Duchesne's story had unfortunately driven all memory of Bubbleton out of my head; and it was only as we entered the street where the Duchesse de Montserrat lived that I remembered my friend, and thought of asking the chevalier's advice about him.

In a few words I explained so much of his character and situation as was necessary, and was going on to express my fears lest a temperament so unstable and uncertain should involve its possessor in much trouble, when Duchesne interrupted me by saying,—

“Be of courage on that head. Your friend, if the man you describe him, is the very person to baffle the police. They can see to any depth, if the water be only clear; muddy it, and it matters little how shallow it be. This Bubbleton might be of the greatest service just now; you must present me to him, Burke.”

“Most willingly. But first promise that you will not involve my poor friend in the snares of any plot. Heaven knows, his own faculties are quite sufficient for his mystification.”

“Plot! snares!—why, what are you thinking of? But come, this is our halting-place; and here we are, without my even having a moment to give you any account of my good aunt.”

As he spoke he turned the handle of a large door, which led into a gloomy porte cochÈre, dimly illuminated by a single old-fashioned lantern. A fat, unwieldy-looking porter peeped at us from his den in the conciergerie; and then, having announced our approach by ringing a bell, he closed the shutter, and left us to find the way ourselves.

Ascending the great spacious stair, the wall alongside which was covered with family portraits,—grim-looking heroes in mail, or prim dames with bouquets in their jewelled hands,—we reached a species of gallery, from which several doors led off. Here a servant, dressed in deep black, was standing to announce the visitors.

As the servant preceded us along the corridor, I could not help feeling the contrast of this gloomy mansion, where every footstep had its own sad echo, with the gorgeous splendor of the HÔtel Clichy. Here, all was dark, cold, and dreary; there, everything was lightsome, cheerful, and elegant. What an emblem, to my thinking, were they both of the dynasties they represented! But the reflection was only made as one half of the folding-door was thrown open,—the double-door was the prerogative of the blood-royal,—and we were announced.

The apartment—a large, sombre-looking one—was empty, however, and we traversed this, and a second similar to it, our names being repeated as before; when at length the low tones of voices indicated our approach to the salon where the visitors were assembled.

Dimly lighted by a few lamps, far apart from each other, the apartment as we entered seemed even larger than it really was. At one end, around a huge antique fireplace, sat a group of ladies, whom in a glance I recognized as of the class so distinctively called dowager. They were seated in deep-cushioned fauteuils, and were mostly employed in some embroidery work, which they laid down each time they spoke; and resumed, less to prosecute the labor, than, as it were, from mere habit.

With all the insinuating gracefulness of a well-bred Frenchman, Duchesne approached the seat next the chimney, and respectfully kissed the hand extended towards him.

“Permit me, my dear aunt, to present a very intimate friend,—Captain Burke,” said he, as he led me forward.

At the mention of the word “captain,” I could perceive that every hand dropped its embroidery-frame, while the group stared at me with no feigned astonishment. But already the duchess had vouchsafed a very polite speech, and motioned me to a seat beside her; while the chevalier insinuated himself among the rest, evidently bent on relieving the stiff and constrained reserve which pervaded the party. Not even his tact and worldly cleverness was equal to the task. The conversation, if such it could be called, was conducted almost in monosyllables,—some stray question for an absent “marquise,” or a muttered reply concerning a late “countess,” was the burden; not an allusion even being made to any topic of the day, nor any phrase dropped which could show that the speakers were aware of the year or the nation in which they lived and breathed.

It was an inexpressible relief to me when gradually some three or four other persons dropped in, some of them men, who, by their manner, seemed favorites of the party. And soon after the entrance of the servant with refreshments permitted a movement in the group, when I took the opportunity to stand up and approach Duchesne, as he bent over a table, listlessly turning over the leaves of a volume.

“Just think of the contradictions of human nature, Burke,” said he, in a low whisper. “These are the receptions for which the new noblesse would give half their wealth. These melancholy visits of worn-out acquaintances, these sapless twigs of humanity, are the envy of such houses as the HÔtel Clichy; and to be admitted to these gloomy, moth-eaten salons, is a greater honor than an invitation to the Tuileries. So long as this exists, depend upon it, there is rottenness in the core of society. But come, let us take our leave; I see you are well wearied of all this. And now for an hour at Madame de Lacostellerie's,—en revanche.”

