A BALL AT THE MUSEUM CLUB.
“I HOPE we shall have no visitors,” said Crescenz the next day, after
having examined herself for some time attentively in the glass which was
between the windows in the drawing-room. “I hope we shall have no
visitors, for these curl-papers are certainly not becoming. If mamma had
allowed, I should have passed the day in my own room, that nobody might
see them. Don’t you think me very ugly to-day?” she added, turning to
Hamilton, who, as usual, was close to the stove.
“You are not ugly, but the curl-papers are,” he answered, looking at her
over his book.
“But we shall look so well with long curls in the evening,” she said,
half appealing to her sister, who was standing at the window with some
intricate piece of work. “What a pity one cannot have curls without
curl-papers.”
“They are dearly bought if you are obliged to wear your hair twisted up
in that manner all day,” said Hamilton.
“I thought Englishwomen very often had long curls.”
“So they have—but they never appear in a drawing-room with curl-papers.”
“They certainly are very unbecoming,” said Crescenz, again inspecting
herself in the glass. “I have a great mind to arrange my braids again.
After all, my hair will perhaps fall out of curl during the first waltz.
You know, Hildegarde, at the examinations I was obliged to fasten up the
curls with a comb?”
“Yes, but I remember the curls became you extremely——”
“Hildegarde,” whispered Crescenz, coming close to her sister, “you know
Mr. Hamilton cannot go to the ball, and if he thinks the curl-papers so
very ugly——”
“I should think Major Stultz’s opinion of more consequence to you,”
answered Hildegarde; “and,” she added loud enough to be heard, “you know
if Mr. Hamilton dislike so much seeing curl-papers, he has only to avoid
looking at us for the remainder of the day.”
Hamilton closed his book, looked out of the window at the
thickly-falling snow, and then left the room. Crescenz immediately
exclaimed, “Oh, Hildegarde, you have offended him! How can you be so
unkind?”
“Is it unkind to tell him not to look at us for a few hours?” Hildegarde
asked, laughing.
“You are so unnecessarily rude to him sometimes—yesterday evening, for
instance, you scarcely answered him when he spoke to you.”
“Because I was occupied with my father. I hope you have no objection to
my preferring his conversation to Mr. Hamilton’s!”
“But you were only talking about the opera to papa, who would have been
very glad if you had allowed him to hear what Mr. Hamilton was telling
Lina Berger about a picnic party on the Thames. Lina says he is the most
fascinating young man she ever met, not even excepting Theodor
Biedermann!”
“And Mr. Hamilton will tell you, if you ask him, that Madame Berger is
the most fascinating young woman he ever met with, not even excepting
Crescenz Rosenberg.”
“Oh, dear; I forgot to tell you that Major Stultz was quite mistaken.
Lina explained everything before she left yesterday evening. Mr.
Hamilton only went to hear her play waltzes!”
Hildegarde shook her head incredulously.
“You do not believe her?”
“No.”
“Well, I do; and I will manage to find out from Mr. Hamilton the whole
truth.”
“Don’t attempt anything of the kind, Crescenz; you will only make
yourself ridiculous.”
“We shall see,” said Crescenz, nodding her head as she left the room.
When she returned to the drawing-room her hair was braided in the usual
manner; and she rather unwillingly confessed that she had seen Hamilton,
who had said that he “thought braids infinitely more becoming than curls
for young and pretty persons!”
“I greatly fear Mr. Hamilton is beginning to amuse himself again at your
expense,” observed Hildegarde, with some irritation.
“He did not seem to be amusing himself; he spoke quite gravely, and
papa, who was present, agreed with him.”
Hildegarde’s hand rose to her head, and her fingers impatiently
contracted themselves round the offending curl-papers. “If I had known
that papa thought so, I should never have curled my hair, but now it is
too late; Mr. Hamilton will think I have tried to please him, and——”
“Oh, dear, no,” cried Crescenz; “he did not seem in the least to think I
had braided my hair to please him. He was talking to papa about religion
and philosophy, and some acquaintances of the name of Hegel and
Schelling.”
Hildegarde smiled. “If they were talking of Hegel and Schelling, I dare
say he has forgotten us and our curls. I could not possibly think of
sacrificing my ringlets to please _him_, and papa I shall probably not
see until evening.”
