"My name is Ormond, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond is come to pay his respects to them."

The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. "He was sure," he said, "that the ladies would not see anybody."

"Was Lady Annaly ill?"

"Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two days."

"And Miss Annaly?"

"Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Ormond. "Pray, sir, can you tell me whether a servant from Mr. Ormond brought a letter here yesterday?"

"He did, sir."

"And was there any answer sent?"

"I really can't say, sir."

"Be so good to take my name to your lady," repeated Ormond.

"Indeed, sir, I don't like to go in, for I know my lady—both my ladies is engaged, very particularly engaged—however, if you very positively desire it, sir—"

Ormond did very positively desire it, and the footman obeyed. While Ormond was waiting impatiently for the answer, his horse, as impatient as himself, would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering about, saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing that it was occasioned by a peacock, who, with spread tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he ran and chased the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and threw him a luck token; but not recollecting his face, asked how long he had been at Annaly. "I think you were not here when I was here last?" said Ormond.

"No, sir." said the man, looking a little puzzled; "I never was here till the day before yesterday in my born days. We bees from England."

"We!"

"That is, I and master—that is, master and I." Ormond grew pale; but the groom saw nothing of it—his eyes had fixed upon Ormond's horse.

"A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but stand, sir; he's main restless at a door. My master's horse is just his match for that."

"And pray who is your master, sir?" said Ormond, in a voice which he forced to be calm.

"My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of the famous General Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, you might have heard talk of, time back," said the groom.

At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, and before the wind blew it back to its place again, Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a sofa, and a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet.

"Bless my eyes!" cried the groom, "what made you let go his bridle, sir? Only you sat him well, sir, he would ha' thrown you that minute—Curse the blind! that flapped in his eyes."

The footman re-appeared on the steps. "Sir, it is just as I said—I could not be let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady's woman, says the ladies is engaged— you can't see them."

Ormond had seen enough.

"Very well, sir," said he—"Mr. Ormond's compliments—he called, that's all."

Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, he urged his horse still faster.

In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more—that he would tear her from his heart—that he would show her that he was no whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a coquette.

"A coquette!—is it possible, Florence Annaly?—You—and after all!"

Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them—he would not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the dread of future restraint.

So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer.

"Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy?—what has happened?" cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of Ormond's mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures—still more strongly in his words.

When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language of the passions: he listened with eager interest—he sympathized so fully with Ormond's feelings—expressed such astonishment, such indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as heartily as in the days of his childhood.

Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of accomplishing his purpose—now was the critical instant.

"Harry Ormond," said he, "would you make Florence Annaly feel to the quick —would you make her repent in sackcloth and ashes—would you make her pine for you, ay! till her very heart is sick?"

"Would I? to be sure—show me how!—only show me how!" cried Ormond.

"Look ye, Harry! to have and to hold a woman—trust me, for I have had and held many—to have and to hold a woman, you must first show her that you can, if you will, fling her from you—ay! and leave her there: set off for Paris to-morrow morning—my life upon it, the moment she hears you are gone, she will wish you back again!"

"I'll set off to-night," said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to his servant to prepare immediately for his departure.

Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the moment when Ormond's mind was at the right heat, aiming with dexterity and striking with force, bent and moulded him to his purpose.

While preparations for Ormond's journey were making, Sir Ulick said that there was one thing he must insist upon his doing before he quitted Castle Hermitage—he must look over and settle his guardianship accounts.

Ormond, whose head was far from business at this moment, was very reluctant: he said that the accounts could wait till he should return from France; but Sir Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond were to die, leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property to the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond then begged that the accounts might be sent after him to Paris; he would look over them there at leisure, and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be signed by some forthcoming witness in this country. He urged it so much, and put it upon the footing of his own credit and honour in such a manner, that Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and took a pen to sign them; but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his hand, and absolutely insisted upon his first knowing what he was going to sign.

"The whole account could have been looked over while we have been talking about it," said Sir Ulick.

Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all the vouchers, saw that every thing was perfectly right and fair, signed the accounts, and esteemed Sir Ulick the more for having insisted upon showing, and proving that all was exact.

Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while he was away, particularly a large sum which Ormond had in the English funds. Sir Ulick had a banker and a broker in London, on whom he could depend, and he had, from his place and connexions, means of obtaining good information in public affairs; he had made a great deal himself by speculations in the funds, and he could buy in and sell out to great advantage, he said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a power of attorney was necessary to be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick.

There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that there was a printed form in the house. Luckily, however, a proper power was found, and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign it before he stepped into the carriage: he embraced his guardian, and thanked him heartily for his care of the interests of his purse, and still more for the sympathy he had shown in the interests of his heart. Sir Ulick was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry the more, because he certainly struggled to suppress his feelings. Ormond stopped at Vicar's Dale to tell Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to thank him and his family for their kindness, and to take leave of them.

They were indeed astonished when he entered, saying, "Any commands, my good friends, for London or Paris? I am on my way there—carriage at the door."

At first they could not believe him to be serious; but when they heard his story, and saw by the agitation of his manner that he was in earnest, they were still more surprised at the suddenness of his determination. They all believed and represented to him that there must be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough to judge sanely at this moment.

Dr. Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not prevent any man from kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, "He did not know what she could prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not vouchsafed an answer to his letter—she had not admitted him. These he thought were sufficient indications that the person at her feet was accepted. Whether he were or not, Ormond would inquire no further. She might now accept or refuse, as she pleased—he would go to Paris."

His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but to sigh, and to wish him a good journey, and much pleasure at Paris.

Ormond now requested that Dr. Cambray would have the goodness to write to him from time to time, to inform him of whatever he might wish to know during his absence. He was much mortified to hear from the doctor that he was obliged to proceed, with his family, for some months, to a distant part of the north of England; and that, as to the Annalys, they were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devonshire, for the benefit of a mild climate and of sea-bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no resource but in his guardian. Sir Ulick's affairs, however, were to take him over to London, from whence Ormond could not expect much satisfactory intelligence with respect to Ireland.

Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an express boat, travelled night and day in the mail to London, from thence to Dover—crossed the water in a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to Paris, though there was no one reason why he should be in haste; and for so much, his travelling was as little profitable or amusing as possible. He saw, heard, and understood nothing, till he reached Paris.

It has been said that the traveller without sensibility may travel from Dan to Beersheba, without finding any thing worth seeing. The traveller who has too much sensibility often observes as little—of this all persons must be sensible, who have ever travelled when their minds were engrossed with painful feelings, or possessed by any strong passion.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Ormond had written to M. and Madame de Connal to announce his intentions of spending some time in Paris, and to thank them for the invitation to their house; an invitation which, however, he declined accepting; but he requested M. de Connal to secure apartments for him in some hotel near them.

Upon his arrival he found every thing prepared for a Milord Anglois: handsome apartments, fashionable carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a valet-de-chambre, waited the orders of monsieur.

Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival—welcomed him to Paris with cordial gaiety—was more glad, and more sorry, and said more in five minutes, and above all made more protestations of regard, than an Englishman would make in a year.

He was rejoiced—delighted—enchanted to see Mr. Ormond. Madame de Connal was absolutely transported with joy when she heard he was on his road to Paris. Madame was now at Versailles; but she would return in a few days: she would be in despair at Mr. Ormond's not accepting the apartments in the Hotel de Connal, which were actually prepared for him; but in fact it was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. He hoped Mr. Ormond liked his apartments—but in truth that was of little consequence, for he would never be in them, except when he was asleep or dressing.

Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and was going to have thanked M. de Connal for the trouble he had taken; but at the word superbe, Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination.

"Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought," he said, "to have every thing now in the first style." He congratulated our hero on his accession of fortune, "of which Madame de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. And Mdlle. O'Faley, too, she who had always prophesied that they should meet in happiness at Paris, was now absolutely in ecstasy."

"You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of what a strong impression you left on all our minds—no conception of the lively interest you always inspired."