As we came forward to make our adieux to the duchess, she rose from her seat, and in so doing her sleeve brushed against a small marble statue of Louis the Sixteenth, which, had I not opportunely caught it, would have fallen to the ground.

“Thank you, sir,” said she, graciously. “You have prevented what I should have deemed a sad accident.”

“Nay, more, Aunt,” said Duchesne, smiling; “he has shown his readiness to restore the Bourbon.”

This speech, evidently spoken in jest, was repeated from lip to lip in the circle; and certainly I never felt my awkwardness more oppressive than when bowing to the party, whose elated looks and pleased countenances now were turned towards me.

“My poor, bashful friend,” said Duchesne, as we descended the stair; “get rid of the habit of blushing with all convenient despatch. It has marred more fortunes than pharo or bouillotte.”

“This, assuredly, is well done!” said the chevalier, as he looked around him, while we slowly ascended the stairs of the HÔtel Glichy: the brilliant light, almost rivalling day; the servants in gorgeous liveries; the air of wealth around on every side, so different from the sad-colored mansion of the Faubourg; while, as the opening doors permitted it to be heard, the sound of delicious music came wafted to the ear.

“I say, Burke,” said he, stopping suddenly, and laying his hand on my arm, “this might content a man who has seen as much as I have. And the game is well worth the playing; so here goes!”

The first person I saw as we entered the ante-chamber was Bubbleton. He was the centre of a knot of foreigners, who, whatever the topic, seemed highly amused at his discourse.

“That is your friend, yonder,” said Duchesne. “He has the true type of John Bull about him; introduce me at once.”

Duchesne scarcely permitted me to finish the introduction, when he extended his hand, and saluted Bubbleton with great cordiality; while the “general” did not suffer the ceremony to interrupt the flow of his eloquence, but continued to explain, in the most minute and circumstantial manner, the conditions of the new peace secretly concluded between France and England. The incredulity of the listeners was, I could perceive, considerably lessened by observing the deferential attention with which Duchesne listened, only interrupting the speaker by an occasional assent, or a passing question as to the political relations of some of the great Powers.

“As to Prussia,” said Bubbleton, pompously—“as to Prussia—”

“Well, what of Prussia, General?”

“We have our doubts on that subject,” replied he, looking thoughtfully around him on the group, who, completely deceived by Duchesne's manner, now paid him marked attention.

“You'll not deprive her of Genoa, I trust,” said the chevalier, with a gravity almost inconceivable.

“That is done already,” said Bubbleton. “For my own part, I told Lauderdale we were nothing without the Bosphorus,—'the key of our house, as your Emperor called it.”

“He spoke of Russia, if I don't err,” said Duchesne, with an insinuating air of correction.

“Pardon me, you are wrong. I know Russia well. I travelled through the steppes of Metchezaromizce with Prince Drudeszitsch. We journeyed three hundred versts over his own estates, drawn on sledges by his serfs. You are aware they are always harnessed by the beard, which they wear long and plaited on purpose.”

“That is towards the Crimea,” interrupted the chevalier.

“Precisely. I remember a curious incident which occurred one night as we approached Chitepsk. (You know Chitepsk? It is where they confine the state prisoners,—a miserable, dreary tract, where the snow never melts, and the frost is so intense you often see a drove of wolves glued fast to the snow by the feet, and howling fearfully: a strange sight, to be sure!) Well, the night was falling, and a thin, cutting snowdrift beginning to drop, when Dru (I always call him so,—short) said to me,—

“'Bub' (he did the same to me) 'Bub,' said he, 'do you remark that off-side leader?'

“'I see him,' said I.

“'I have been watching the fellow since the last stage, and confound me if he has ever tightened a trace; and you see he is a right active one, notwithstanding. He capers along gayly enough. I 'll touch him up a bit.' And with that he gave a flourish of his knouted whip, and came down on him with a smarting cut. Lord, how he jumped! Five feet off the ground at one spring! And, hang me, if he didn't tear off his beard! There it was, hanging to the pole! A very shocking sight, I must confess; though Dru did n't seem to mind it. However, we were obliged to pull up, and get out the team. Well, you would not believe what we saw when we got down. You 'd never guess who was the off-leader. It was the Princess Odoznovskoi! Poor thing! the last time I saw her, before that, she was dancing in the Amber Palace with Prince Alexander. She and her husband had been banished to Chitepsk, and as he was ill, she had put on a false beard and was taking a short stage in his place.”

