Pracontal and Longworth sat at breakfast at Freytag's Hotel at Rome. They were splendidly lodged, and the table was spread with all the luxury and abundance which are usually displayed where well-paying guests are treated by wise inn-keepers. Fruit and flowers decorated the board, arranged as a painter's eye might have suggested, and nothing was wanting that could gratify the sense of sight or tempt the palate.

“After all,” said Longworth, “your song-writer blundered when he wrote 'l'amour.' It is 'l'argent' that 'makes the world go round.' Look at that table, and say what sunshine the morning breaks with, when one doesn't fret about the bill.”

“You are right, O Philip,” said the other. “Let people say what they may, men love those who spend money. See what a popularity follows the Empire in France, and what is its chief claim? Just what you said a moment back. It never frets about the bill. Contrast the splendor of such a Government with the mean mercantile spirit of your British Parliament, higgling over contracts and cutting down clerks' salaries, as though the nation were glorified when its servants wore broken boots and patched pantaloons.”

“The world needs spendthrifts as it needs tornadoes. The whirlwind purifies even as it devastates.”

“How grand you are at an aphorism, Philip! You have all the pomp of the pulpit when you deliver a mere platitude.”

“To a Frenchman, everything is a platitude that is not a paradox.”

“Go on, your vein is wonderful this morning.”

“A Frenchman is the travesty of human nature; every sentiment of his is the parody of what it ought to be. He is grave over trifles and evokes mirth out of the deepest melancholy; he takes sweet wine with his oysters, and when the post has brought him letters that may actually decide his destiny, he throws them aside to read a critique on the last ballet, or revive his recollections of its delight by gazing on a colored print of the ballerina.”

“I'm getting tired of the Gitana,” said Pracontal, throwing the picture from him; “hand me the chocolate. As to the letters, I have kept them for you to read, for, although I know your spluttering, splashing, hissing language, for all purposes of talk, its law jargon is quite beyond me.”

“Your lawyer—so far as I have seen—is most careful in his avoidance of technicals with you; he writes clearly and succinctly.”

“Break open that great packet, and tell me about its clear and distinct contents.”

“I said succinct, not distinct, O man of many mistakes. This is from Kelson himself, and contains an enclosure.” He broke the seal as he spoke, and read,—

Dear Sir,—I am exceedingly distressed to be obliged to inform you that the arrangement which, in my last letter, I had understood to be finally and satisfactorily concluded between myself on your part, and Mr. Sedley of Furnival's Inn, on the part of Mr. Bramleigh, is now rescinded and broken, Mr. Bramleigh having entered a formal protest, denying all concurrence or approval, and in evidence of his dissent has actually given notice of action against his solicitor, for unauthorized procedure. The bills therefore drawn by you I herewith return as no longer negotiable. I am forced to express not only my surprise, but my indignation, at the mode in which we have been treated in this transaction. Awaiting your instructions as to what step you will deem it advisable to take next,—

I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,

J. Kelson.

“This is a bad affair,” said Longworth. “That twenty thousand that you thought to have lived on for two years, astonishing the vulgar world, like some Count of Monte Cristo, has proved a dissolving view, and there you sit a candidate for one of the Pope's prisons, which, if accounts speak truly, are about the vilest dens of squalor and misery in Europe.”

“Put a lump of ice in my glass, and fill it up with champagne. It was only yesterday I was thinking whether I 'd not have myself christened Esau, and it is such a relief to me now to feel that I need not. Monsieur Le Comte Pracontal de Bramleigh, I have the honor to drink your health.” As he spoke he drained his glass, and held it out to be refilled.

“No; I'll give you no more wine. You'll need all the calm and consideration you can command to answer this letter, which requires prompt reply. And as to Esau, my friend, the parallel scarcely holds, for when he negotiated the sale of his reversion he was next of kin beyond dispute.”

“I wonder what would become of you if you could not cavil. I never knew any man so fond of a contradiction.”

“Be just, and admit that you give me some splendid opportunities. No, I 'll not let you have more wine. Kelson's letter must be answered, and we must think seriously over what is to be done.”

“Ma foi! there is nothing to be done. Mr. Bramleigh challenges me to a duel, because he knows I have no arms. He appeals to the law, which is the very costliest of all the costly things in your dear country. If you could persuade him to believe that this is not fair—not even generous—perhaps he would have the good manners to quit the premises and send me the key. Short of that, I see nothing to be done.”