It was a lively interest which had slumbered quietly for a considerable time, but now it wakened with perfectly good grace. Ormond set little value on these sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear that it should be supposed he was deceived by them; yet, altogether, the manner was agreeable, and Connal was essentially useful at this moment: as Sir Ulick had justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain circumstances, be a useful friend.

"But, my dear fellow," cried Connal, "what savage cut your hair last?—It is a sin to trust your fine head to the barbarians—my hairdresser shall be with you in the twinkling of an eye: I will send my tailor—allow me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before you decide—I am said to have a tolerable taste—the ladies say so, and they are always the best judges. The French dress will become you prodigiously, I foresee—but, just Heaven!—what buckles!—those must have been made before the flood: no disparagement to your taste, but what could you do better in the Black Islands? Paris is the only place for bijouterie—except in steel, Paris surpasses the universe—your eyes will be dazzled by the Palais Royal. But this hat!—you know it can't appear—it would destroy you: my chapelier shall be with you instantly. It will all be done in five minutes—you have no idea of the celerity with which you may command every thing at Paris. But I am so sorry that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a necessity of being there myself to-morrow for the rest of this week; but I have a friend, a little Abbe, who will be delighted in the mean time to show you Paris."

From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence Annaly completely out of his thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and dissipation the too painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. He was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to see something of Paris.

He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to the play, to accustom himself to the language. He must wear off his English or Irish awkwardness a little, before he should be presented to Madame de Connal, or appear in French society. A profusion of compliments followed from M. de Connal; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he should go incog. this night to the Theatre Francois.

Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre.

They were in une petite loge, where they could see without being seen. In the box with them was the young Abbe, and a pretty little French actress, Mdlle. Adrienne. At the first coup-d'oeil, the French ladies did not strike him as handsome; they looked, as he said, like dolls, all eyes and rouge; and rouge, as he thought, very unbecomingly put on, in one frightful red patch or plaster, high upon the cheek, without any pretence to the imitation of natural colour.

"Eh fi donc!" said the Abbe, "what you call the natural colour, that would be rouge coquette, which no woman of quality can permit herself."

"No, Dieu merci," said the actress, "that is for us: 'tis very fair we should have some advantages in the competition, they have so many—by birth—if not by nature."

M. de Connal explained to Ormond that the frightful red patch which offended his eye, was the mark of a woman of quality: "women only of a certain rank have the privilege of wearing their rouge in that manner—your eye will soon grow accustomed to it, and you will like it as a sign of rank and fashion."

The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something about "la belle nature," and the good taste of Monsieur l'Anglois. The moment the curtain drew up, she told him the names of all the actors and actresses as they appeared—noting the value and celebrity of each. The play was, unfortunately for Ormond, a tragedy; and Le Kain was at Versailles. Ormond thought he understood French pretty well, but he did not comprehend what was going on. The French tone of tragic declamation, so unnatural to his ear, distracted his attention so much, that he could not make out the sense of what any of the actors said.

"'Tis like the quality rouge," said Connal; "your taste must be formed to it. But your eye and your ear will accommodate themselves to both. You will like it in a month."

M. de Connal said this was always the first feeling of foreigners. "But have patience," said he; "go on listening, and in a night or two, perhaps in an hour or two, the sense will break in upon you all at once. You will never find yourself at a loss in society. Talk, at all events, whether you speak ill or well, talk: don't aim at correctness—we don't expect it Besides, as they will tell you, we like to see how a stranger 'play with our language.'"

M. de Connal's manner was infinitely more agreeable toward Ormond now than in former days.

There was perhaps still at the bottom of his mind the same fund of self-conceit, but he did not take the same arrogant tone. It was the tone not of a superior to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new society, and a country to which he is a stranger. There was as little of the protector in his manner as possible, considering his natural presumption and acquired habits: considering that he had made his own way in Paris, and that he thought that to be the first man in a certain circle there, was to be nearly the first man in the universe. The next morning, the little Abbe called to pay his compliments, and to offer his services.

M. de Connal being obliged to go to Versailles, in his absence the Abbe would be very happy, he said, to attend Mr. Ormond, and to show him Paris: he believed, he humbly said, that he had the means of showing him every thing that was worth his attention.

Away they drove.

"Gare! gare!" cried the coachman, chasing away the droves of walkers before him. There being no footpaths in the streets of Paris, they were continually driven up close to the walls.

Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril and narrow escapes.

"Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his voyage?" said the Abbe.

"No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. I will make the coachman drive more quietly."

"Du tout!—not at all," said the little Abbe, who was of a noble family, and had all the airs of it. "Leave him to settle it with the people—they are used to it. And, after all, what have they to think of, but to take care of themselves—la cancille?"

"La canaille," synonymous with the swinish multitude, an expression of contempt for which the Parisian nobility have since paid terribly dear.

Ormond, who was not used to it, found it difficult to abstract his sympathy from his fellow-creatures, by whatever name they were called; and he could not exclusively command his attention, to admire the houses and churches, which his Abbe continually pointed out to his notice.

He admired, however, the fine facade of the Louvre, the Place de Louis XV., the astonishingly brilliant spectacle of the Palais Royal, Notre Dame, a few handsome bridges, and the drives on the Boulevards.

But in fact there was at that time much more to be heard, and less to be seen, than at present in Paris. Paris was not then as fine a city as it now is. Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred the bay of Dublin to all he then saw on the banks of the Seine.

The little Abbe was not satisfied with the paucity of his exclamations, and would have given him up, as un froid Anglois, but that, fortunately, our young hero had each night an opportunity of redeeming his credit. They went to the play—he saw French comedy!—he saw and heard Molet, and Madame de la Ruette: the Abbe was charmed with his delight, his enthusiasm, his genuine enjoyment of high comedy, and his quick feeling of dramatic excellence. It was indeed perfection—beyond any thing of which Ormond could have formed an idea. Every part well performed—nothing to break the illusion!

This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm was the third day at its height, when Connal returned from Versailles; and it was so strong upon him, and he was so full of Molet and Madame de la Ruette, that he could scarcely listen to what Connal said of Versailles, the king's supper, and Madame la Dauphine.

"No doubt—he should like to see all that—but at all events he was positively determined to see Molet, and Madame de la Ruette, every night they acted."

Connal smiled, and only answered, "Of course he would do as he pleased." But in the mean time, it was now Madame de Connal's night for seeing company, and he was to make his debut in a French assembly. Connal called for him early, that they might have a few minutes to themselves before the company should arrive.

Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight flutter at the heart, at the thought of seeing Dora again.

The arrival of her husband interrupted these thoughts.

Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed Ormond from head to foot.

"Very well, Crepin: you have done your part, and Nature has done hers, for Monsieur."

"Yes, truly," said Crepin, "Nature has done wonders for Monsieur; and Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really all the air of a Frenchman."

"Quite l'air comme il faut! l'air noble!" added Connal; and he agreed with Crepin in opinion that French dress made an astonishing difference in Mr. Ormond.

"Madame de Connal, I am sure, will think so," continued Connal, "will see it with admiration—for she really has good taste. I will pledge myself for your success. With that figure, with that air, you will turn many heads in Paris—if you will but talk enough. Say every thing that comes into your head—don't be like an Englishman, always thinking about the sense—the more nonsense the better—trust me—livrez-vous—let yourself out—follow me, and fear nothing," cried he, running down stairs, delighted with Ormond and with himself.

He foresaw that he should gain credit by producing such a man. He really wished that Ormond should succeed in French society, and that he should pass his time agreeably in Paris.

No man could feel better disposed towards another. Even if he should take a fancy to Madame, it was to the polite French husband a matter of indifference, except so far as the arrangement might, or might not, interfere with his own views.

And these views—what were they?—Only to win all the young man's fortune at play. A cela pres—excepting this, he was sincerely Ormond's friend, ready to do every thing possible—de faire l'impossible—to oblige and entertain him.

