LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 v.l
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NOTICE. 
 
 The copyright of this Work being the exclusive property of Mr. 
 Colburn, any person attempting to infringe his right will be im- 
 mediately prosecuted. 
 
 The publisher also begs to state, that by the late Copyright Act, 
 the 5 & 6 Victoria, c. 45, it is enacted that any person having in his 
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 he intends to enforce. 
 
 The public are further informed that the Act 5 & 6 Victoria, 
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 are strictly enjoined to carry this regulation into effect. 
 
 N.B. — The above regulations are in force in all British colonies 
 and dependencies, as well as in the United Kingdom.
 
 MILDRED YEENON; 
 
 A TALE OF PARISIAN LIPE 
 
 LAST DAYS OF THE MONARCHY 
 
 BY 
 
 HAMILTON MURRAY. 
 
 " You're not a moral people, and you know it. 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet." 
 
 BTROX. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER; 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1848.
 
 ^ LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. 
 
 *t
 
 V. I 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Let no one imagine that, because the following 
 pages profess to treat of " Paris in the nineteenth 
 century," the lines I have chosen for my epigraph 
 are addressed to the French nation. They are not 
 so, and are meant to be taken precisely in the sense 
 given to them by their illustrious author. The 
 morahty or immorality of our continental neigh- 
 bours, is but of small consequence to us; but of 
 great import is it that we should know them better 
 and judge of them more justly. All our faults 
 come from our ignorance, and from our profound 
 contempt of every thing "foreign." The travellers 
 of every other nation seek, in the study of each dif- 
 ferent race, to decj^her a fresh page of that endless 
 volume, called the human heart ; the English, on 
 the contrary, travel to see sights, or rather, to have 
 seen them. Some there are who, without looking 
 upon travel as a sort of duty to be performed, 
 wander the world over, in obedience to that uneasy
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 longing for adventure entailed upon them by their 
 Norman origin ; but where are they who travel to 
 observe ? and what are the results of this voluntary 
 ignorance? Ask the victims of it — and they are 
 many. 
 
 We are a race more full of contradictory qualities 
 and defects than perhaps any other that can be 
 named. Formed by nature and by our institutions, 
 both political and social, for the dignified retirement 
 of our own homes, for the guardianship of our own 
 fire-sides, we are, of all others, the most tormented 
 by the unhealthy desire for change, by the ceaseless 
 temptation to go abroad. There would be no harm 
 in this, if we did not persist in carrying our 
 England with us every where; but, as it is, we 
 rush into the thick of the danger, utterly defence- 
 less, literally devoid of every means of resistance, of 
 every arm. 
 
 It is for this reason, that I have thought it might 
 not be altogether without utility to put before the 
 public a picture, the original of which, alas ! I 
 have but too often seen. Of Sir Edward Vernons, 
 we know, the number is not small, for we are not 
 more moral than our neighbours, and our ready 
 enthusiasm and so-called " warm heart '' make 
 us an easier prey than most others to arts and 
 wiles we know not of. The type of Madame de 
 Cevezes is, luckily, not to be found amongst us ;
 
 PREFACE. m 
 
 but for that very reason^ perliaps^ is she doubly 
 dangerous. 
 
 In the education given to young men in England, 
 too much is based upon that falsest of all false 
 doctrines, the attainment of safety by a systematic 
 ilight from temptation. If young Englishmen 
 never quitted their own country — if they were 
 content to spend the "even tenour" of their whole 
 existence between the virtuous monotony of their 
 own homes, and the eventual honoui's attendant on 
 the discussion of sugar duties and railway con- 
 cessions in the House of Commons, the evils inherent 
 to this system of education might, perhaps, never 
 put forth their fruit; but, on the contrary, the 
 greatest haste is almost universally shown to separate 
 the victims of these " shallow devices ^' from those 
 influences which alone can protect them. Thro^Ti 
 into the very centre of a world, to whose ways he 
 is a stranger, of a society against whose arts he 
 has no shield, an Enghshman abroad — in France 
 particularly — is placed in the position of a man who 
 does not keep pistols for fear they should be turned 
 against himself, and who, attacked by robbers in 
 the night, falls without the possibihty of a defence. 
 