“I have told you already, and I tell you once more, if Kelson is of opinion that your case is good enough to go to trial, you shall not want funds to meet law expenses.”

“He has told me so, over and over. He has said he shall try the case by—what is it you call it?”

“I know what you mean; he will proceed by ejectment to try title.”

“This need not cost very heavily, and will serve to open the campaign. He will put me on 'the table,' as he calls it, and I shall be interrogated, and worried, and tormented—perhaps, too, insulted, at times; and I am to keep my temper, resent nothing—not even when they impugn my honor or my truthfulness—for that there are two grand principles of British law; one is, no man need say any ill of himself, nor is he ever to mind what ill another may say of him.”

“Did he tell you that?” said Longworth, laughing.

“Not exactly in these words, but it amounted to the same. Do give me a little wine; I am hoarse with talking.”

“Not a drop. Tell me now, where are these letters, and that journal of your grandfather's that you showed me?”

“Kelson has them all. Kelson has everything. When I believed the affair to be ended, I told him he might do what he pleased with them, if he only restored to me that colored sketch of my beautiful grandmother.”

“There, there! don't get emotional, or I have done with you. I will write to Kelson to-day. Leave all to us and don't meddle in any way.”

“That you may rely upon with confidence. No one ever yet accused me of occupying myself with anything I could possibly avoid. Do you want me any more?”

“I don't think so; but why do you ask? Where are you going?”

“I have a rendezvous this morning. I am to be three miles from this at one o'clock. I am to be at the tomb of Cecilia Metella, to meet the Lady Augusta Bramleigh, with a large party, on horseback, and we are to go somewhere and see something, and to dine, ma foi—I forget where.”

“I think, all things considered,” said Longworth, gravely, “I would advise some reserve as to intimacy with that family.”

“You distrust my discretion. You imagine that in my unguarded freedom of talking I shall say many things which had been better unsaid; is n't that so?”

“Perhaps I do; at all events, I know the situation is one that would be intolerable to myself.”

“Not to me though, not to me. It is the very difficulty, the tension, so to say, that makes it enticing. I have I cannot tell you what enjoyment in a position where, by the slightest movement to this side or that, you lose your balance and fall. I like—I delight in the narrow path with the precipice at each hand, where a false step is destruction. The wish to live is never so strong as when life is in danger.”

“You are a heart and soul gambler.”

“Confess, however, I am beau joueur. I know how to lose.” And muttering something over the lateness of the hour, he snatched up his hat and hurried away.

As Pracontal was hurrying to the place of meeting with all the speed of his horse, a servant met him with a note from Lady Augusta. “She did not feel well enough,” she said, “for a ride; she had a headache, and begged he would come and pay her a visit, and dine too, if he was not afraid of a dinner en tÊte À tÊte.”

Overjoyed with the familiar tone of this note, he hurried back to Rome, and soon found himself in the little drawing' room which looked out upon the Borghese garden, and where a servant told him her Ladyship would soon appear.

“This is very kind of you and very nice,” said she, entering and giving him her hand in a languid sort of manner, “to come here and give up the delights of the picnic, with its pretty women and champagne, and patÉs-aux-truffes. No; you are to sit yonder. I don't know you long enough to advance you to the privilege of that low chair next my sofa.”

“I am your slave, even to martyrdom,” said he, bowing, and sitting down where she had bid him.

“You are aware, I hope,” said she, in the same wearied tone, “that it is very wrong of us to become acquainted. That, connected as I am with the Bramleighs, I ought not to have permitted you to be presented to me. My sister is shocked at the impropriety, and as for Lord and Lady Culduff, rather than meet you at dinner on Friday they have left Rome.”

“Left Rome?”

“Yes, gone to Naples. To be sure, he ought to have been there a month ago; he was accredited to that Court, and he had nothing to do here, which was, however to him an excellent reason for being here. Why do you make me talk so much? It sets my head splitting, and I sent for you to listen to you, and not to have any worry of talking myself—there, begin.”

“What shall I talk about?”

“Anything you like, only not politics, or religion, or literature, or fine arts—people are so unnatural when they discuss these; nor—not society and gossip, for then they grow spiteful and ill-natured; nor about myself, for then you 'd fancy you were in love with me, and I 'd have to shut the door against you. Oh, how my head aches! Give me that flacon, pray; thanks, now go back to your place.”

“Shall I read to you?”