Connal enjoyed Ormond's surprise at the magnificence of his hotel. After ascending a spacious staircase, and passing through antechamber after antechamber, they reached the splendid salon, blazing with lights, reflected on all sides in mirrors, that reached from the painted ceiling to the inlaid floor.

"Not a creature here yet—happily." "Madame begs," said the servant, "that Monsieur will pass on into the boudoir."

"Any body with Madame?"

"No one but Madame de Clairville."

"Only l'amie intime," said Connal, "the bosom friend."

"How will Dora feel?—How will it be with us both?" thought Ormond, as he followed the light step of the husband.

"Entrez!—Entrez toujours."

Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of Dora's beauty, her face, her figure, her air, so infinitely improved, so fashioned!

"Dora!—Ah! Madame de Connal," cried Ormond.

No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him.

Dora gave one glance at Ormond—pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes; then leaning on the lady who stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora sighed, and exclaimed, "Ah! Harry Ormond!"

The husband vanished.

"Ah ciel!" said l'amie intime, looking towards Ormond.

"Help me to support her, Monsieur—while I seek de l'eau de Cologne."

Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance.

Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, "The companion of my earliest days!"

Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward,—"Friend of my childhood!" cried he: "yes, my sister: your father promised me this friendship—this happiness," said he supporting her, as she raised herself from the sofa.

"Ou est-il? ou est-il?—Where is he, Monsieur Ormond?" cried Mademoiselle, throwing open the door. "Ah ciel, comme il est beau! A perfect Frenchman already! And how much embellished by dress!—Ah! Paris for that. Did I not prophesy?—Dora, my darling, do me the justice.—But—comme vous voila saisie!—here's l'amie with l'eau de Cologne. Ah! my child, recover yourself, for here is some one—the Comte de Jarillac it is entering the salon."

The promptitude of Dora's recovery was a new surprise to our hero. "Follow me," said she to him, and with Parisian ease and grace she glided into the salon to receive M. de Jarillac—presented Ormond to M. le Comte—"Anglois —Irlandois—an English, an Irish gentleman—the companion of her childhood," with the slightest, lightest tone of sentiment imaginable; and another count and another came, and a baron, and a marquis, and a duke, and Madame la Comtesse de ——, and Madame la Duchesse ——; and all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or sentiment as the occasion required—now advancing a step or two to mark empressement where requisite;—regaining always, imperceptibly, the most advantageous situation and attitude for herself;—presenting Ormond to every one—quite intent upon him, yet appearing entirely occupied with every body else; and, in short, never forgetting them, him, or herself for an instant.

"Can this be Dora?" thought Ormond in admiration, yet in astonishment that divided his feelings. It was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how completely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed into a French woman of fashion.

And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing with crosses and stars, she received les hommages—enjoyed le succes— accepted the incense without bending too low or holding herself too high— not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her head, not more than was agreeable and becoming—extending her smiles to all, and hoping all the time that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him—for her early passion for him had revived in an instant—the first sight of his figure and air, the first glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, too, how well he would succeed at Paris—how many rivals she would have in a week: these perceptions, sensations, and conclusions, requiring so much time in slow words to express, had darted through Dora's head in one instant, had exalted her imagination, and touched her heart—as much as that heart could be touched.

Ormond meantime breathed more freely, and recovered from his tremors. Madame de Connal, surrounded by adorers, and shining in the salon, was not so dangerous as Dora, half fainting in the boudoir; nor had any words that wit or sentiment could devise power to please or touch him so much as the "Harry Ormond!" which had burst naturally from Dora's lips. Now he began almost to doubt whether nature or art prevailed. Now he felt himself safe at least, since he saw that it was only the coquette of the Black Islands transformed into the coquette of the Hotel de Connal. The transformation was curious, was admirable; Ormond thought he could admire without danger, and, in due time, perhaps gallant, with the best of them, without feeling— without scruple.

The tables were now arranging for play. The conversation he heard every where round him related to the good or bad fortune of the preceding nights. Ormond perceived that it was the custom of the house to play every evening, and the expressions that reached him about bets and debts confirmed the hint which his guardian had given him, that Connal played high.

At present, however, he did not seem to have any design upon Ormond—he was engaged at the further end of the room. He left him quite to himself, and to Madame, and never once even asked him to play.

There seemed more danger of his being left out, than of his being taken in.

"Donnez-moi le bras—Come with me, Monsieur Ormond," said Mademoiselle, "and you shall lose nothing—while they are settling about their parties, we can get one little moment's chat."

She took him back to the boudoir.

"I want to make you know our Paris," said she: "here we can see the whole world pass in review, and I shall tell you every thing most necessary for you to know; for example—who is who—and still more it imports you to know who and who are together."

"Look at that lady, beautiful as the day, in diamonds."

"Madame de Connal, do you mean?" said Ormond.

"Ah! no; not her always," said Mademoiselle: "though she has the apple here, without contradiction," continued Mademoiselle, still speaking in English, which it was always her pride to speak to whomsoever could understand her. "Absolutely, without vanity, though my niece, I may say it, she is a perfect creature—and mise a ravir!—Did you ever see such a change for the best in one season? Ah! Paris!—Did I not tell you well?— And you felt it well yourself—you lost your head, I saw that, at first sight of her a la Francoise—the best proof of your taste and sensibilite—she has infinite sensibility too!—interesting, and at the height, what you English call the tip-top, of the fashion here."

"So it appears, indeed," said Ormond, "by the crowd of admirers I see round Madame de Connal."

"Admirers! yes, adorers, you may say—encore, if you added lovers, you would not be much wrong; dying for love—eperdument epris! See, there, he who is bowing now—Monsieur le Marquis de Beaulieu—homme de cour—plein d'esprit—homme marquant—very remarkable man. But—Ah! voila que entre—of the court. Did you ever see finer entree made by man into a room, so full of grace? Ah! le Comte de Belle Chasse—How many women already he has lost!—It is a real triumph to Madame de Connal to have him in her chains. What a smile!—C'est lui qui est aimable pour nous autres—d'une soumission pour les femmes—d'une fierte pour les hommes. As the lamb gentle for the pretty woman; as the lion terrible for the man. It is that Comte de Belle Chasse who is absolutely irresistible."

"Absolutely irresistible," Ormond repeated, smiling; "not absolutely, I hope."

"Oh! that is understood—you do not doubt la sagesse de Madame?—Besides, heureusement, there is an infinite safety for her in the number, as you see, of her adorers. Wait till I name them to you—I shall give you a catalogue raisonnee."

With rapid enunciation Mademoiselle went through the names and rank of the circle of adorers, noting with complacency the number of ladies to whom each man of gallantry was supposed to have paid his addresses—next to being of the blood royal, this appearing to be of the highest distinction.

"And a propos, Monsieur d'Ormond, you, yourself, when do you count to go to Versailles?—Ah!—when you shall see the king and the king's supper, and Madame la Dauphine! Ah!"

Mademoiselle was recalled from the ecstasy in which she had thrown up her eyes to Heaven, by some gentleman speaking to her as he passed the open door of the boudoir arm in arm with a lady—Mademoiselle answered, with a profound inclination of the head, whispering to Ormond after they had passed, "M. le Due de C—— with Madame de la Tour. Why he is constant always to that woman, Heaven knows better than me! Stand, if you are so good, Monsieur, a little more this way, and give your attention—they don't want you yet at play."

Then designating every person at the different card-tables, she said, "That lady is the wife of M.——, and there is M. le Baron de L—— her lover, the gentleman who looks over her cards—and that other lady with the joli pompon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, the husband of the lady who passed with M. le Duc." Mademoiselle explained all these arrangements with the most perfect sang froid, as things of course, that every body knew and spoke of, except just before the husbands; but there was no mystery, no concealment: "What use?—To what good?"

Ormond asked whether there were any ladies in the room who were supposed to be faithful to their husbands.

