Duchesne was correct in all his calculations. I had scarcely reached the Luxembourg when a valet brought me a card for the comtesse's soirÉe for that evening. It was accordingly agreed upon that we were to go together; I as the invited, he as my friend.

“All your finery, Burke, remember that,” said he, as we separated to dress. “The uniform of the compagnie d'Élite is as much a decoration in a salon as a camellia or a geranium.”

When he re-entered my room half an hour later, I was struck by the blaze of orders and decorations with which his jacket was covered; while at his side there hung a magnificent sabre d'honneur, such as the Emperor was accustomed to confer on his most distinguished officers.

“You smile at all this bravery,” said he, wilfully misinterpreting my look of admiration; “but remember where we are going.”

“On the contrary,” interrupted I; “but it is the first time I knew you had the cross of the Legion.”

“Parbleu!” said he, with an insolent shrug of his shoulders, “I had lent it to my hairdresser for a ball at the 'Cirque.' But here comes the carriage.”

While we drove along towards the Faubourg I had time to learn some further particulars of the people to whose house we were proceeding; and for my reader's information may as well impart them here, with such other facts as I subsequently collected myself.

Like most of the salons of the new aristocracy, Madame Lacostellerie received people of every section of party and every class of political opinion. Standing equally aloof from the old rÉgime and the members of the Jacobin party, her receptions were a kind of neutral territory, where each could come without compromise of dignity: for already, except among the most starched adherents of the Bourbons, few of whom remained in France, there was a growing spirit to side with the Napoleonists in preference to the revolutionary section; while the latter, with all their pretensions to simplicity and primitive tastes, felt no little pride in mixing with the very aristocracy they so loudly inveighed against. Besides all this, wealth had its prestige. Never, in the palmiest days of the royalty, were entertainments of greater splendor; and the Legitimists, however disposed to be critical on the company, could afford to be just regarding the cuisine,—the luxury of these modern dinners eclipsing the most costly displays of former times, where hereditary rank and ancient nobility contributed to adorn the scene. And, lastly, the admixture of every grade and class extended the field of conversational agreeability, throwing in new elements and eliciting new features in a society where peers, actors, poets, bankers, painters, soldiers, speculators, journalists, and adventurers were confusedly mixed together; making, as it were, a common fund of their principles and their prejudices, and starting anew in life with what they could seize in the scramble.

After following the long line of carriages for above an hour, we at last turned into a large courtyard, lit up almost to the brightness of day. Here the equipages of many of the ministers were standing,—a privilege accorded to them above the other guests. I recognized among the number the splendid liveries of DecrÈs; and the stately carriage of Talleyrand, whose household always proclaimed itself as belonging to a “seigneur” of the oldest blood of France,—the most perfect type of a highbred gentleman. Our progress from the vestibule to the stairs was a slow one. The double current of those pressing upwards and downwards delayed us long; and at last we reached a spacious antechamber, where even greater numbers stood awaiting their turn, if happily it should come, to move forward.

While here, the names of those announced conveyed tous a fair impression of the whole company. Among the first was Le General Junot, Berthollet (the celebrated chemist), Lafayette, Monges, Daru, Comte de Mailles (a Legitimist noble), David (the regicide), the Ambassador of Prussia, M. Pasquier, Talma. Such were the names we heard following in quick succession; when suddenly an avenue was opened by a master of the ceremonies before me, who read from my card the words, “Le Capitaine Burke, officier d'Élite; le Chevalier Duchesne, prÉsentÉ par lui.” And advancing within the doorway, I found myself opposite a very handsome woman, whose brilliant dress and blaze of diamonds concealed any ravages time might have made upon her beauty.

She was conversing with the Arch-Chancellor, CambacÉrÈs, when my name was announced; and turning rapidly round, touched my arm with her bouquet, as she said, with a most gracious smile,—

“I am but too much flattered to see you on so short an invitation; but M. de Tascher's note led me to hope I might presume so far. Your friend, I believe?”

“I have taken the great liberty—”

“Indeed, Madame la Comtesse,” said Duchesne, interrupting, “I must exculpate my friend here. This intrusion rests on my own head, and has no other apology than my long cherished wish to pay my homage to the most distinguished ornament of the Parisian world.”