“No: there's nothing I detest so much as being read to. One never follows the book; it is the tone and accent of the reader, something in his voice, something one fancies an affectation attracts attention, and you remark how his hair is parted, or how his boots are made. Oh, why will you torment me this way—I don't want to talk and you persist in asking me questions.”

“If you had not a headache I'd sing for you.”

“No, I 'll not let you sing to me alone; that would be quite wrong. Remember, monsieur, and when I say remember, I mean never forget, I am excessively prude; not of that school of prudery that repels, but of that higher tone which declares a freedom impossible. Do you comprehend?”

“Perfectly, madame,” said he, bowing with an air of an ideal reverence.

“Now, then, that we have settled the preliminaries of our—oh, dear!” burst she out, “see what it is to be speaking French! I had almost said of 'our friendship.'”

“And why not, madame? Can you possibly entertain a doubt of that sentiment, at once devoted and respectful, which has brought me to your feet?”

“I never do doubt about anything that I want to believe; at least till I change my mind on it, for I am—yes, I am very capricious. I am charmed with you to-day; but do not be surprised if my servant shuts the door against you to-morrow.”

“Madame, you drive me to the brink of despair.”

“I 'm sure of that,” said she, laughing. “I have driven several that far; but, strange to say, I never knew one who went over.”

“Do not push torture to insufferance, madame,” cried he, theatrically; but, instead of laughing at him, she looked really alarmed at his words.

“Oh, Monsieur Pracontal,” cried she, suddenly, “was that little song you sung last night your own? I mean words and music both?”

He bowed with an air of modesty.

“What a nice talent, to be able to compose and write verses too! But they tell me you are horribly satirical; that you make rhymes on people impromptu, and sing them in the very room with them.”

“Only, madame, when they are, what you call in English, bores.”

“But I like bores, they are so nice and dull. Do you know, Monsieur Pracontal, if it were not for bores, we English would have no distinctive nationality? Our bores are essentially our own, and unlike all the other species of the creature elsewhere.”

“I respect them, and I bow to their superiority.”

“It was very kind, very nice of you, to give up your ride over the Campagna, and come here to sit with me in one of my dull moods, for to-day I am very dull and dispirited. I have an odious headache, and my sister has been scolding me, and I have had such unpleasant letters. Altogether, it is a dark day with me.”

“I am inexpressibly grieved.”

“Of course you are; and so I told my sister you would be, when she said it was a great imprudence on my part to admit you. Not that I don't agree with her in great part, but I do detest being dictated to; is n't it insupportable?”

“Quite so; the very worst form of slavery.”

“It's true you want to take away the Bramleigh estates; but, as I said to my sister, does not every one wish to win when he plays a game, and do you detest your adversary for so natural a desire? I suppose if you have a trump more than the Bramleigh's, you'll carry off the stakes.”

“Ah, madame, how glad would I be to lay my cards on the table, if I could be sure of such an opponent as yourself.”

“Yes, I am generous. It's the one thing I can say for myself. I'm all for fighting the battle of life honorably and courteously, though I must say one is sure to lose where the others are not equally high-minded. Now I put it to yourself, M. Pracontal, and I ask, was it fair, was it honest, was it decent of Colonel Bramleigh, knowing the insecure title by which he held his estate, to make me his wife? You know, of course, the difference of rank that separated us; you know who I was—I can't say am, because my family have never forgiven me the mÉsalliance; therefore, I say, was it not atrocious in him to make a settlement which he felt must be a mockery?”

“Perhaps, madame, he may have regarded our pretensions as of little moment; indeed, I believe he treated my father's demands with much hauteur.”

“Still, he knew there was a claim, and a claimant, when he married me, and this can neither be denied nor defended.”

“Ah, madame!” sighed he, “who would be stopped by scruples in such a cause?”

“No, there was nothing of love in it; he wanted rank, he wanted high connections. He was fond of me, after his fashion, I 've no doubt, but he was far more proud than fond. I often fancied he must have had something on his mind, he would be so abstracted at times, and so depressed, and then he would seem as if he wanted to tell me a secret, but had not the courage for it, and I set it down to something quite different. I thought—no matter what I thought—but it gave me no uneasiness, for, of course, I never dreamed of being jealous; but that it should be so bad as this never occurred to me—never!”

“I am only surprised that Colonel Bramleigh never thought it worth his while to treat with my father, who, all things considered, would have been easily dealt with; he was always pauvre diable, out of one scrape to fall into another; so reckless that the very smallest help ever seemed to him quite sufficient to brave life with.”