"Eh!—Ma niece, par exemple, Madame de Connal, I may cite as a woman of la plus belle reputation, sans tache—what you call unblemish."

"Assuredly," said Ormond, "you could not, I hope, think me so indiscreet—I believe I said ladies in the plural number."

"Ah! oui, assuredly, and I can name you twenty. To begin, there, do you see that woman standing up, who has the air as if she think of nothing at all, and nobody thinking of her, with only her husband near her, cet grand homme bleme?—There is Madame de la Rousse—d'une reputation intacte!— frightfully dressed, as she is always. But, hold, you see that pretty little Comtesse de la Brie, all in white?—Charmante! I give her to you as a reputation against which slander cannot breathe—Nouvelle mariee—bride— in what you call de honey-moon; but we don't know that in French—no matter! Again, since you are curious in these things, there is another reputation without spot, Madame de St. Ange, I warrant her to you—bien froide, celle-la, cold as any English—married a full year, and still her choice to make; allons,—there is three I give you already, without counting my niece; and, wait, I will find you yet another," said Mademoiselle, looking carefully through the crowd.

She was relieved from her difficulty by the entrance of the little Abbe, who came to summon Monsieur to Madame de Connal, who did him the honour to invite him to the table. Ormond played, and fortune smiled upon him, as she usually does upon a new votary; and beauty smiled upon him perhaps on the same principle. Connal never came near him till supper was announced; then only to desire him to give his arm to a charming little Countess—la nouvelle mariee—Madame de Connal, belonging, by right of rank, to Monsieur le Comte de Belle Chasse. The supper was one of the delightful petit soupers for which Paris was famous at that day, and which she will never see again.

The moralist, who considers the essential interests of morality, more than the immediate pleasures of society, will think this rather a matter of rejoicing than regret. How far such society and correct female conduct be compatible, is a question which it might take too long a time to decide.

Therefore, be it sufficient here to say, that Ormond, without staying to examine it, was charmed with the present effect; with the gaiety, the wit, the politeness, the ease, and altogether with that indescribable thing, that untranslatable esprit de societe. He could not afterwards remember any thing very striking or very solid that had been said, but all was agreeable at the moment, and there was great variety. Ormond's self-love was, he knew not how, flattered. Without effort, it seemed to be the object of every body to make Paris agreeable to him; and they convinced him that he would find it the most charming place in the world—without any disparagement to his own country, to which all solid honours and advantages were left undisputed. The ladies, whom he had thought so little captivating at first view, at the theatre, were all charming on farther acquaintance: so full of vivacity, and something so flattering in their manner, that it put a stranger at once at his ease. Towards the end of the supper he found himself talking to two very pretty women at once, with good effect, and thinking at the same time of Dora and the Comte de Belle Chasse. Moreover, he thought he saw that Dora was doing the same between the irresistible Comte, and the Marquis, plein d'esprit, from whom, while she was listening and talking without intermission, her eyes occasionally strayed, and once or twice met those of Ormond.

"Is it indiscreet to ask you whether you passed your evening agreeably?" said M. de Connal, when the company had retired.

"Delightfully!" said Ormond: "the most agreeable evening I ever passed in my life!"

Then fearing that he had spoken with too much enthusiasm, and that the husband might observe that his eyes, as he spoke, involuntarily turned towards Madame de Connal, he moderated (he might have saved himself the trouble), he moderated his expression by adding, that as far as he could yet judge, he thought French society very agreeable.

"You have seen nothing yet—you are right not to judge hastily," said Connal; "but so far, I am glad you are tolerably well satisfied."

"Ah! oui, Monsieur Ormond," cried Mademoiselle, joining them, "we shall fix you at Paris, I expect."

"You hope, I suppose you mean, my dear aunt," said Dora, with such flattering hope in her voice, and in the expression of her countenance, that Ormond decided that he "certainly intended to spend the winter at Paris."

Connal, satisfied with this certainty, would have let Ormond go. But Mademoiselle had many compliments to make him and herself upon his pronunciation, and his fluency in speaking the French language—really like a Frenchman himself—the Marquis de Beaulieu had said to her: she was sure M. d'Ormond could not fail to succeed in Paris with that perfection added to all his other advantages. It was the greatest of all the advantages in the world—the greatest advantage in the universe, she was going on to say, but M. de Connal finished the flattery better.

"You would pity us, Ormond," cried he, interrupting Mademoiselle, "if you could see and hear the Vandals they send to us from England with letters of introduction—barbarians, who can neither sit, stand, nor speak—nor even articulate the language. How many of these butors, rich, of good family, I have been sometimes called upon to introduce into society, and to present at court! Upon my honour it has happened to me to wish they might hang themselves out of my way, or be found dead in their beds the day I was to take them to Versailles."

"It is really too great a tax upon the good-breeding of the lady of the house," said Madame de Connal, "deplorable, when she has nothing better to say of an English guest than that 'Ce monsieur la a un grand talent pour le silence.'"

Ormond, conscious that he had talked away at a great rate, was pleased by this indirect compliment.

"But such personnages muets never really see French society. They never obtain more than a supper—not a petit souper—no, no, an invitation to a great assembly, where they see nothing. Milord Anglois is lost in the crowd, or stuck across a door-way by his own sword. Now, what could any letter of recommendation do for such a fellow as that?"

"The letters of recommendation which are of most advantage," said Madame de Connal, "are those which are written in the countenance."

Ormond had presence of mind enough not to bow, though the compliment was directed distinctly to him—a look of thanks he knew was sufficient. As he retired, Mademoiselle, pursuing him to the door, begged that he would come as early as he could next morning, that she might introduce him to her apartments, and explain to him all the superior conveniences of a French house. M. de Connal representing, however, that the next day Mr. Ormond was to go to Versailles, Mademoiselle acknowledged that was an affair to which all others must yield.

Well flattered by all the trio, and still more perhaps by his own vanity, our young hero was at last suffered to depart.

The first appearance at Versailles was a matter of great consequence. Court-dress was then an affair of as much importance at Paris as it seems to be now in London, if we may judge by the columns of birthday dresses, and the honourable notice of gentlemen's coats and waistcoats. It was then at Paris, however, as it is now and ever will be all over the world, essential to the appearance of a gentleman, that whatever time, pains, or expense, it might have cost, he should, from the moment he is dressed, be, or at least seem to be, above his dress. In this as in most cases, the shortest and safest way to seem is to be. Our young hero being free from personal conceit, or overweening anxiety about his appearance, looked at ease. He called at the Hotel de Connal the day he was to go to Versailles, and Mademoiselle was in ecstasy at the sight of his dress, exclaiming, "superbe!—magnifique!"

M. de Connal seemed more struck with his air than his dress, and Dora, perhaps, was more pleased with his figure; she was silent, but it was a silence that spoke; her husband heeded not what it said, but, pursuing his own course, observed, that, to borrow the expression of Crepin, the valet- de-chambre, no contemptible judge in these cases, M. Ormond looked not only as if he was ne coiffe, but as if he had been born with a sword by his side. "Really, my dear friend," continued M. de Connal, "you look as if you had come at once full dressed into the world, which in our days is better than coming ready armed out of the head of Jupiter."

Mdlle. O'Faley, now seizing upon Ormond, whom she called her pupil, carried him off, to show him her apartments and the whole house; which she did with many useful notes—pointing out the convenience and entire liberty that result from the complete separation of the apartments of the husband and wife in French houses.

"You see, Monsieur et Madame with their own staircases, their own passages, their own doors in and out, and all separate for the people of Monsieur, and the women of Madame, and here through this little door you go into the apartments of Madame."

Ormond's English foot stopped respectfully.

"Eh, entrez toujours," said Mademoiselle, as the husband had said before at the door of the boudoir.

"But Madame de Connal is dressing, perhaps," said Ormond.

"Et puis?—and what then? you must get rid as fast as you can of your English prejuges—and she is not here neither," said Mademoiselle, opening the door.