 And now, my own dear countrjTQeu, let me 
 put to you, in all good faith and amity, the question 
 whereof the epigraph of this book furnishes the 
 answer. I have watched vou abroad, (where vou
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 do not appear to advantage), I have studied 
 foreigners in their homes : you are the kindest, the 
 most honourable, the surest, the most sincere — but 
 are you the most moral of men ? (I speak here of 
 morahty in its purely social sense, as affecting 
 especially the ties of lover to mistress, of husband 
 to wife). Certainly I should astonish, perhaps I 
 might offend you, if I were to answer resolutely in 
 the negative, and tell you that a well-born, well- 
 educated Frenchman is, — for all the ends of that 
 worldly dignity, of that official respectability, which 
 serve as the exterior sign of good conduct, — a far 
 more moral personage than yourselves. And why 
 is this ? Because you are really enthusiastic, and 
 really full of heart, and that a well-behaved French- 
 man has neither heart nor enthusiasm, but looks 
 upon the first as a piece of insanity, and on the 
 second as a piece of bad taste. Where are to be 
 found those who are still, in our prosaic age, 
 capable of committing what, on the continent, is 
 styled une folie ? In England, but no where else. 
 There alone do men offer up everything on the 
 altar of their inclinations ; and actresses, dancers, 
 and some even nameless fair ones, transformed, too 
 often, into the representatives of the first titles of 
 the land, speak sufficiently to the utter contempt 
 felt by Englishmen for whatever obstacle prudence 
 may oppose to passion. Now, this is not to be
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 defended ^vithout restriction ; for although, in a 
 mere philosophical and speculative sense, it may 
 be a glorious thing to see ever\- worldly considera- 
 tion sacrificed to a sentiment, yet the reckless kind 
 of feeling which prompts this sacrifice to a legiti- 
 mate object, may also produce, {as it has done in 
 more than one instance), an equal sacrifice to an 
 object wholly illegitimate and unworthy. TMien 
 an Englishman is in love, he forgets everything ; with 
 a Frenchman it is quite the contran', and the whole 
 is generally to him as much a matter of business as 
 of pleasure, or, in the words of a witty parisian 
 lady — " c'est moins uine affaire de coeur qu\ine 
 affaire" The consequence is, that, if there are 
 few mariages dHnclination, and still fewer mesal- 
 liances d' amour in France, there are, at least, none 
 of those esclandres in which passion may account 
 for, though it cannot excuse, public misconduct 
 and a contempt of social laws ; or, if such do occur, 
 they are \isited with a universal reprobation that 
 renders their eff'ect rather beneficial than other^-ise. 
 A Frenchman, above all things, respects les conve- 
 nances, and therefore, is pretty sure, sooner or later, 
 to return to the track sanctioned by public opinion ; 
 whereas, if an EngHshman once sets his heart upon 
 any object — whilst, ia every other respect, he remains 
 the ver\^ soul of uprightness and honour, the 
 chances are as ninety-nine to one that he will
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 overleap every barrier^ and trample on every 
 obstacle^ to effect the attainment of it. 
 
 " But then/^ you will ask me^ " why do the 
 scandals of which you speak not occur more fre- 
 quently, and what makes the British nation still 
 preserve its character for morality above all others 
 in the world ?" I will tell you. Your own con- 
 stitutional timidity^ which induces you to hide the 
 half of what you feel ; and the innocent purity of 
 English girls and English women. As long as you 
 confine yourselves to your country, to the modest 
 mirth and nature of your own happy homes, the 
 doctrine of safety in flight from temptation may 
 hold good, and keep you from harm ; but it is not 
 enough, believe me, when you exchange them for a 
 social order of things, the merits of which you do 
 not appreciate, and against the dangers of which 
 you have no defence. 
 
 Nor will it suffice to include the whole popu- 
 lation of the continental countries in one sentence 
 of unmitigated blame — nothing can be really 
 useful that is not realty true — and when you 
 shall, in your own minds, have set down the whole 
 female race in France as lost to all sense of mo- 
 rality and virtue, you will be as far from the 
 prevention of evil as from the truth ! All the 
 women in France are not immoral, but they are 
 almost all, charming; and what is to be guarded
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 against is sui'prise, and a species of fascination 
 of which you know too little^ and which rarely, 
 if ever, fails. 
 