Hamilton took her advice more literally than she just then wished: he
remained in his room the rest of the day, and thus avoided seeing her
again. She felt that a few words spoken in a moment of irritation had
deprived her of all chance of seeing him alone for a few minutes, in
order to induce him to avoid her cousin, and go the ensuing week to the
Z—’s; but she consoled herself by thinking that at least they were not
likely to meet during that evening, as Raimund had not been invited to
the ball at Court, and was to accompany his betrothed to the Museum.
As soon as it was dusk, the sisters disappeared. Madame Rosenberg in
vain sent to request they would come to supper. They were not hungry.
They could not eat. “Quite natural!” observed their father, helping
himself to some _salmi_ and cold turkey. “Quite natural! Who ever heard
of a girl eating before she went to her first ball? I suppose, however,
they will soon be dressed; so I think, Babette, you might now put on
your own brown silk dress and pink turban; it would be a pity if they
were to lose a dance! Mr. Hamilton has offered to leave us at the
Museum, on his way to the palace.”
Madame Rosenberg poured out a glass of beer, drank it quickly, and left
the room. A few minutes afterwards, Hildegarde and her sister entered,
in all the charms of youth and white muslin. “Is she not beautiful?”
exclaimed Crescenz, for a moment forgetting herself in her admiration of
her sister. “Is she not beautiful? Ah, I knew you would admire curls,”
she added as a sort of reply to Hamilton’s look of most genuine
admiration. “Curls are prettier than braids after all!” She drew her
hand, as she spoke, over her smooth, shining hair, and glanced
regretfully towards the looking-glass.
Hildegarde turned from Hamilton with a slightly conscious blush. Never
had he seen or imagined anyone so lovely as she appeared to him at that
moment. The long, waving ringlets of her rich brown hair relieved the
slightly severe expression of her almost too regular features, while her
beautifully-formed figure, seen to advantage in her light ball-dress,
attracted equally by its roundness and delicacy. Had Hamilton seen her
for the first time that evening, he would have been captivated. When we,
however, remember that she had been for months the object of his first
love, that he had resided in the same house, and had had opportunities
of knowing and judging her by no means commonplace ideas, as they had
studied together, and that he was at a time of life when the feelings
are most impetuous, we may form some idea of the emotion which, for some
minutes, deprived him of the power of utterance. Hildegarde was so
perfectly independent in thought and action; she required so little of
that protection which her sex usually seek, that had she not been
eminently handsome, she would probably have found more people disposed
to admire her character than love her person. Men especially do not
often bestow affection on such women; but, when they do, it is with a
degree of passion which they seldom or never feel for the more gentle or
weaker of the sex. And so, irresistibly attracted by her beauty, and
perhaps hoping to find feelings as strong as her mind, three men now
loved her with characteristic fervour; her cousin, with an intensity
bordering on insanity; Zedwitz with the glowing steadiness of his
disposition and years, and Hamilton with all the ardour of extreme
youth.
“I thought Hildegarde would have worn one of my bracelets this evening,”
said Crescenz. “I offered her the choice of them all!”
“That was very kind of you, Crescenz,” said her father, “but Hildegarde
does not care for ornaments of that kind.”
“But look at that ugly little hair-bracelet which she insists upon
wearing,” said Crescenz, laughing. “If she had bracelets of her own, she
would wear them, I am sure. Everyone must like bracelets!”
Mr. Rosenberg took Hildegarde’s hand, and raised her passive arm towards
his eyes, in order to inspect the bracelet. “It is not ugly, nor ill
chosen either,” he observed, smiling; “a black bracelet makes an arm
look fairer still; but I own I did not think my treasure studied such
things!”
Hildegarde, with a look of annoyance, hastily unclasped the bracelet,
and threw it into her work-basket.
“Don’t be offended, Hildegarde. Every woman should endeavour to improve
her appearance as much as possible. Your arm is round and white, and the
bracelet pretty; it ought, perhaps, to have been a little broader, but
the horsehair was scarce, it seems! However, you can wear it very
creditably; at a little distance, people will think it the hair of some
very dear friend!”
Madame Rosenberg made her appearance at this moment, in a state of
ludicrous distress; she had tried to force her large hands into a pair
of small French gloves. One, from its elasticity, had been drawn
somewhat over the half of one hand, leaving the other half and the wrist
quite bare; but the other had burst asunder across the palm, and she now
held it towards her husband, with a look of mock despair.