Madame de Connal was in an inner apartment; and Ormond, the instant after he entered this room with Mademoiselle, heard a quick step, which he knew was Dora's, running to bolt the door of the inner room—he was glad that she had not quite got rid of her English prejudices.

Mdlle. O'Faley pointed out to him all the accommodations of a French apartment: she had not at this moment the slightest malice or bad intention in any thing she was saying—she simply spoke in all the innocence of a Frenchwoman—if that term be intelligible. If she had any secret motive, it was merely the vanity of showing that she was quite Parisienne; and there again she was mistaken; for having lived half her life out of Paris, she had forgotten, if she ever had it, the tone of good society, and upon her return had overdone the matter, exaggerated French manners, to prove to her niece that she knew les usages, les convenances, les nuances—enfin, la mode de Paris! A more dangerous guide in Paris for a young married woman in every respect could scarcely be found.

M. de Connal's valet now came to let Mr. Ormond know that Monsieur waited his orders. But for this interruption, he was in a fair way to hear all the private history of the family, all the secrets that Mademoiselle knew.

Of the amazing communicativeness of Frenchwomen on all subjects, our young hero had as yet no conception.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

It was during the latter years of the life of Louis the Fifteenth, and during the reign of Madame du Barry, that Ormond was at Paris. The court of Versailles was at this time in all its splendour, if not in all its glory. At the souper du roi, Ormond beheld, in all the magnificence of dress and jewels, the nobility, wealth, fashion, and beauty of France. Well might the brilliancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh from Ireland, when it amazed even old ambassadors, accustomed to the ordinary grandeur of courts. When he recovered from his first astonishment, when his eyes were a little better used to the light, and he looked round and considered all these magnificently decorated personages, assembled for the purpose of standing at a certain distance to see one man eat his supper, it did appear to him an extraordinary spectacle; and the very great solemnity and devotion of the assistants, so unsuited to the French countenance, inclined him to smile. It was well for him, however, that he kept his Irish risible muscles in order, and that no courtier could guess his thoughts—a smile would have lost him his reputation. Nothing in the world appeared to Frenchmen, formerly, of more importance than their court etiquette, though there were some who began about this time to suspect that the court order of things might not be co-existent with the order of nature—though there were some philosophers and statesmen who began to be aware, that the daily routine of the courtier's etiquette was not as necessary as the motions of the sun, moon, and planets. Nor could it have been possible to convince half at least of the crowd, who assisted at the king's supper this night, that all the French national eagerness about the health, the looks, the words, of le roi, all the attachment, le devouement, professed habitually— perhaps felt habitually—for the reigning monarch, whoever or whatever he might be, by whatever name—notre bon roi, or simply notre roi de France— should in a few years pass away, and be no more seen.

Ormond had no concern with the affairs of the nation, nor with the future fate of any thing he beheld: he was only a spectator, a foreigner; and his business was, according to Mademoiselle's maxim, to enjoy to-day and to reflect to-morrow. His enjoyment of this day was complete: he not only admired, but was admired. In the vast crowd he was distinguished: some nobleman of note asked who he was—another observed l'air noble—another exclaimed, " Le bel Anglois!" and his fortune was made at Paris; especially as a friend of Madame du Barry's asked where he bought his embroidery.

He went afterwards, at least in Connal's society, by the name of "Le bel Anglois." Half in a tone of raillery, yet with a look that showed she felt it to be just, Madame de Connal first adopted the appellation, and then changed the term to "mon bel Irlandois." Invitations upon invitations poured upon Ormond—all were eager to have him at their parties—he was every where—attending Madame de Connal—and she, how proud to be attended by Ormond! He dreaded lest his principles should not withstand the strong temptation. He could not leave her, but he determined to see her only in crowds; accordingly, he avoided every select party: l'amie intime could never for the first three weeks get him to one petit comite, though Madame de Connal assured him that her friend's petit soupers "were charming, worth all the crowded assemblies in Paris." Still he pursued his plan, and sought for safety in a course of dissipation.

"I give you joy," said Connal to him one day, "you are fairly launched! you are no distressed vessel to be taken in tow, nor a petty bark to sail in any man's wake. You have a gale, and are likely to have a triumph of your own." Connal was, upon all occasions, careful to impress upon Ormond's mind, that he left him wholly to himself, for he was aware, that in former days, he had offended his independent spirit by airs of protection. He managed better now—he never even invited him to play, though it was his main object to draw him to his faro-table. He made use of some of his friends or confederates, who played for him: Connal occasionally coming to the table as an unconcerned spectator. Ormond played with so much freedom, and seemed to have so gentlemanlike an indifference whether he lost or won, that he was considered as an easy dupe. Time only was necessary, M. de Connal thought, to lead him on gradually and without alarm, to let him warm to the passion for play. Meanwhile Madame de Connal felt as fully persuaded that Ormond's passion for her would increase. It was her object to fix him at Paris; but she should be content, perfectly happy with his friendship, his society, his sentiments: her own sentiment for him, as she confessed to Madame de Clairville, was absolutely invincible; but it should never lead her beyond the bounds of virtue. It was involuntary, but it should never be a crime.

Madame de Clairville, who understood her business, and spoke with all the fashionable cant of sensibility, asked how it was possible that an involuntary sentiment could ever be a crime?

As certainly as the novice among a band of sharpers is taught, by the technical language of the gang, to conquer his horror of crime, so certainly does the cant of sentiment operate upon the female novice, and vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice.

The allusion is coarse—so much the better: strength, not elegance, is necessary on some occasions to make an impression. The truth will strike the good sense and good feelings of our countrywomen, and unadorned, they will prefer it to German or French sophistry. By such sophistry, however, was Dora insensibly led on.

But Ormond did not yet advance in learning the language of sentiment—he was amusing himself in the world—and Dora imagined that the dissipation in which he lived prevented him from having time to think of his passion: she began to hate the dissipation.

Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed that Ormond seemed to be quite in his natural element in this sea of pleasure.

"Who would have thought it?" said Dora: "I thought Mr. Ormond's taste was more for domestic happiness and retirement."

"Retirement at Paris!" said Ormond.

"Domestic happiness at Paris!" said Connal.

Madame de Connal sighed—No, it was Dora that sighed.

"Where do you go to-night?" said her husband.

"Nowhere—I shall stay at home. And you?" said she, looking up at Harry Ormond.

"To Madame de la Tour's."

"That's the affair of half an hour—only to appear—"

"Afterwards to the opera," said Ormond.

"And after the opera—can't you sup here?" said Madame de Connal.

"With the utmost pleasure—but that I am engaged to Madame de la Brie's ball."

"That's true," cried Madame de Connal, starting up—"I had forgot it—so am I this fortnight—I may as well go to the opera, too, and I can carry you to Madame de la Tour's—I owe her a five minutes' sitting—though she is un peu precieuse. And what can you find in that little cold Madame de la Brie —do you like ice?"

"He like to break de ice, I suppose," said Mademoiselle. "Ma foi, you must then take a hatchet there!"

"No occasion; I had rather slide upon the ice than break it. My business at Paris is merely, you know, to amuse myself," said he, looking at Connal— "Glissez, mortels, n'appuyez pas."

"But if de ice should melt of itself," said Mademoiselle, "what would you do den? What would become of him, den, do you think, my dear niece?"

It was a case which she did not like to consider—Dora blushed—no creature was so blind as Mademoiselle, with all her boasted quickness and penetration.