 Several points of this book, I am aware, will 
 necessarily call do-uii upon the head of its author 
 undisguised animadversion from the English 
 reader; but, in my own profound conviction, I 
 should not have conscientiously fulfilled what I 
 look upon as a duty, had those points been 
 otherwise. The truth ! — that is what every one 
 holding a pen owes to the public, to whom (in 
 no matter how limited a proportion) he addresses 
 himself, and, however flattering may be the con- 
 ventional forms and ideas put forth to meet the 
 exigencies of the general mass of readers — whatever 
 degree of popularity they may ensure to the works 
 in which they abound — the adoption of them, in 
 preference to what he knows to be the truth, is 
 a dereliction and an act of cowardice on the part 
 of an author. 
 
 I shall perhaps be reproached with ha\ing de- 
 picted scenes of depravity either exaggerated or 
 superfluous. In the first place, I answer that I 
 have not described one single circumstance that 
 has not its foundation in positive fact — and in the 
 next, I repeat that the utility of such pictures lies 
 entirely in their truth. That which may be dan- 
 gerous should be known, and if, through a false
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 delicacy, you too absolutely abstain from the de- 
 lineation of vice, by what means do you show its ' 
 utter hideousness, and how can you sufficiently 
 mark the abhorrence in which you hold it ? 
 
 A certain degree of indignation will also pro- 
 bably be excited at the principles of indulgence 
 towards the " repentant fallen" set forth in these 
 pages, and imposed as a sacred duty upon all of 
 our faith. Indulgence to the unfortunate is not 
 a virtue much inculcated by the Protestant creed, 
 and tolerance of the guilty has been too often 
 and too lightly supposed to be an article of ours. 
 How far this is from the reality they only can 
 tell who are of this creed — and this alone have 
 I endeavoured to show : that if in our faith, for- 
 giveness of sin is ultimately to be obtained, it is 
 not given, but dearly bought — and the price paid 
 by the erring for that pardon which the Catholic 
 religion awards to them on this earth, constitutes 
 an amount of humility, of self-sacrifice, of resig- 
 nation and of genuine repentance, such as, perhaps, 
 few of their virtuous judges would feel inclined 
 to pay. 
 
 I am also perfectly aware of the small sympathy 
 that . may be accorded to another character, the 
 typical truth of which no one who has known 
 anything of the French clergy will deny. I have 
 never thought that true zeal for religion ought
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 by any means to necessitate an indiscriminate and 
 blind belief in the virtues of its ministers; nor 
 would I undertake to defend the priesthood of 
 all Catholic countries ; but of the clergy of France 
 I have seen too much not to affirm openly that 
 all praise must fall short of its deserts. The 
 Catholic religion is so mLxed up with the practical 
 'duties of existence^ the intervention of our priests 
 is so direct, their influence in almost every affair of 
 our lives so undeniably great, that devotion, how- 
 ever ardent, however pm-e, is not all that is required 
 from them ; and, without great intelligence, learning, 
 experience, and good sense, the exercise of their 
 ministry would, in many cases, lead to results 
 incompatible, to say the least, with the social 
 exigencies of every-day existence. Herein lies the 
 incontestible superiority of the French clergy. 
 As wise as they are saintly, they know how to 
 reconcile the most fen'cnt and rigid piety with 
 the discharge of every domestic duty, and no one who 
 has lived long in France can hesitate to say 
 that to their influence is owing whatever moraHty 
 (in our sense of the word) is to be found in the 
 countiy. I have watched them long and narrowly; 
 unnoticed I have observed them, not alone in the 
 discharge of their functions, but in the exercise 
 of the more indirect influence acquired by their 
 position in the domestic circle, and I have no
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 hesitation in saying that I never yet saw any but 
 the most beneficial results arise from what I would 
 style, their intimate intervention. The clergy of 
 France may indeed say with truth, in the words 
 of the Apostle : " Vos testes estis et Deus, quam sancte 
 et juste et sine querela, vobis qui credidistis,fuimus : 
 sicut scitis, qualiter unumquemque vestruniy sicut 
 jyater filios suos, deprecantes vos et consalantes, 
 testificati sumus, ut ambulareiis dign^ Deo."^ 
 
 At the same time, let me protest against the 
 imputation of any presumptuous desire on my part 
 to defend that which stands too high to need any 
 defence. I have merely painted that which I have 
 seen — that which I knoiu to be true. The truth of 
 the pictures they contain, is all I can vouch for in 
 the following pages — for the rest, as in the old 
 Spanish plays, I can only say — " Pardon the faults 
 of the Author." 
 