“Try another and a larger pair,” he said, laughing.
“I have not another pair in the house. You know I never want white
gloves, and I was obliged to send to Schultz for these, after I had
begun to dress!”
“Oh, I can mend it in a moment,” cried Crescenz, bringing a needle and
thread. “Only keep it on your hand—it will never do if you pull it off
again.”
Hamilton had in the meantime been playing with the discarded bracelet;
Hildegarde attempted to take it out of his hand, but he held it nearer
the light, observing in a low voice, “This is not _horse_ hair. It
cannot be your father’s or your sister’s, for they have brown hair; nor
your cousin’s; nor——”
“Give me my bracelet,” said Hildegarde, impatiently. He held it towards
her with both hands, and a look of pretended alarm. She half smiled, and
extended her arm, while with a degree of trepidation which he in vain
endeavoured to overcome, he placed the tongue in the serpent’s head
which formed the clasp. When he looked up her head was averted, and she
was jesting with her father about her chance of finding partners or
being left sitting.
“Pray, keep one waltz or galop in reserve for me,” cried Hamilton. “I
shall be at the Museum between ten and eleven o’clock.”
Hildegarde murmured a sort of assent, but the expression of her
countenance denoted anything but satisfaction. She became grave and
thoughtful. It was impossible not to perceive the change, and with
ill-concealed mortification Hamilton turned to her father: “Your
daughter does not know, perhaps, that I have learned to waltz since I
came here. I am no longer a bad dancer.”
“Oh, dear! I always thought you danced extremely well,” said Crescenz.
“I may depend upon your keeping a waltz free for me; if Major Stultz
will permit it.”
“Oh, yes; that is,” said Crescenz, correcting herself, “if you can
remember your engagement with me when Lina Berger is present.”
“Madame Berger has no influence whatever upon my memory.”
“No, but upon your heart.”
“None whatever. She is very pretty, very amusing, very flattering,
everything you please but lovable.”
“Well, if she only heard you say that!” began Crescenz.
“The carriage has been at the door this long time,” cried Madame
Rosenberg, tying a large handkerchief over her ears and pink turban.
“Let us be off.”
Crescenz touched her sister’s hand, and whispered: “You see, dear, I was
right.”
Hildegarde bent her head, but did not speak.
Hamilton heard, saw, but only partly understood. Had Hildegarde been
jealous!
The ball at Court was not in the least less brilliant than any of the
preceding, but Hamilton was not disposed to admire the rooms, or the
fresco paintings, or the candelabra, or even his own form in the long
glass, placed so conveniently at the door of one of the reception-rooms.
Figures in blue and pink crape passed and repassed him scarcely
observed, so completely had a form in white, with a wreath of roses in
her hair, taken possession of his imagination. His abstraction attracted
even the notice of royalty, and it was with a deep blush that Hamilton
stammered some excuse when asked why he did not dance as usual.
At ten o’clock he withdrew, bounded down the stairs which he had thought
so tiresome to mount a couple of hours before, found his carriage
waiting, and drove to the Museum. The contrast was great, but he heeded
it not; Hildegarde was every thing to him. He glanced quickly round the
room, and immediately discovered the object of his search walking
composedly towards the dancers with a tall officer in the Guards; he was
about to leave the room again in a fit of uncontrollable irritation,
when he remembered his engagement with Crescenz. The moment she saw him,
she spoke a few words eagerly to Major Stultz, smiled, and then walked a
step or two towards him. “I knew you would come,” she said with evident
pleasure, and showing her little ball-book; “see, you were written for
two dances, that I might be quite sure of being disengaged.”
“Thank you,” said Hamilton; “you are very kind. I can remain but one
hour, and as your sister seems to have forgotten her engagement with me,
perhaps you will give me the second waltz also!”
“Oh, I dare not; Major Stultz will never consent. I am sure I wish he
would go home, he is so sleepy already. But,” she added after a pause,
“I am quite sure that Hildegarde will dance with you.”
In the course of the dance, Hildegarde and her partner came close beside
them. Hamilton at first pretended not to observe it, but Crescenz
naturally spoke to her sister.
“Mr. Hamilton fancies you will not dance with him, but I am sure he is
mistaken; he says he cannot remain more than an hour, so you must
promise him the next waltz or galop, whichever it may be.”