As he spoke, the quiet flow of his words, and the low deferential bow with which he accompanied them, completely divested his speech of its tone of gross flattery, and merely made it seem a very fitting and appropriate expression.

“This would be a very high compliment, indeed,” replied Madame de Lacostellerie, with a flush of evident pleasure on her cheek, “had it even come from one less known than the Chevalier Duchesne. I hope the Duchesse de Montserrat is well,—your aunt, if I mistake not?” “Yes, Madame,” said he, “in excellent health; it will afford her great pleasure when I inform her of your polite inquiry.”

Another announcement now compelled us to follow the current in front, which I was well content to do, and escape from an interchange of fine speeches, of whose sincerity, on one side at least, I had very strong misgivings.

“So, then, the comtesse is acquainted with your family?” said I, in a whisper.

“Who said so?” replied he, laughing.

“Did she not ask after the Duchesse de Montserrat?”

“And then?”

“And didn't you promise to convey her very kind message?”

“To be sure I did. But are you simple enough to think that either of us were serious in what we said? Why, my dear friend, she never saw my aunt in her life; nor, if I were to hint at her inquiry for her to the duchesse, am I certain it would not cost me something like a half million of francs the old lady has left me in her will,—on my word, I firmly believe she'd never forgive it. You know little what these people of the vieille roche, as they call themselves, are like. Do you see that handsome fellow yonder, with a star on a blue cordon?”

“I don't know him; but I see he's a Marshal of France.”

“Well, I saw that same aunt of mine rise up and leave the room because he sat down in her presence!”

“Oh! that was intolerable.”

“So she deemed his insolence. Come, move on; they 're dancing in the next salon.” And without saying more, we pushed through the crowd in the direction of the music.

It is only by referring to the sensations experienced by those who see a ballet at the Opera for the first time that I can at all convey my own on entering the salle de danse. My first feeling was that of absolute shame. Never before had I seen that affectation of stage costume which then was the rage in society. The short and floating jupe—formed of some light and gauzy texture, which, even where it covered the figure, betrayed the form and proportions of the wearer—was worn low on the bosom and shoulders, and attached at the waist by a ribbon, whose knot hung negligently down in seeming disorder. The hair fell in long and floating masses loose upon the neck, waving in free tresses with every motion of the figure, and adding to that air of abandon which seemed so studiously aimed at. But more than anything in mere costume was the look and expression, in which a character of languid voluptuousness was written, and made to harmonize with the easy grace of floating movements, and sympathize with gestures full of passionate fascination.

“Now, Burke,” said Duchesne, as he threw his eyes over the room, “shall I find a partner for you? for I believe I know most of the people here. That pretty blonde yonder, with the diamond buckles in her shoes, is Mademoiselle de Rancy, with a dowry of some millions of francs; what say you to pushing your fortune there? Don't forget the officier d'Élite is a trump card just now; and there's no time to lose, for there will soon be a new deal.”

“Not if she had the throne of France in reversion,” said I; turning away in disgust from a figure which, though perfectly beautiful, outraged at every movement that greatest charm of womanhood,—her inborn modesty.

“Ah, then, you don't fancy a blonde!” said he, carelessly, whether wilfully misunderstanding me or not I could not say. “Nor I either,” added he. “There, now, is something far more to my taste; is she not a lovely girl?”

She to whom he now directed my attention was standing at the side of the room, and leaning on her partner's arm; her head slightly turned, so that we could not see her features, but her figure was actually faultless. Hers was not one of those gossamer shapes which flitted around and about us, balancing on tiptoe, or gracefully floating with extending arms. Rather strongly built than otherwise, she stood with the firm foot and the straight ankle of a marble statue; her arms, well rounded, hung easily from her full, wide shoulders; while her head, slightly thrown back, was balanced on her neck with an air at once dignified and easy. Her dress well suited the character of her figure: it was entirely of black, covered with a profusion of deep lace,—the jupe looped up in Andalusian fashion to display the leg, whose symmetry was perfect. Even her costume, however, had something about it too theatrical for my taste; but there was a stamp of firmness, fiertÉ even, in her carriage and her attitude, that at once showed hers was no vulgar desire of being remarkable, but the womanly consciousness of being dressed as became her. She suddenly turned her head around, and we both exclaimed in the same breath, “How lovely!” Her features were of that brilliant character only seen in Southern blood: eyes large, black, and lustrous, fringed with lashes that threw their shadow on the very cheek; full lips, curled with an air of almost saucy expression; while the rich olive tint of her transparent skin was scarce colored with the pink flush of exercise, and harmonized perfectly with the proud repose of her countenance.