 * When this was written, the martydom of the first Prelate of 
 France had not yet set the seal of its sad confirmation to what 
 I have said of the French clergy. Never has the ardent faith of 
 the Church of France more luminously shone forth than in the 
 way in which its ministers received the melancholy tidings of the 
 Archbishop's death. The sure attainment of that glory to which 
 a martyr may aspire, has moderated even the expression of 
 ree;ret, and amongst those who the most deeply lament the loss 
 of their murdered pastor, the complete absence of all surprise 
 convinces you that not one but would to-morrow, with the same 
 serenity he displayed, consent to follow in his steps. 
 
 Paris, June, 1847.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Page 52, Line 21, /or "instinctively feel vrill pass" read "fear 
 
 will continue to pass". 
 Page 98, Line 19—20, for " Place Belle Chasse" read " Place du 
 
 Palais Bourbon". 
 Page 298, Line 22, for "fixe" read "fixe". 
 Page 308, Line 2, for " Annecy" read " Andilly". 
 
 VOL. IL 
 
 Page 68, Line 23, for "Annecy" read "Andilly". 
 
 VOL. IIL 
 Page 216, Line I, for " the embassy" read "The Embassy."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The spring months of 1843 saw more 
 visitors throng round the doors of the Odeon 
 than have ever since disturbed the solitude of 
 the deserted edifice. The din of carriages made 
 echo lively in the studious Rue Mazarine, and 
 the solemn, aristocratic, legitimist stillness of the 
 melancholy Fauboura: St. Germain was ruth- 
 lessly broken in upon by the fame of M. 
 Ponsard's Lucrece. Foreigners fi*om aU coun- 
 tries undertook the wear}- task of migrating to 
 the precincts of the Luxembourg ; and even the 
 Enghsh (the most careless of any, where a 
 purely literary question is involved) magnani- 
 mously sacrificed one out of the three or four 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 dozen Mondays and Thursdays they had 
 mentally consecrated to the Duchesse Decazes, 
 and, profiting by the habit and the neighbour- 
 hood, stopped at the Odeon, instead of at the 
 Grand Referendary^s. 
 
 A week had scarcely passed since the first 
 representation of Lucrece. In one of the 
 largest of the open boxes, which form the first 
 tier of the theatre, was assembled a party of 
 French people ; in the smaller box next to them, 
 sat an English lady and a gentleman, alone. 
 The first scene w^as not yet ended, and Madame 
 Dorval had just uttered the words : 
 
 " La maison d'une epouse est un temple sacre, 
 Ou memele soupgon ne soeY jamais entre." 
 
 " Well !" said the little Baroness de Cevezes, 
 in an under tone — " that is very moral, but it is 
 not French." 
 
 " Hush," answered the young man to whom 
 the remark was addressed, and who was leaning 
 familiarly on the back of the Baroness's chair ; 
 " wait till the act is over." 
 
 And when the act was over, the discussion 
 commenced. After a lengthened comparison
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 3 
 
 of the merits of Ponsard and Victor ^-Hugo — 
 each finding zealous advocates, 
 
 " Do you mean to defend the probability of 
 this play ?" enquired Madame de Cevezes. 
 
 " Whv, history " 
 
 " Ah, bah ! Marquis, pray do not be 
 pedantic. Will you tell me that you beheve in 
 the story of Lucre tia ?" and the Baroness fixed 
 upon her antagonist one of her archest glances. 
 
 " Truth on the stage," began the Marquis, 
 " is of two kinds, the positive and the relative. 
 Now Lucrece in this instance — " 
 
 Madame de Cevezes waxed impatient — 
 " Do not make me lose my temper," exclaimed 
 she ; " but just be so good as to tell me, M. de 
 Renneville, do you look upon the truth of the 
 story M. Ponsard has chosen, as so incontro- 
 vertible that you should therefore call all others 
 improbable ?" 
 
 The ^Marquis was evidently embarrassed at 
 being thus placed between his wish to defend 
 Lucrece, and his desire not to seem unmindful 
 of certain old traditions, in virtue of which some 
 men of his age in France appear to regard as a 
 positive affront to the whole female sex, the 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 belief in the proper conduct of any member 
 of it. 
 