“If he really wish it,” said Hildegarde; “but he looks so very seriously
English to-night, that if I were to propose dancing with him, I am sure
he will say no!”
“Try me,” said Hamilton; “or rather write my name in your book, that I
may be sure you are in earnest.”
“You must not trust to my memory, for I have neither ball-book nor
tablets. I have no one,” she added, looking archly toward her sister, “I
have no one to supply me with ball-books and bouquets,” and she bent her
head over her sister’s hand, which could scarcely clasp the geraniums,
heliotropes, and China roses with which it was filled.
A moment after, she had joined the dancers, and Hamilton stood
thoughtfully beside his partner.
“Do you not admire my bouquet?” she asked, holding it coquettishly
towards him.
“Exceedingly; for the time of year it is beautiful.”
“Major Stultz waited at the door to give it to me. It was an attention I
never expected from him.”
“Why not?” asked Hamilton, absently.
“Oh, because he was so many years a soldier and in the wars, and in
Russia, and all that. I thought it was only young—a—a—persons—with whom
one danced—who gave bouquets.”
“Very true,” said Hamilton, laughing, “and it is disgracefully negligent
of young—a—persons to forget such things sometimes.”
“I assure you,” stammered Crescenz, “I did not mean—I did not think——”
“I know you did not,” said Hamilton.
“He knows you _never_ think, my dear,” said Madame Berger, who had
overheard the last words when taking the place behind them.
“She never thinks or says anything unkind,” said Hamilton, warmly.
Madame Berger looked up saucily, and then turned to her partner, a gay
student, to listen to some nonsense about her long blonde ringlets.
“Lina is angry that you have not asked her to dance,” said Crescenz, as
she returned to join her mother. “Suppose you were to waltz with her
next time; I know Hildegarde will not be in the least offended.”
Hamilton shook his head. “I am not so much afraid of giving offence as
you are; besides, you may be mistaken.”
“No,” said Crescenz, “I am sure I am right, for I remember her saying
she would keep a waltz for you, and you said you could not come at all.
Oh, I remember it, for I was so sorry when you said so, that I did not
care at all for the ball, or my new dress, or——”
Hamilton unconsciously pressed Crescenz’s hands, her heightened colour
immediately reprimanded him for his imprudence, and he turned to Madame
Rosenberg, and asked her how she liked playing _chaperon_?
“Better a great deal than I expected,” she answered, laughing; and then
lowering her voice, she added, “our girls are certainly very pretty; you
have no idea how civil all the men are to me on their account. Franz is
enjoying a sort of triumph to-night, but the Major is not quite
satisfied; he says the young officers have been talking nonsense to
Crescenz, for she has been blushing every moment. Now, I have told him a
hundred times it is from the heat of the room and the exertion of
dancing. It would be better if he would go down to the club-room and
smoke his pipe; he cannot expect the child to sit beside him all the
evening as she does at home. She has very properly done her duty, and
already danced twice with him, and more he cannot require. He has no
sort of tact, the Major. Fancy his wanting her to fix her wedding-day
just now, when she is thinking of anything in the world but her
marriage. I never knew anything in the world so injudicious.”
Poor Crescenz had been condemned to a place between her mother and Major
Stultz. Hildegarde had emancipated herself completely; she hung on her
proud father’s arm, walked about the rooms, and talked unrestrainedly.
Hamilton had to seek her when the music again commenced; she left her
father directly, and walked towards the dancing-room, but scarcely had
she entered it when Count Raimund approached, exclaiming, “Where are you
going, Hildegarde? do not forget that this galop is mine.”
“No, Oscar, it was the second that I promised you.”
“That cannot be, Hildegarde, for I am engaged to dance it with a—Marie.
I believe—I am quite certain—you promised me this one.”
“And I am _quite sure_, Oscar, that you are mistaken. _Quite sure!_”
began Hildegarde, with her usual decision of manner, but the angry
expression of her cousin’s countenance made her hesitate. “Perhaps,
however,” she added, looking from one to the other, “perhaps, as Mr.
Hamilton is an Englishman, and does not care about dancing, he will be
rather pleased than otherwise in being released from what he probably
considered a duty dance.”
“By no means,” said Hamilton, firmly holding the hand which she
endeavoured to withdraw, “I am not so indifferent as you seem to
imagine. You have promised to dance with me, and I am not disposed to
release you from your engagement.”