“I know nothing of the story; tell it to me.”

“It is very long, very tiresome, and incumbered with details of dates and eras. I doubt you 'd have patience for it; but if you think you would, I 'm ready.”

“Begin, then; only don't make it more confused or more tangled than you can help, and give me no dates—I hate dates.”

Pracontal was silent for a moment or two, as if reflecting; and then, drawing his chair a little nearer to her sofa, he leaned his forehead on his hand, and in a low, but distinct voice, began:—

“When Colonel Bramleigh's father was yet a young man, a matter of business required his presence in Ireland. He came to see a very splendid mansion then being built by a rich nobleman, on which his house had advanced a large sum by way of mortgage.”

“Mon cher M. Pracontal, must we begin so far back? It is like the Plaideur in MoliÈre, who commences, 'Quand je vois le soleil, quand je vois la lune—'”

“Very true; but I must begin at the beginning of all things, and, with a little patience, I 'll soon get further. Mr. Montague Bramleigh made acquaintance in Ireland with a certain Italian painter called Giacomo Lami, who had been brought over from Rome to paint the frescos of this great house. This Lami—very poor and very humble, ignoble, if you like to say so—had a daughter of surpassing beauty. She was so very lovely that Giacomo was accustomed to introduce her into almost all his frescos, for she had such variety of expression, so many reflets, as one may say, of character in her look, that she was a Madonna here, a Flora there, now a Magdalene, now a Dido. But you need not take my word for it; here she is as a DanaË.” And he opened his watch-case as he spoke, and displayed a small miniature in enamel, of marvellous beauty and captivation.

“Oh, was she really like this?”

“That was copied from a picture of her at St. Servain, when she was eighteen, immediately before she accompanied her father to Ireland; and in Giacomo's sketchbook, which I hope one of these days to have the honor of showing to you, there is a memorandum saying that this portrait of Enrichetta was the best likeness of her he had ever made. He had a younger daughter called Carlotta, also handsome, but vastly inferior in beauty to my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Forgive me, madame, if I have anticipated; but Enrichetta Lami became the wife of Montague Bramleigh. The young man, captivated by her marvellous beauty, and enchanted by a winning grace of manner, in which it appears she excelled, made his court to her and married her. The ceremony of marriage presented no difficulty, as Lami was a member of some sect of Waldensian Protestants, who claim a sort of affinity with the Anglican Church, and they were married in the parish church by the minister, and duly registered in the registry-book of the parish. All these matters are detailed in this book of Giacomo Lami's, which was at once account-book and sketch-book and journal and, indeed, family history. It is a volume will, I am sure, amuse you; for, amongst sketches and studies for pictures, there are the drollest little details of domestic events, with passing notices of the political circumstances of the time—for old Giacomo was a conspirator and a Carbonaro, and Heaven knows what else. He even involved himself in the Irish troubles, and was so far compromised that he was obliged to fly the country and get over to Holland, which he did, taking his two daughters with him. It has never been clearly ascertained whether Montague Bramleigh had quarrelled with his wife or consented to her accompanying her father; for, while there were letters from him to her full of affection and regard, there are some strange passages in Giacomo's diary that seem to hint at estrangement and coldness. When her child, my father, was born, she pressed Bramleigh strongly to come over to the christening; but, though he promised at first, and appeared overjoyed at the birth of his heir, he made repeated pretexts of this or that engagement, and ended by not coming. Old Lami must have given way to some outburst of anger at this neglect and desertion, for he sent back Bramleigh's letters unopened; and the poor Enrichetta, after struggling bravely for several months under this heartless and cruel treatment, sunk and died. The old man wandered away towards the south of Europe after this, taking with him his grandchild and his remaining daughter; and the first entry we find in his diary is about three years later, where we read, 'ChambÉry,—Must leave this, where I thought I had at last found a home. Niccolo Baldassare is bent on gaining Carlotta's affections. Were they to marry it would be the ruin of both. Each has the same faults as the other.'

“And later on,—

“'Had an explanation with N. B., who declares that, with or without my consent, he will make C. his wife. I have threatened to bring him before the Council; but he defies me, and says he is ready to abandon the society rather than give her up. I must quit this secretly and promptly.'