 " Well !" said the Baroness, " will you 
 answer me ? Do you believe that '* 
 
 "Mafoi, oui /" replied Monsieur de Renneville 
 in despair, " c'etaient des temps fahuleux.'' 
 
 A good deal of laughter followed this speech, 
 and as the curtain drew up for the second act, 
 the English lady, who had listened with dismay 
 to the end of the conversation, turned upon her 
 neighbours in the next box the same kind of 
 look with which an Arab is usually pleased to 
 take his survey of a Jew. 
 
 Madame la Baronne de Cevezes was, in her 
 way, a remarkable person ; and decidedly worth 
 the trouble of looking at. She had reached her 
 twenty-second or twenty- third year, and might 
 have passed for a child of fourteen. Purer than an 
 apple-blossom was the fine transparency of her 
 skin, bluer than the heavens in June, the deep 
 azure of her eyes. On that youthful brow, 
 beaming through the braids of her wavy 
 chestnut hair, there seemed such a promise of 
 purity — the dewy freshness of her ripe lips was 
 parted by such constant dimpling smiles, that
 
 MILDRED VERNON. O 
 
 to all but those who knew her, the idea of 
 corruption, connected vnth. such a being, seemed 
 absurd ; and yet corruption, and that of 
 the worst kind, had its abode under the 
 sweet witcheries of that most treacherous sem- 
 blance. 
 
 Dressed with almost infantine simplicity, half 
 enshrouded by the pendant lace of her plain 
 white silk capote, with nothing about her to 
 attract attention save a bouquet of choice 
 flowers, there was in Aurelie de Cevezes a 
 certain charm of youthful freshness that 
 gladdened you like the approach of spring. 
 One charm, however, she wanted, the magic of 
 the voice. Hers was harsh, hoarse, and 
 grating to the ear ; and when from that child- 
 like mouth you heard issuing such tones, and 
 when those tones conveyed such sentiments as 
 Aurelie would not seldom utter, surprise and 
 horror would make you start from her, as Faust 
 from the shade of Gretchen, when the red 
 mouse escapes her lips. 
 
 Of M. de Cevezes, little was known, except 
 that Mademoiselle de Vallemer had been married 
 to him for the last four years, and that, for 
 the last three, he had been attached to different
 
 6 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 embassies and legations, always at the- farthest 
 possible distances from France. Aurelie had 
 been brought up at an excellent school for 
 diplomacy (not to say intrigue) of all kinds. 
 Her mother, the Marquise de Vallemer, had 
 presided over the destinies of more than one 
 cabinet ; and more than one prime minister 
 had, in her younger days, given up to her the 
 secrets of his heart and of his office ; of the last 
 mentioned of which she is reported to have 
 made considerable use. Having provided for 
 her sons, and lost her eldest daughter, Aurelie 
 became the sole object of care to her mother, 
 who one day announced to her circle of friends 
 that M. de Cevezes would shortly become her 
 son-in-law. The clever Marchioness, to whom 
 her daughter's disposition was not the matter of 
 a moment's thought, conceived that nothing 
 further could be expected from her in the way 
 of maternal duty, now that she had provided 
 Aurelie with a husband whose good birth, 
 fortune, and personal insignificance were on a 
 par. 
 
 As to the daughter herself, the whole was to 
 her a mere ceremony void of sense. Indif- 
 ferent to M. de Cevezes before marriage, she
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 7 
 
 was doubly so afterwards ; and when, through 
 her mother's still lasting influence, she had 
 succeeded in virtually separating herself from 
 her husband, she never appeared to advert to 
 him again, in thought, in word, or in deed : 
 seriously compromised in reputation, she had 
 never evinced any particular attachment even 
 for those in whose behalf she had forfeited her 
 good name ; but as she was one of the reigning 
 sovereigns of fashion, as she stood foremost in 
 the ranks of the most celebrated lionnes, it 
 was deemed right and proper to be mentioned 
 as her admirer. 
 