“She must be Spanish,—that's certain,” said Duchesne. “No one ever saw such an instep come from this side the Pyrenees; and those eyes have got their look of sleepy wickedness from Moorish blood. But here comes one will tell us all about her.”

This was the Baron de TrÈve,—a withered-looking, dried-up old man, rouged to the eyes, and dressed in the extravagance of the last fashion; the high collar of his coat rising nearly to the back of his head, as his deep cravat in front entirely concealed his mouth, and formed a kind of barrier around his features.

As Duchesne addressed him, he stopped short, and assuming an attitude of great intended grace, raised his glass slowly to his eye, and looked towards the lady.

“Ah! the seÑorina. Don't you know her? Why, where have you been, my dear chevalier? Oh! I forgot. You've been in Austria, or Russia, or some barbarous place or other. She is the belle, par excellence; nothing else is talked of in Paris.”

“But her name? Who is she?” said Duchesne, impatiently.

“Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie, the daughter of the house,” said the baron, completely overcome with astonishment at our ignorance. “And you not to know this!—you, of all men living! Why,” he continued, dropping his voice to a lower key, “there never was such a fortune. Mines of rubies and emeralds; continents of coffee, rice, and sandal-wood; spice islands and sugar plantations, to make one's mouth water.”

“By Jove, Baron! you seem somewhat susceptible yourself.”

“I had my thoughts on the subject,” said he, with a half sigh. “But, hÉlas! there are so many ties to be broken! so many tender chains one must snap asunder!”

“I understand,” said Duchesne, with an air of well-assumed seriousness; “the thing was impossible. Now, then, what say you to assist a friend?”

“You,—yourself, do you mean?”

“Of course, Baron; no other.”

“Come this way,” said the old man, taking him by the arm, and leading him along to another part of the room, while Duchesne, with a sly look at me, followed.

While I stood awaiting his return, my thoughts became fixed on Duchesne himself, of whose character I never felt free from my misgivings. The cold indifference he manifested on ordinary occasions to everything and everybody, I now saw could give way to strong impetuosity; but even this might be assumed also. As I pondered thus, I had not remarked that the dance was concluded; and already the dancers were proceeding towards their seats, when I heard my name uttered beside me,—“Capitaine Burke.” I turned; it was the countess herself, leaning on the arm of her daughter.

“I wish to present you to my daughter,” said she, with a courteous smile. “The college friend and brother officer of your cousin Tascher, Pauline.”

The young lady courtesied with an air of cold reserve; I bowed deeply before her; while the countess continued,—

“We hope to have the pleasure of seeing you frequently during your stay in Paris, when we shall have a better opportunity of making your acquaintance.”

As I expressed my sense of this politeness, I turned to address a few words to mademoiselle; and requesting to have the honor of dancing with her, she looked at me with an air of surprise, as though not understanding my words, when suddenly the countess interposed,—

“I fear that my daughter's engagements have been made long since; but another night—”

“I will hope—”

But before I could say more, the countess addressed another person near her, and mademoiselle, turning her head superciliously away, did not deign me any further attention; so that, abashed and awkward at so unfavorable a dÉbut in the gay world, I fell back, and mixed with the crowd.

As I did so, I found myself among a group of officers, one of whom was relating an anecdote just then current in Paris, and which I mention merely as illustrating in some measure the habits of the period.