“We next find him at Treviso, where he was painting the Basilica of St. Guedolfo, and here he speaks of himself as a lonely old man, deserted and forsaken, showing that his daughter had left him some time before. He alludes to offers that had been made him to go to England; but declares that nothing would induce him to set foot in that country more. One passage would imply that Carlotta, on leaving home, took her sister's boy with her, for in the old man's writing there are these words,—

“'I do not want to hear more of them; but I would wish tidings of the boy. I have dreamed of him twice.'

“From that time forth the journal merely records the places he stopped at, the works he was engaged in, and the sums he received in payment. For the most part, his last labors were in out-of-the-way, obscure spots, where he worked for mere subsistence; and of how long he lived there, and where he died, there is no trace.

“Do I weary you, my dear lady, with these small details of very humble people, or do you really bestow any interest on my story?”

“I like it of all things. I only want to follow Carlotta's history now, and learn what became of her.”

“Of her fate and fortune I know nothing. Indeed, all that I have been telling you heretofore I have gleaned from that book and some old letters of my great-grandfather's. My own history I will not inflict upon you—at least not now. I was a student of the Naval College of Genoa till I was fourteen, and called Anatole Pracontal, 'dit' Lami; but who had entered me on the books of the college, who paid for me or interested himself about me, I never knew.

“A boyish scrape I fell into induced me to run away from the college. I took refuge in a small felucca, which landed me at Algiers, where I entered the French service, and made two campaigns with PÉlissier; and only quitted the army on learning that my father had been lost at sea, and had bequeathed me some small property, then in the hands of a banker at Naples.

“The property was next to nothing; but by the papers and letters that I found, I learned who I was, and to what station and fortune I had legitimate claim. It seems a small foundation, perhaps, to build upon; but remember how few the steps are in reality, and how direct besides. My grandmother, Enrichetta, was the married wife of Montague Bramleigh; her son—Godfrey Lami at his birth, but afterwards known by many aliases—married my mother, Marie de Pracontal, a native of Savoy, where I was born,—the name Pracontal being given me. My father's correspondence with the Bramleighs was kept up at intervals during his life, and frequent mention is made in diaries, as well as the banker's books, of sums of money received by him from them. In Bolton's hands, also, was deposited my father's will, where he speaks of me and the claim which I should inherit on the Bramleigh estates; and he earnestly entreats Bolton, who had so often befriended him, to succor his poor boy, and not leave him without help and counsel in the difficulties that were before him.

“Have you followed, or can you follow, the tangled scheme?” cried he, after a pause; “for you are either very patient, or completely exhausted,—which is it?”

“But why have you taken the name of Pracontal, and not your real name, Bramleigh?” asked she, eagerly.

“By Bolton's advice, in the first instance; he wisely taking into account how rich the family were whose right I was about to question, and how poor I was. Bolton inclined to a compromise; and, indeed, he never ceased to press upon me that it would be the fairest and most generous of all arrangements; but that to effect this, I must not shock the sensibilities of the Bramleighs by assuming their name,—that to do so was to declare war at once.”

“And yet had you called yourself Bramleigh, you would have warned others that the right of the Bramleighs to this estate was at least disputed.”

Pracontal could scarcely repress a smile at a declaration so manifestly prompted by selfish considerations; but he made no reply.

“Well, and this compromise, do they agree to it?” asked she, hastily.

“Some weeks ago, I believed it was all concluded; but this very morning my lawyer's letter tells me that Augustus Bramleigh will not hear of it, that he is indignant at the very idea, and that the law alone must decide between us.”

“What a scandal!”

“So I thought. Worse, of course, for them, who are in the world, and well known. I am a nobody.”

“A nobody who might be somebody to-morrow,” said she, slowly and deliberately.

“After all, the stage of pretension is anything but pleasant, and I cannot but regret that we have not come to some arrangement.”

“Can I be of use? Could my services be employed to any advantage?”

“At a moment, I cannot answer; but I am very grateful for even the thought.”

“I cannot pretend to any influence with the family. Indeed, none of them ever liked me; but they might listen to me, and they might also believe that my interest went with their own. Would you like to meet Augustus Bramleigh?”

“There is nothing I desire so much.”

“I 'll not promise he 'll come; but if he should consent, will you come here on Tuesday morning—say, at eleven o'clock—and meet him? I know he 's expected at Albano by Sunday, and I 'll have a letter to propose the meeting, in his hands, on his arrival.”

“I have no words to speak my gratitude to you.”