“Nor I, either,” said Count Raimund, while the blood mounted to his
temples, and was even visible under the roots of his fair hair.
“You think, perhaps, I ought to feel flattered,” said Hildegarde,
scornfully, “but I do not—on the contrary I think you both, I mean to
say—Oscar extremely disagreeable. I shall not dance with either of you,”
she added, seating herself on a bench, and beginning to tap her foot
impatiently on the floor. The two young men placed themselves on either
side of her.
“I hope,” she said, turning to Count Raimund, “I hope you are satisfied,
now that you have deprived me of the pleasure of dancing a galop, to
which I have been looking forward for the last half hour?”
“My satisfaction depends entirely on who the person may be with whom you
anticipated so much pleasure in dancing.”
“You know perfectly well that I was not engaged to you, and did not
think of you.”
Count Raimund played with the hilt of his sword, which he had laid on
the form beside him.
“Oscar,” continued Hildegarde, after a pause, in a low voice, “don’t be
so unjust, so tyrannical as to deprive me of my galop. Choose somebody
else. See, there is Marie still disengaged—go quickly, before anyone
else can——”
“Thank you,” said Raimund, interrupting her; “you are very kind, but I
have no inclination whatever that way. Marie may be very good for
household purposes, but I must say I rejoice in the idea that our
marriage will free me from these ball-room duties towards a person I
have scarcely learned to tolerate. In fact, I believe I detest her, so
has she been forced upon me!”
“Oscar, Oscar—take care! Do not speak so loud. What would people think
of you, were you to be heard? Someone may tell Marie, and make her
repent her disinterested conduct towards you—she does not deserve to be
made unhappy, especially by you?”
“What did you say, sir?” cried Raimund, speaking angrily, across
Hildegarde to Hamilton.
“I have not had time to say anything,” he replied, laughing.
“But you looked as if you agreed with my cousin?”
“My looks are expressive, it seems,” said Hamilton, coolly.
“Perhaps you intend to inform my betrothed of what I have just now
said?” cried Raimund, still more angrily.
“My acquaintance with her is of too recent a date to admit of my doing
so.”
“Do you mean deliberately to insult me?” asked Raimund, in a voice of
suppressed rage.
“No, Oscar,” cried Hildegarde, laying her hand hastily on his arm. “It
is you who are endeavouring to commence a quarrel with Mr. Hamilton. You
feel that you are in the wrong, and that you ought not to have made such
a remark in public of a person to whom you are to be married in less
than a week.”
“_You_ may say what you please to me, Hildegarde, but neither Mr.
Hamilton nor anyone else shall dare by word or look to imply——”
Hamilton turned away with a smile of unequivocal contempt.
“What do you mean, sir?” cried Raimund, starting from his seat, and
facing him while he folded his arms.
“I mean that this is no place for such words—still less for such
gestures,” replied Hamilton, glancing round him. The loudness of the
music, however, had prevented them from being heard.
“Oscar,” cried Hildegarde, vehemently, “sit down beside me. Listen to
me—you _must_ listen to me. You are altogether in the wrong—you are rude
and irritating, and ought to be ashamed of yourself. Do not try Mr.
Hamilton’s patience further.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” said Raimund, biting his lip, and
frowning fearfully.
Hildegarde looked anxiously, first on her cousin and then at Hamilton,
to whom she said in a low voice: “I don’t know which is most to be
feared, your coolness—or Oscar’s ungovernable temper! But this I have
determined, that neither shall stir from this place until a
reconciliation has taken place. You, Oscar, are bound to apologise for
your unprovoked rudeness, and——”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Raimund. “You are a most excellent mediatrix, my
charming cousin, but believe me, explanations are better avoided. See,
we have already forgotten the whole affair.”
Hildegarde looked uneasily towards Hamilton, he appeared to be intently
watching the dancers as they flew past him.
“It is useless your trying to deceive me,” she began, once more turning
to Raimund; but he immediately interrupted her by saying, “Pray, is all
this unnecessary anxiety on my account, or—on his?”
“My anxiety is divided. Surely,” she continued, almost in a whisper,
“you will not be so foolish as to commence a quarrel in this
unreasonable manner? What will Marie and her mother think, should they
hear of it? What right had you to ask for an explanation of Mr.