At the levÉe of the Emperor on the morning before, an old general of brigade advanced to pay his respects, when Napoleon observed some drops of rain glistening on the embroidery of his uniform. He immediately turned towards one of his suite, and gave orders to ascertain by what carriage the general had arrived. The answer was, that he had come in a fiacre,—a hired vehicle, which by the rules of the Court was not admitted within the court of the Tuileries, and thus he was obliged to walk above one hundred yards before he could obtain shelter. The old officer, who knew nothing of the tender solicitude of the Emperor, was confounded with astonishment to observe at his departure a handsome calÈche and two splendid horses at his service.

“Whose carriage is this?” said he.

“Yours, Monsieur le GÉnÉral.”

“And the servant, and the horses?”

“Yours, also. His Majesty has graciously been pleased to order them for you; and desires you will remember that the sum of six thousand francs will be deducted from your pay to meet the cost of the equipage which the Emperor deems befitting your rank in the service.”

“It is thus,” said the narrator, “the Emperor would enforce that liberality on others he so eminently displays himself. The spoils of Italy and Austria are destined, not to found a new noblesse, but to enrich the bourgeoisie of this good city of Paris. I say, Edward, is not that Duchesne yonder? I thought he was above patronizing the salons of a mere commissary-general.”

“You don't know the chevalier,” replied the other; “no game flies too high or too low for his mark. Depend upon it, he's not here for nothing.”

“If mademoiselle be the object,” said a third, “I'll swear he shall have no rivalry on my side. By Jove I I 'd rather face a charge of Hulans than speak to her.”

“If thou wert a Marshal of France, Claude, thou wouldst think differently.”

“If I were a Marshal of France,” repeated he, with energy, “I'd rather marry Minette, the vivandiÈre of ours.”

“And no bad choice either,” broke in a large! heavy-looking officer. “There is but one objection to such an arrangement.”

“And that, if I might ask—”

“Simple enough. She would n't have you.”

The young man endeavored to join in the laugh this speech excited among the rest, though it was evident he felt ill at ease from the ridicule.

“A thousand pardons, my dear Burke,” said Duchesne, at this moment, as he slipped his arm through mine; “but I thought I should have been in need of your services a few minutes ago.”

“Ah! how?”

“Move a little aside, and I 'll tell you. I wished to ask mademoiselle to dance, and approached her for the purpose. She was standing with a number of people, all strangers to me, at the doorway yonder,—Dobretski, that Russian prince, the only man I knew amongst them. A very chilling 'Engaged, sir,' was the answer of the lady to my first request. The same reply met my second and third; when the Russian, as if desirous to increase the awkwardness of my position, interposed with, 'And the fourth set mademoiselle dances with me.'

“'In that case,' said I, 'I may fairly claim the fifth.'

“'On what grounds, sir?' said she, with a look of easy impertinence.

“'The Emperor's orders, Mademoiselle,' said I, proudly.

“'Indeed, sir! May I ask how and when?'

“'Austerlitz, December 2. The order of four o'clock, dated from Reygern, says, “The Imperial Guard will follow closely on the track of the Russians.” (Signed) “Napoleon.”'

“'In that case, sir,' said she, 'I cannot dispute his Majesty's orders. I shall dance the fifth with you.'”

“And the Russian,—what said he?”

“Ma foi! I paid no attention to him; for as mademoiselle moved off with her partner, I strolled away in search of you.”

If I was amused at this recital of the chevalier, I could not avoid feeling piqued at the greater success he had than myself; for still the chilling reception I had met with was rankling in my mind.

“Let us move away from this quarter,” said Duchesne. “Here we have got ourselves among a knot of old campaigners, with their stupid stories of Cairo and Acre, Alexandria and the Adige. By Jove! if anything would make me a Legitimist, it is my disgust at those confounded narratives about Kleber and Desaix; the Emperor himself does not despise the time of the Revolution more heartily than I do. Come, there's bouillotte yonder; let us go and win some pieces. I feel I'm in vein; and even to lose would be better than listen to these people. It was only a few minutes ago I was hunted, away from Madame de Muraire by old Berthollet, who is persuading her that her diamonds are but charcoal, and that a necklace is only fit to roast an ortolan. This comes of letting savants into society; decidedly, they had much better taste in the time of the Monarchy.”