From this time forward no more was heard of Madame de Connal's taste for domestic life and retirement—she seemed quite convinced, either by her husband, or by Mr. Ormond, or both, that no such thing was practicable at Paris. She had always liked le grand monde—she liked it better now than ever, when she found Ormond in every crowded assembly, every place of public amusement—a continual round of breakfasts, dinners, balls—court balls—bal masque—bal de l'opera—plays—grand entertainments—petits soupers—fetes at Versailles—pleasure in every possible form and variety of luxury and extravagance succeeded day after day, and night after night— and Ormond, le bel Irlandois, once in fashion, was every where, and every where admired; flattered by the women, who wished to draw him in to be their partners at play—still more flattered by those who wished to engage him as a lover—most of all flattered by Dora. he felt his danger. Improved in coquetry by Parisian practice and power, Dora tried her utmost skill— she played off with great dexterity her various admirers to excite his jealousy: the Marquis de Beaulieu, the witty marquis, and the Count de Belle Chasse, the irresistible count, were dangerous rivals. She succeeded in exciting Ormond's jealousy; but in his noble mind there were strong opposing principles to withstand his selfish gratification. It was surprising with what politeness to each other, with how little love, all the suitors carried on this game of gallantry and competition of vanity.

Till Ormond appeared, it had been the general opinion that before the end of the winter or the spring, the Count de Belle Chasse would be triumphant. Why Ormond did not enter the lists, when there appeared to all the judges such a chance of his winning the prize, seemed incomprehensible to the spectators, and still more to the rival candidates. Some settled it with the exclamation "Inoui!" Others pronounced that it was English bizarrerie. Every thing seemed to smooth the slippery path of temptation—the indifference of her husband—the imprudence—of her aunt, and the sophistry of Madame de Clairville—the general customs of French society—the peculiar profligacy of the society into which he happened to be thrown—the opinion which he saw prevailed, that if he withdrew from the competition a rival would immediately profit by his forbearance, conspired to weaken his resolution.

Many accidental circumstances concurred to increase the danger. At these balls, to which he went originally to avoid Dora in smaller parties, Madame de Connal, though she constantly appeared, seldom danced. She did not dance well enough to bear comparison with French dancers; Ormond was in the same situation. The dancing which was very well in England would not do in Paris—no late lessons could, by any art, bring them to an equality with French nature.

"Ah, il ne danse pas!—He dances like an Englishman." At the first ball this comforted the suitors, and most the Comte de Belle Chasse; but this very circumstance drew Ormond and Dora closer together—she pretended headaches, and languor, and lassitude, and, in short, sat still.

But it was not to be expected that the Comte de Belle Chasse could give up dancing: the Comte de Belle Chasse danced like le dieu de la danse, another Vestris; he danced every night, and Ormond sat and talked to Dora, for it was his duty to attend Madame when the little Abbe was out of the way.

The spring was now appearing, and the spring is delightful in Paris, and the promenades in the Champs Elysees, and in the Bois de Boulogne, and the promenade in Long-Champ, commenced. Riding was just coming into high fashion with the French ladies; and, instead of riding in men's clothes, and like a man, it was now the ambition de monter a cheval a l'Angloise: to ride on a side-saddle and in an English riding habit was now the ambition. Now Dora, though she could not dance as well, could ride better than any French woman; and she was ambitious to show herself and her horsemanship in the Bois de Boulogne: but she had no horse that she liked. Le Comte de Belle Chasse offered to get one broke for her at the king's riding-house— this she refused: but fortunately Ormond, as was the custom with the English at that time, had, after his arrival, some English horses brought over to him at Paris. Among these was the horse he had once broke for Dora.

For this an English side-saddle was procured—she was properly equipped and mounted.

And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, as they persisted in calling Ormond, and la belle Irlandoise, and their horses, and their horsemanship, were the admiration of the promenade.

The Comte de Belle Chasse sent to London for an English horse at any price. He was out of humour—and Ormond in the finest humour imaginable. Dora was grateful; her horse was a beautiful, gentle-spirited creature: it was called Harry—it was frequently patted and caressed, and told how much it was valued and loved.

Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt himself secure that he was only a friend—l'ami de la maison.



CHAPTER XXIX.

There was a picture of Dagote's which was at this moment an object of fashionable curiosity in Paris. It was a representation of one of the many charitable actions of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, "then Dauphiness— at that time full of life, and splendour, and joy, adorning and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in;" and yet diffusing life, and hope, and joy, in that lower sphere, to which the radiance of the great and happy seldom reaches. The Dauphiness was at that time the pride of France, and the darling of Paris; not only worshipped by the court, but loved by the people. While she was Dauphiness, and during the commencement of her reign, every thing, even disastrous accidents, and the rigour of the season, served to give her fresh opportunity of winning the affection and exciting the enthusiasm of the people. When, during the festivities on her marriage, hundreds were crushed to death by the fall of a temporary building, the sensibility of the Dauphiness, the eagerness with which she sent all her money to the lieutenant de police for the families of those who had perished, conciliated the people, and turned even the evil presage to good. Again, during a severe frost, her munificence to the suffering poor excited such gratitude, that the people erected to her honour a vast pyramid of snow—Frail memorial!—"These marks of respect were almost as transitory as the snowy pyramid."

Ormond went with Mademoiselle O'Faley one morning to see the picture of the Dauphiness; and he had now an opportunity of seeing a display of French sensibility, that eagerness to feel and to excite a sensation; that desire to produce an effect, to have a scene; that half real, half theatric enthusiasm, by which the French character is peculiarly distinguished from the English. He was perfectly astonished by the quantity of exclamations he heard at the sight of this picture; the lifting up of hands and eyes, the transports, the ecstasies, the tears—the actual tears that he saw streaming in despite of rouge. It was real! and it was not real feeling! Of one thing he was clear—that this superfluity of feeling or exaggeration of expression completely silenced him, and made him cold indeed: like one unskilled or dumb he seemed to stand.

"But are you of marble?" cried Mademoiselle—"where is your sensibilite then?"

"I hope it is safe at the bottom of my heart," said Ormond; "but when it is called for, I cannot always find it—especially on these public occasions."

"Ah! but what good all the sensibilite in the world do at the bottom of your heart, where nobody see it? It is on these public occasions too, you must always contrive and find it quick at Paris, or after all you will seem but an Englishman."

"I must be content to seem and to be what I am," said Ormond, in a tone of playful but determined resignation.

"Bon!" said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went off in impatience to find some better auditor—she did not hear the "Bon."

Ormond turned, and saw near him a gentleman, whom he had often met at some of the first houses in Paris—the Abbe Morellet, then respected as the most reasonable of all the wits of France, and who has since, through all the trying scenes of the revolution, through the varieties of unprincipled change, preserved unaltered the integrity and frankness of his character; retaining even to his eighty-seventh year all his characteristic warmth of heart and clearness of understanding—le doyen de la litterature Francoise—the love, respect, and admiration, of every honest heart in France. May he live to receive among all the other tributes, which his countrymen pay publicly and privately to his merit, this record of the impression his kindness left on grateful English hearts!

Our young hero had often desired to be acquainted with the Abbe; but the Abbe had really hitherto passed him over as a mere young man of fashion, a mere Milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral race, who appear in Parisian society, vanish, and leave no trace behind. But now he did him the honour to enter into conversation with him. The Abbe peculiarly disliked all affectation of sentiment and exaggeration: they were revolting to his good sense, good taste, and feeling. Ormond won directly his good opinion and good-will, by having insisted upon it to Mademoiselle, that he would not for the sake of fashion or effect pretend to feel more than he really did.

"Bah!" said the Abbe, "hear all those women now and all those men—they do not know what they are saying—they make me sick. And, besides, I am afraid these flattering courtiers will do no good to our young Dauphiness, on whom so much of the future happiness or misery of France will depend. Her heart is excellent, and they tell me she announces a strong character; but what head of a young beauty and a young Queen will be able to withstand perpetual flattery? They will lead her wrong, and then will be the first to desert her—trust me, I know Paris. All this might change as quickly as the turn of a weathercock; but I will not trouble you with forebodings perhaps never to be realized. You see Paris, Monsieur, at a fortunate time," continued he; "society is now more agreeable, has more freedom, more life and variety, than at any other period that I can remember."

Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of letters, who at this period added so much to the brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society.

"But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?" said the Abbe.

"Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently in society, but as, unluckily, I have no pretensions to their notice, I can only catch a little of their conversation, when I am fortunate enough to be near them."

"Yes," said the Abbe, with his peculiar look and tone of good-natured irony, "between the pretty things you are saying and hearing from—Fear nothing, I am not going to name any one, but—every pretty woman in company. I grant you it must be difficult to hear reason in such a situation—as difficult almost as in the midst of the din of all the passions at the faro-table. I observe, however, that you play with astonishing coolness—there is something still—wanting. Excuse me—but you interest me, monsieur; the determination not to play at all—

"Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play," said Ormond.

"Ah! but the appetite grows—l'appetit vient en mangeant—the danger is in acquiring the taste—excuse me if I speak too freely."

"Not at all—you cannot oblige me more. But there is no danger of my acquiring a taste for play, because I am determined to lose."

"Bon!" said the Abbe; "that is the most singular determination I ever heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur."

"I have determined to lose a certain sum—suppose five hundred guineas. I have won and lost backwards and forwards, and have been longer about it than you would conceive to be probable; but it is not lost yet. The moment it is, I shall stop short. By this means I have acquired all the advantages of yielding to the fashionable madness, without risking my future happiness."

The Abbe was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness of our young hero.

"Really, Monsieur," said he, "you must have a strong head—you, le bel Irlandois—to have prevented it from being turned with all the flattery you have received in Paris. There is nothing which gets into the head—worse still, into the heart,—so soon, so dangerously, as the flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare you seem wonderfully sober, considering."

"Ne jurez pas," said Ormond; "but at least in one respect I have not quite lost my senses; I know the value and feel the want of a safe, good guide in Paris: if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, since he has expressed some interest for me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the acquaintance of M. l'Abbe Morellet."

"Ah ca—now my head will turn, for no head can stand the dose of flattery that happens to suit the taste. I am particularly flattered by the idea of being a safe, good friend; and frankly, if I can be of any service to you, I will. Is there any thing I can do for you?"

Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his great ambition to become acquainted with the celebrated men of literature in Paris—he said he should feel extremely obliged if M. Morellet would take occasion to introduce him to any of them they might meet in society.

"We must do better for you," said the abbe—"we must show you our men of letters." He concluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he could do him the honour to breakfast with him. "I will promise you Marmontel, at least; for he is just going to be married to my niece, and of him we shall be secure: as to the rest I will promise nothing, but do as much as I can."

The men of letters about this period in Paris, as the Abbe explained to Ormond, began to feel their own power and consequence, and had assumed a tone of independence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. Many of them lived or were connected with men of rank, by places about the court, by secretaryships and pensions, obtained through court influence. Some were attached by early friendship to certain great families; had apartments to themselves in their hotels, where they received what friends they pleased; and, in short, lived as if they were at home. Their company was much sought for by the great; and they enjoyed good houses, good tables, carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all the luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establishment. Their mornings were their own, usually employed in study; and the rest of the day they gave themselves to society. The most agreeable period of French literary society was, perhaps, while this state of things lasted.

The Abbe Morellet's breakfast was very agreeable; and Ormond saw at his house what had been promised him, many of the literary men at Paris. Voltaire was not then in France; and Rousseau, who was always quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every body, could not be prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. Ormond was assured that he lost nothing by not seeing him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that it was by no means equal to his writings; his temper was so susceptible and wayward, that he was not fit for society—neither capable of enjoying, nor of adding to its pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more of Rousseau and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were repeated, than he could have done if they had been present. There was great variety of different characters and talents at this breakfast; and the Abbe amused himself by making his young friend guess who the people were, before he told their names. It was happy for Ormond that he was acquainted with some of their writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly's well-chosen present of French books). He was fortunate in his first guess—Marivaux's conversation was so like the style of his writings, so full of hair-breadth distinctions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical refinement and digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered, by his being the only man in the room who had not mentioned to him any of "Les Contes Moraux." But there was one person who set all his skill at defiance: he pronounced that he was no author—that he was l'ami de la maison: he was so indeed wherever he went—but he was both a man of literature, and a man of deep science—no less a person than the great D'Alembert. Ormond thought D'Alembert and Marmontel were the two most agreeable men in company. D'Alembert was simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful in society. Far from being subject to that absence of mind with which profound mathematicians are sometimes reproached, D'Alembert was present to every thing that was going forward—every trifle he enjoyed with the zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond confessed that he should never have guessed that he was a great mathematician and profound calculator.

Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words, naivete and finesse. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel's writings must have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both.

It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel was, at this time, no longer the dissipated man he had been during too great a period of his life. He had now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures and domestic virtues—had formed that attachment which afterwards made the happiness of his life: he was just going to be married to the amiable Mdlle. Montigny, a niece of the Abbe Morellet. She and her excellent mother lived with him; and Ormond was most agreeably surprised and touched at the unexpected sight of an amiable, united, happy family, when he had expected only a meeting of literati.

The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him of the Annalys—brought the image of Florence to his mind. If she had been but sincere, how he should have preferred her to all he had seen!

It came upon him just at the right moment. It contrasted with all the dissipation he had seen, and it struck him the more strongly, because it could not possibly have been prepared as a moral lesson to make an impression. He saw the real, natural course of things—he heard in a few hours the result of the experience of a man of great vivacity, great talents, who had led a life of pleasure, and who had had opportunities of seeing and feeling all that it could possibly afford, at the period of the greatest luxury and dissipation ever known in France. No evidence could be stronger than Marmontel's in favour of virtue and of domestic life, nor could any one express it with more grace and persuasive eloquence.

It did Ormond infinite good. He required such a lesson at this juncture, and he was capable of taking it—it recalled him to his better self.

The good Abbe seemed to see something of what in Ormond's mind, and became still more interested about him.

"Ah, ca," said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond was gone, "that young man is worth something: I thought he was only le bel Irlandois, but I find he is much more. We must do what we can for him, and not let him leave Paris, as so many do, having seen only the worst part of our society."

Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, was willing, he said, to do any thing in his power; but he could scarcely hope that they had the means of withdrawing from the double attraction of the faro-table and coquetry, a young man of that age and figure.

"Fear nothing, or rather hope every thing," said the Abbe: "his head and his heart are more in our favour, trust me, than his age and his figure are against us. To begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much he was struck and edified by your reformation?"

"Ah! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for him, I should fear nothing, or rather hope every thing," said Marmontel "but where shall he find such another in all Paris?"

"In his own country, perhaps, all in good time," said the Abbe.

"In his own country?—True," cried Marmontel, "now you recall it to my mind, how eager he grew in disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction between aimable and amiable. His description of an amiable woman, according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made con amore; and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, and which showed the heart was in England or Ireland."

"Wherever his heart is, c'est bien place," said the Abbe. "I like him— we must get him into good company—he is worthy to be acquainted with your amiable and aimable Madame de Beauveau and Madame de Seran."

"True," said Marmontel; "and for the honour of Paris, we must convince him that he has taken up false notions, and that there is such a thing as conjugal fidelity and domestic happiness here."

"Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of Les Contes Moraux," said the Abbe.

It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Madame de Connal was, about this time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the country house of Madame de Clairville. During her absence, the good Abbe had time to put in execution all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young friend to some of the really good company of Paris. He pointed out to him at Madame Geoffrin's, Madame de Tencin's, Madame du Detfand's, and Madame Trudaine's, the difference between the society at the house of a rich farmer general— or at the house of one connected with the court, and with people in place and political power—and the society of mixed rank and literature. The mere passing pictures of these things, to one who was not to live in Paris, might not, perhaps, except as a matter of curiosity, be of much value; but his judicious friend led Ormond from these to make comparisons and deductions which were of use to him all his life afterwards.



CHAPTER XXX.

One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a person from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O'Shane's confidential man of business.

"What news from Castle Hermitage?" cried Ormond, starting up in his bed, surprised at the sight of Patrickson.