I did not venture to wait for more; but, leaving Duchesne to make the most of the general, passed onwards towards the salon, which already was rapidly filling with visitors.

The countess received me with more than wonted kindness of manner, and mademoiselle assumed a tone of actual cordiality I had never perceived before; while, as she exchanged greetings with me, she said, in a low voice,—

“Let me speak with you, in the picture-gallery, in half an hour.”

Before I could utter my assent she had passed on, and was speaking to another.

Somewhat curious to conceive what Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie might mean by her appointment in the gallery, I avoided the groups where I perceived my acquaintances were, and strolled negligently on towards the place of meeting. The gallery was but half lighted, as was customary on mere nights of visiting, and I found it quite deserted. I was sauntering slowly along, musing on the strange effects of the half-seen pictures, where all, save the most forcible and striking tints, were sombred down to blackness, when I heard a step behind me. I turned my head, and saw mademoiselle herself. She was alone, and, though she evidently had seen me, continued to walk onward, without speaking, towards a small boudoir, which occupied one angle of the gallery. I followed, and we entered it together.

There was something in the secret interview which, while it excited my curiosity, served at once to convince me that had I indulged in any hope of succeeding to her affections, nothing could be less promising,—this very proof of her confidence was the strongest earnest of her indifference. But, indeed, I had never any such expectation. My pride might have been flattered by such a supposition; my heart could never have sympathized in the emotion.

“We are alone here,” said she, hurriedly, “and we may be missed; so let me be brief. It will seem strange that I should ask you to meet me here, but I could not help it. You alone, of all who frequent this, have never paid me the least attention, nor seemed disposed to flatter me; this leads me to trust you. I have no other reason but that, and because I am friendless.” There was a tremulous sadness in the last word which went to my heart, and I could mark that her breathing was hurried and irregular for some few seconds after. “Will you promise me your friendship in what I ask? or, if that be too much, will you pledge yourself at least to secrecy? Enough, I am quite satisfied. Now, tell me, who is this Chevalier Duchesne?—what is he?”

I ran over in a few words all I knew of him, dwelling on whatever might most redound to his credit; his distinguished military career, his undoubted talent, and, lastly, alluding to his family, to which I conceived the question might most probably apply.

“Oh, it is not that,” said she, vehemently, “I wish to know. I care not for his bravery, nor his birth either. Tell me, what are the sources of his power? How is he admitted everywhere, intimate with every one, with influence over all? Why does FouchÉ fear, and Talleyrand admit him? I know they do this; and can you give me no clew, however faint, to guide me? The Comte de Lacostellerie was refused the Spanish contract; Duchesne interferes, and it is given him. There is a difficulty about a card for a private concert at St. Cloud; Duchesne sends it. Nor does it end here. You know”—here her voice assumed a forced distinctness, as though it cost her an effort to speak calmly—“of his duel with the Prince Dobretski; but perhaps you may not know how he has obtained an imperial order for his recall to St. Petersburg?”

“Of that I never heard. Can it be possible?”

“Have you, then, never tasted of his arbitrary power,” said she, smiling half superciliously, “that these things seem strange to you? or does he work so secretly that even those most intimate with him are in ignorance? But this must be so.” She paused for a second or two, and then went on: “And now, brief as our acquaintance with him has been, see what influence he already possesses over my mother! Even to her I dare not whisper my suspicions; while to you, a stranger,” added she, with emotion, “I must speak my fears.”

“But are they not groundless?” said I, endeavoring to calm the agitation she suffered from. “In all that you have mentioned, I can but trace the devotion of one seeking to serve, not injure; to be loved, not dreaded.”

Scarce had I said these words, when I heard a noise behind me, and before I could turn round, Duchesne stood beside us.

“I implore your pardon, Mademoiselle,” said he, in a voice of well-affected timidity, “nor should I venture to interrupt so interesting a conference, but that the Comtesse de Lacostellerie had sent me to look for you.”

“You could scarcely have come more apropos, sir. The conversation was entirely of yourself,” said she, haughtily, as if in defiance of him.

“How could I possibly have merited so great an honor, Mademoiselle?” replied he, bowing with the deepest respect; “or is it to the kindness of a friend I am indebted for such interest?”

There was an evident sneer in the way he uttered the word “friend,” while a sidelong glance he gave beneath his deep eyelashes was still more decisive of his feeling.

