story at Florence, and a very

funny story it was: that Lucy insisted upon it, if you didn’t propose

for her, that she would for you, since she was determined to be

mistress of a certain black Arabian that you had; and that you, fearing

consequences, sent her the horse, and so compromised the affair.”

“How very absurd!”

“But is it not true? Can you deny having made a present of the steed?”

“She did me the honour to accept of a pony, but the attenuating

circumstances are all purely imaginary.”

“_Si non vero e ben trovato_.--It was exactly what she would do!”

“An unfair inference, which I feel bound to enter a protest against. If

we were only to charge our acquaintances with what we deem them capable

of----”

“Well, finish, I pray you.”

“I was only about to add, what would become of ourselves?”

“Meaning you and me, for instance?”

I bowed an assent.

“‘_Qui s’excuse, s’accuse_,’ says the adage,” rejoined she gaily: “I

neither do one nor the other. At the same time, let me confess to one

thing of which I am capable, which is, of detesting any one who in this

age of the world affects to give a tone of moralizing to a conversation.

Now I presume you don’t wish this. I will even take it for granted, that

you would rather we were good friends, as we used to be long ago.--Oh

dear, don’t sigh that way!”

“It was you that sighed!”

“Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of _me_, and very wrong of

_you_ to tell me of it. But dear me! is it so late? can it really be

three o’clock?”

“I am a quarter past; but I think we must both be fast. You are going

out?”

“A mere drive in the Champs Elysées, where I shall pay a few visits and

be back to dinner. Will you dine with us?”

“I pray you to excuse me--don’t forget I am a sick man.”

“Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?”

“I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to take the volume of

Balzac away with me.”

“Oh, to be sure! But we have some others, much newer. You know ‘Le

Recherche de l’Absolu’, already?”

“Yes; but I like ‘Eugénie’ still better. It was an old taste of mine,

and as you quoted a proverb a few moments ago, let me give you another

as trite and as true,--

‘On revient toujours.’”

“‘A ses premières amours,’”

said she, finishing; while with a smile, half playful, half sad, she

turned toward the window, and I retired noiselessly, and without an

adieu.

Heigho! how nervous and irritable I feel! The very sight of that

handsome barouche that has driven from the hôtel, with its beautiful

occupant lying listlessly back among the cushions, has set my heart

a-beating far far too hurriedly. How is it that the laws that govern

material nature are so inoperative in ours, and that a heart that never

felt can make another feel? Heaven knows! It is not love; even my first

passion, perhaps, little merited the name: but now, reading her as

worldliness as taught roe to do-seeing how little relation exists

between attractions and fascinations of the very highest order and any

real sentiment, any true feeling--knowing how “Life” is her idol, how in

that one idea is comprised all that vanity, self-love, false pride, and

passion can form,--how is it that she, whom I recognise thus, that _she_

can move me? There is nothing so like a battle as a sham fight in a

review.