It was with some difficulty we succeeded in approaching the bouillotte table, where, to judge from the stakes, very high play was going forward. Duchesne was quickly recognized among the players, who made place for him among them. I soon saw that he was not mistaken in supposing he was in luck; every coup was successful, and, while he continued to win time after time, the heap of gold grew greater, till it covered the part of the table before him.

“Most certainly, Burke,” said he, in a whisper, “this is a strong turn of Fortune, who, being a woman, won't long be of the same mind. Five thousand francs,” cried he, throwing the billet de banque carelessly before him, while he turned to resume what he was saying to me. “Were I in action now, I 'd win the bÂton de marÉchal. I feel it; there's an innate sense of luck when it means to be steady.”

“The Chevalier Duchesne! the Chevalier Duchesne!” was repeated from voice to voice, outside the circle; “Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie is waiting to waltz with you.”

“A thousand pardons,” said he, rising. “Burke, continue my game, while I try if I can't push fortune the whole way.” So saying, and without listening to my excuses about ignorance of play, he pressed me into his seat, and pushed his way through the crowd to join the dancers.

It was only when the players asked me if I intended to go on that I was aware of the position in which I found myself. I knew little more of the game than I had learned in looking over the table; but I was aware of the strict etiquette in all the play of society, which enjoins a revenge to every loser, so that I continued to bet and stake for Duchesne as I had seen him do already,—not, however, with such fortune. He had scarcely left the table when luck changed; and now I saw his riches decreasing even more rapidly than they had been accumulated. At last, after a long run of ill fortune, when I had staked a very large sum on the board, just as the banker was about to begin, I changed my mind and withdrew half of it.

“No, no,—let it stay,” whispered a voice in my ear; “the sooner this is over the better.”

I turned. It was Duchesne himself, who for some time had been seated behind my chair and looking on at the game.

Fleeting as was the glance I had of his features, I fancied they were somewhat paler than usual. Could this be from the turn of fortune? But no. I watched him now, and I perceived that he never even looked at the game. At last, I staked all that remained in one coup, and lost; when, drawing forth my own purse, I was about to make another bet,—

“No, no, Burke,” whispered he in my ear; “I was only waiting for this moment. Let us come away now. I rise as I sat down, Messieurs,” he said, gayly; while he added, in a lower tone, “Sauf l'honneur.”

“Have you had enough of gayety for one night?” said he, as he drew my arm within his. “Shall we turn home wards?”

“Willingly,” said I; for somehow I felt chagrined and vexed at my ill-luck, and was angry with myself for playing.

“Come along, then; this door will bring us to the stairs.”

As we passed along hastily through the crowd, I saw that a young officer in a hussar uniform whispered something in Duchesne's ear; to which he quickly replied, “Certainly.” And as he spoke again in the same low tone, Duchesne answered, “Agreed, sir,” with a courteous smile, and a look of much pleasure.

“Well, Burke,” said he, turning to me, “these are about the most splendid salons in Paris; I think I never saw more perfect taste. I certainly must thank you for being my chaperon here.”

“You forget, Duchesne, the Duchesse de Montserrat, it seems,” said I, laughing.

“By Jove, and so I had!” said he. “Yet the initiative lay with you; how the termination may be is another matter,” added he, in a mumbling voice, not intended to be heard.

“At all events,” said I, puzzled what to say, and feeling I should say something, “I am happy your Russian friend took no notice of your speech.”

“And why?” said he, with a peculiar smile,—“and why?”

“I abhor a duel, in the first place.”

“But, my dear boy, that speech smacks much more of the École de JÉsuites than of St. Cyr. Don't let any one less your friend than I am hear you say so.”

“I care not who may hear it. Necessity may make me meet an adversary in single combat; but as to acting the cold-blooded part of a bystander—as to being the witness of my friend's crime, or his own death—”

“Come, come; when you exchange the dolman for an alb I 'll listen to this from you, if I can listen to it from any one. But happily, now we have no time for more morality, for here comes the carriage.”

Chatting pleasantly about the soirÉe and its company, we rolled along towards our quarters, and parted with a cordial shake of the hand for the night.