“Few probably owe more to their friends than the Chevalier Duchesne,” said mademoiselle, tauntingly, as she took my arm to return to the salon.

“True, most true!” replied he, with a low and deferential bow; “and I hope I am not the man to forget my debts to either friends or enemies.”

I turned round rapidly as he said this. Our eyes met, and we exchanged a short, brief glance of open defiance. His, however, as quickly changed; and an easy smile of careless indifference succeeded, as he lounged after us towards the salon, where now a considerable number of persons were assembled, and a more than usual excitement prevailed. Some generals of the imperial staff were also there; and the rumor ran that the negotiations with England had been suddenly interrupted, and that the negotiators had demanded their passports.

“That is not all, Madame,” said an old officer to the countess. “The accounts from Mayence are threatening. Large bodies of Prussian troops are reported on the march from the eastward. The telegraph has been actively at work since noon, and several couriers have been sent off from the War Office.”

“What is to come next?” said the countess, sighing, as she thought of Paris once more deserted by its gay Court and brilliant crowd of officers, the only society of the period.

“What next, Madame?” said Duchesne, taking up the word. “Parbleu! the thing is easily told. A conscription, a march, a bivouac, and a battle will form act the first. Then a victory; and a bulletin and an imperial edict, showing that Prussia, both by her language and geographical position, was intended by Providence to belong to France; that Prussians have no dearer wish than to be thrashed and taxed,—the honor of becoming a portion of the Grande Nation being an ample recompense for any misfortune.”

“And so it is, Monsieur,” broke in a bluff, hard-featured veteran, whose coarse and weather-beaten traits bespoke one risen from the ranks; “he is no Frenchman who says otherwise.”

“To your good health, Colonel,” said Duchesne, as he lifted a glass of champagne to his lips. “Such patriotism is really refreshing in our degenerate days. I wish you every success in your campaign; though what is to reward your valor in that miserable land of beer and Protestantism I cannot possibly conceive.”

“To-morrow; let me see you to-morrow, in the afternoon.” said mademoiselle, in a whisper, as she passed close to me.

As I nodded in acknowledgment, Duchesne turned slightly around, and I saw in his eyes he had overheard the words, though uttered in a mere whisper. Still he went on,—

“As for us who remain ingloriously behind you, we have nothing to do but to read your exploits in the 'Moniteur.' And would to Heaven the worthy editor would print his battles in better fashion! The whole page usually looks more like a beaten than a conquering army; wounded vowels and broken consonants at every step, and the capital letters awkward, hard-featured fellows, as though risen from the ranks.”

“Tonnerre de Dieu, sir! do you mean an insult to me?” said the old colonel, in a voice which, though intended for a whisper, was heard over the whole circle.

“An insult, my dear colonel? nothing within a thousand leagues of such. I was only speaking of the 'type' of our army, which may be very efficient, but is scarcely too good-looking.”

No words can convey the sarcastic tone in which the speech was delivered, nor the mortification of the indignant colonel, who felt, but knew not how to reply to, such a taunt. Happily Madame de Lacostellerie interposed, and by skilfully changing the topic of conversation, averted further unpleasantness.

My desire to learn something accurately as to the state of events made me anxious to reach my quarters, and I took the first opportunity of quitting the salon. As I passed through the outer room, Duchesne was standing against a sideboard, holding a glass in his hand. It was necessary that I should pass him closely, and I was preparing to salute him with the distant courtesy of our present acquaintance, when he said, in his former tone of easy raillery,—

“Going so early? Won't you have a glass of wine before you leave?”

“No, I thank you,” said I, coldly, and going on towards the door.

“Nor wait for the concert; Grassini will be here in half an hour?”

I shook my head in negation; and as I passed out I heard him humming, with an emphasis which there was no mistaking, the couplet of a popular song of the day which concluded thus,—

“To-day for me; To-morrow for thee,—But will that to-morrow ever be?”

That Duchesne intended to challenge me seemed now almost certain; and I ran over in my mind the few names of those I could ask to be my friends on such an occasion, but without being able to satisfy myself on the subject. A moment's recollection might have taught me that it was a maxim with the chevalier never to send a message, but in every case to make the adversary the aggressor; he had told me so over and over himself. That, however, did not occur to me at the moment, and I walked onward, thinking of our meeting. Could I have known what was passing in his mind, I should have spared many serious and some sad thoughts to my own.