Hamilton’s looks? You are seeking a quarrel, and do you think by acting
in this manner you are likely to increase my regard for you? Oh, Oscar!
have you forgotten what you said about a double crime——” The music
played loudly, and Hildegarde bent towards her cousin, and continued to
speak for some time. Raimund’s countenance cleared by degrees, he raised
his eyes to her face with an expression of undisguised admiration and
love, and then whispered an answer, which made her blush and turn away.
“You know your influence with me is unbounded. On this condition I will
do or say whatever you please,” he added, endeavouring to catch her eye.
“It is ungenerous of you to take advantage of my fears,” said
Hildegarde, rising.
Hamilton asked her if she wished to return to her father; she seemed
scarcely to hear him, appearing lost in thought for some moments. She
again consulted the countenance of her two companions, again became
anxious, and finally turning to Raimund, said, with some embarrassment,
“After all, it is not worth talking so much about—I accept the
condition—perform your promise.”
“Time and place to be chosen by me?” said Raimund, loud and eagerly.
“Do not make any more conditions,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently, “but
perform your promise at once.”
“This must be understood,” said Raimund, “or else——”
Hamilton felt himself growing very angry; he turned to leave them, when
Count Raimund called him back: “Mr. Hamilton, a moment, if you please.
Hildegarde has convinced me that I have been altogether in the wrong
just now. If I have offended you, I am sorry for it; I hope you do not
expect me to say more!”
“I did not expect you to say so much,” replied Hamilton, coldly.
A sudden flush once more overspread Raimund’s face, an internal struggle
seemed to take place, but after a glance towards Hildegarde, he said
calmly, “If I did not feel that I had been the aggressor, not even the
offered bribe could have induced me to apologise.”
“Bribe—offered!” exclaimed Hildegarde, almost indignantly.
“No, not offered. Favour conceded, if you like it better—we will not
dispute about words. Mr. Hamilton, my cousin is free, and can dance when
she pleases.”
“I imagine she could have done so before, had she wished it,” said
Hamilton, haughtily.
Raimund walked away as if he had not heard him, and buckled on his sword
with an air of perfect satisfaction.
Hamilton stood by Hildegarde as if he were turned to stone. The words
which had been so mysteriously spoken seemed to have completely
petrified him. Hildegarde, too, stood immovable for a minute, and then
turned as if to leave him.
“Do you not wish to dance?” asked Hamilton, in a constrained voice.
“No—I mean yes—yes, of course,” she replied, moving mechanically towards
the dancers.
Hamilton’s feelings at this moment would be difficult to define. As he
put his arm round her slight figure, intense hatred was perhaps, for the
instant, predominant—he was in such a state of angry excitement that he
had gone quite round the room before he perceived that he was actually
carrying Hildegarde, who was entreating him to stop.
“Get me a glass of water,” she said, moving unsteadily towards the
refreshment-room, and sinking on a chair behind the door. She had become
deadly pale, and was evidently suffering, but seemed determined to
conquer the unusual weakness which threatened to overcome her.
When Hamilton again stood by her, he no longer felt angry; bending
towards her he whispered, “If you repent any hasty promise which you may
have made to your cousin, I shall be happy to be the bearer of any
message or explanation.”
“Repent!” murmured Hildegarde, “no; I have promised, and I don’t repent;
but you—you must not speak any more this evening to Oscar; he has
apologised for his rudeness, and I know you are too generous ever to
refer to the subject again.”
“But he spoke of some bribe—some favour,” began Hamilton.
“That is my affair, and not yours,” replied Hildegarde, rising as the
dancers began to pour into the room. “And now take me to my father.
After all,” she added, forcing a smile, “I believe I have wasted a great
deal of genuine alarm on a pair of very worthless young men.”
“So it was not repentance about this promised favour, but anxiety about
us, which has nearly caused you to faint?”
“Just so—my fears perhaps magnified the danger—but there was danger,
more than you were aware of. Avoid my cousin,” she added, earnestly, “he
is reckless now, but I trust better times are in store for him.” Though
still fearfully pale, she walked steadily towards the end of the room
where her father and mother were standing.
Raimund saw Hamilton leaving the room a few minutes afterwards, with
hasty steps and a disturbed countenance. He looked after him and
observed, with a sarcastic smile, to an acquaintance who was near him,
“I have spoiled that Englishman’s supper; he is not likely to enjoy his
_pâté de foie gras_ or champagne under the orange-trees at Court
to-night!”
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