"The best that can be—never saw Sir Ulick in such heart—he has a share of the loan, and—"

"And what news of the Annalys?" interrupted Ormond.

"I know nothing about them at all, sir," said Patrickson, who was a methodical man of business, and whose head was always intent upon what he called the main chance. "I have been in Dublin, and heard no country news."

"But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to Paris?"

"I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir—only I have so many 'tis hard to find," said Patrickson, looking carefully over a parcel of letters in his pocket-book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner as put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid the letters on the bed one by one. "That's not it—and that's not it; that's for Monsieur un tel, marchand, rue ——; that packet's from the Hamburgh merchants—What brings me over?— Why, sir, I have business enough, Heaven knows!"

Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick O'Shane, but by many Dublin merchants and bankers, to settle business for them with different houses on the continent. Ormond, without listening to the various digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile consequence to whom the letters were addressed, or from whom they were answers, pounced upon the letter in Sir Ulick's handwriting directed to himself, and tore it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the Annalys. None—they were in Devonshire. The letter was merely a few lines on business—Sir Ulick had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out Ormond's money in the loan most advantageously for him; but there had been an omission in the drawing up of his power of attorney, which had been done in such a hurry on Ormond's leaving home. It gave power only to sell out of the Three per Cents.; whereas much of Ormond's money was in the Four per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was necessary, and he had brought one for him to sign. Patrickson in his slow manner descanted upon the folly of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were getting into carriages, which was always the way with young gentlemen, he said. He took care that Ormond should do nothing in a hurry now; for he put on his spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a syllable of the law forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a few kind lines to Sir Ulick, and earnestly besought him to find out something more about the Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have appeared in the papers. What delayed the marriage? Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or accepted?—Where was he?—Ormond said he would be content if Sir Ulick could obtain an answer to that single plain question.

All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never stirred his forefinger from the spot where the signature was to be written at the bottom of the power of attorney.

"Pray," said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, "pray, Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?"

"By the father's side, I apprehend, sir—but my mother was English. Stay, sir, if you please—I must witness it."

"Witness away," said Ormond; and after having signed this paper, empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000l. out of the Four per cents., Ormond lay down, and wishing him a good journey, settled himself to sleep; while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately said, "He hoped to be in London in short; but that he should go by Havre de Grace, and that he should be happy to execute any commands for Mr. Ormond there or in Dublin." More he would have said, but finding Ormond by this time past reply, he left the room on tiptoe. The next morning Madame de Connal returned from the country, and sent Ormond word that she should expect him at her assembly that night.

Every body complimented Madame de Connal upon the improvement which the country air had made in her beauty—even her husband was struck with it, and paid her his compliments on the occasion; but she stood conversing so long with Ormond, that the faro-players grew impatient: she led him to the table, but evidently had little interest herself in the game. He played at first with more than his usual success, but late at night his fortune suddenly changed; he lost—lost—till at last he stopped, and rising from table, said he had no more money, and he could play no longer. Connal, who was not one of the players, but merely looking on, offered to lend him any sum he pleased. "Here's a rouleau—here are two rouleaus—what will you have?" said Connal.

Ormond declined playing any more: he said that he had lost the sum he had resolved to lose, and there he would stop. Connal did not urge him, but laughing said, that a resolution to lose at play was the most extraordinary he had ever heard.

"And yet you see I have kept it," said Ormond.

"Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win," said Connal, "and no doubt you will keep that as well—I prophesy that you will; and you will give fortune fair play to-morrow night." Ormond simply repeated that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was a matter of no consequence to him—that he had done exactly what he had determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this money he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed.

"But you shall not lose your money," said Dora; "when next you play it shall be on my account as well as your own—you know this is not only a compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages—and it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you," continued Madame de Connal—"they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may speak in English at our ease—I must explain to you, that a good portion of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal—my aunt, you know, has also a good fortune—we are partners, and put a considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing to do with that. If you would take my advice," continued she, speaking in a very persuasive tone, "instead of forswearing play, as you seem inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces with us; you cannot imagine that I would advise you to any thing which I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you—you little know how much I am interested." She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and hurried on—"you have no ties in Ireland— you seem to like Paris—where can you spend your time more agreeably?"

"More agreeably—nowhere upon earth!" cried Ormond. Her manner, tone, and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir—the company had risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them departed. Connal was gone—only a few remained in a distant apartment, listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse—her intimacy with him was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal pare at the Spanish ambassador's for the ensuing night—but she had more inclination to go to a bal masque, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak, because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted his apprehensions.

Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered, gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness—and she immediately yielded her will, her fantaisie, to his better judgment. This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted with Dora—she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive.

"Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!" he exclaimed.

"Call me Dora," said she: "I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh! Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real happiness since we parted."

Tears filled her fine eyes—no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger.

"My wedding-ring," said Dora, with a sigh. "Unfortunate marriage!"

That was not the ring on which Ormond's eyes were fixed.

"Dora, whose gray hair is this?"

"My father's," said Dora, in a tremulous voice.

"Your father!" cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed upon his heart.

"And is this the return I make!—Oh, if he could see us at this instant!"

"And if he could," cried Dora, "oh! how he would admire and love you, Ormond, and how he would—"

Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both her hands.

"He would see you, Dora, without a guide, protector, or friend; surrounded with admirers, among profligate men, and women still more profligate, yet he would see that you have preserved a reputation of which your father would be proud."

"My father! oh, my poor father!" cried Dora: "Oh! generous, dear, ever generous Ormond!"

Bursting into tears—alternate passions seizing her—at one moment the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her imagination.

At this instant the noise of some one approaching recalled them both to their senses. They were found in earnest conversation about a party of pleasure that was to be arranged for the next day. Madame de Connal made Ormond promise that he would come the next morning, and settle every thing with M. de Connal for their intended expedition into the country.

The next day, as Ormond was returning to Madame de Connal's, with the firm intention of adhering to the honourable line of conduct he had traced out for himself, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one ran full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom in the streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in crowds with magical celerity and address, he looked back, and at the same instant the person who had passed looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight could not have surprised Ormond more than the sight of this person. "Could it be—could it possibly be Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris?"

"By the blessing, then, it's the man himself—Master Harry!—though I didn't know him through the French disguise. Oh! master, then, I've been tried and cast, and all but hanged—sentenced to Botany—transported any way—for a robbery I didn't commit—since I saw you last. But your honour's uneasy, and it's not proper, I know, to be stopping a jantleman in the street; but I have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a minute."

Ormond's surprise and curiosity increased—he desired Moriarty to follow him.

"And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?"

"It is a long story, then, please your honour. I was transported to Botany, though innocent. But first and foremost for what consarns your honour first."

"First," said Ormond, "if you were transported, how came you here?"

"Because I was not transported, plase your honour—only sentenced—for I escaped from Kilmainham, where I was sent to be put on board the tender; but I got on board of an American ship, by the help of a friend—and this ship being knocked against the rocks, I came safe ashore in this country on one of the sticks of the vessel: so when I knowed it was France I was in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in Paris, I thought if I could just make my way any hows to Paris, she'd befriend me in case of need.

"But, dear master," said Moriarty, interrupting, "it's a folly to talk— I'll not tell you a word more of myself till you hear the news I have for you. The worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear of the breaking of Sir Ulick's bank!"

"The breaking of Sir Ulick's bank? I heard from him the day before yesterday."

"May be you did; but the captain of the American ship in which I came was complaining of his having been kept two hours at that bank, where they were paying large sums in small notes, and where there was the greatest run upon the house that ever was seen."

Ormond instantly saw his danger—he recollected the power of attorney he had signed two days before. But Patrickson was to go by Havre de Grace— that would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by setting out instantly might get to London time enough to save his property. He went directly and ordered post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to pay, but for his stables and lodging. He had a faithful servant, whom he could leave behind, to make all necessary arrangements.