 At the time we allude to, the Yicomte de 
 Moreton divided the sceptre with this capricious 
 queen ; but this liaison was looked upon by the 
 world vrith. somewhat less of favour than many 
 others. The Vicomte was married, and Madame 
 de Moreton was so universally esteemed, that on 
 several occasions the Baroness (whose temper 
 but ill brooked such rebukes) was made to feel 
 that she had gone un peu trop loin. However, 
 as M. de Moreton was determined to run 
 all risks sooner than give up the object of his 
 guilty love, and as his desperate violence of 
 character rendered him no easy person to
 
 8 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 discard, Aurelie allowed him to continue his 
 adoration of her, and even permitted him, 
 in some degree, to scare away all other 
 swains. 
 
 As to the other occupants of the box, a few 
 words will tell you what they were : Madame Fer- 
 ri^res, a young woman of, it might be, forty or 
 thereabouts, decidedly handsome, and with great 
 pretensions to esprit, was the wife of a general 
 officer, who had once been minister for six 
 months, and who might be so again, and that 
 at any Moment. He was one of those con- 
 venient individuals who, having risen to a 
 certain necessary rank, unembarrassed by talent, 
 convictions, or party engagements, are ready 
 for every eventuality, and fitted to any combina- 
 tion. His wife, whose ruling passion was 
 literature, had taken advantage of her husband's 
 short possession of office, to wheedle sanguine 
 publishers into buying her manuscripts, under 
 promise of allowing her name to be printed at 
 fuU length on the title page ; nor was she un- 
 mindful of the ministerial Press ; and, in this 
 way the General's ministry, if it did not bring 
 any extraordinary advantage to the department 
 of the State ovei' which he ruled, brought, at
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 9 
 
 least to Madame Ferri^res, pleasure, profit, and 
 renown. 
 
 Of M. de Renne\411e, and M. Lebrun, little 
 need be said ; except that they were exactly the 
 sort of men whom people do usually ask to 
 fill up a box (the real meaning of which is, that 
 they are to be attentive and polite, to talk 
 when the curtain is dow^n, and be content to see 
 nothing when it is up) ; and for this, and 
 sundry other similar favours, ingeniously re- 
 peated during the course of the year, they are 
 expected in Paris to shower down half their 
 income, in the shape of bonbons, at the feet of 
 their fair patronesses, upon the return of every 
 New Year's day. 
 
 The discussion had gone on between the 
 second and third acts in a literary strain ; princi- 
 pally kept alive by Madame Ferrieres, who, as 
 an authoress, arrogated to herself the right of 
 pronouncing in all cases, such as Ponsard 
 against Hugo. A few minutes before the com- 
 mencement of the fourth act, M. de Renneville 
 was disturbed by the opening of the box door 
 against which he w^as leaning, and the exclama- 
 tion of — "Ah, Gaston !" — from M. de Moreton, 
 
 B 3
 
 10 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 turned the attention of the whole party towards 
 the new comer. The first habitual greetings 
 exchanged : — 
 
 " A pretty time, forsooth," remarked the 
 stranger, "you have chosen to be disputing 
 about the merits of two rival rhymesters, when I 
 bring you news that will confound you, every 
 one, and that to-morrow will make Paris ring. 
 Only think, Madame de Cevezes," added he, 
 addressing the Baroness, — " news that no one 
 knows /" 
 
 " What is it ?"— " Make haste !"— " Tell us 
 at once."— " Abd-el-Kader?" — " Mademoiselle 
 Rachel ?"— " Fiammetta ?"— " Le Ministere ?" 
 burst from five mouths at once, mingling 
 interrogatively names of actresses, horses, and 
 politicians. 
 
 " Madame de Boislambert has eloped !" 
 
 At these words the tumult increased, and 
 almost unheeding the subdued tone of voice 
 prescribed by good breeding in a public theatre, 
 each person gave vent to his or her astonishment. 
 
 " Mon Bleu /" said Madame Ferri^res. 
 
 " Diahle /" murmured the Vicomte. 
 
 " When ?" asked M. de Renneville.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 11 
 
 **How?" demanded M. Lebrun. 
 
 " Who with ?" exclaimed the Baroness. 
 
 " With nobody," —replied he whom we have 
 called Gaston ; " but that is not her fault." 
 
 " If you had given me ten years' law, I never 
 should have guessed her, as the heroine of such 
 an adventure," rejoined Madame Ferrieres. 
 
 " But tell us the whole history," — cried the 
 Baroness eagerly. 
 
 " Why, — here is the romance, since you 
 insist upon it. Only conceive that, this 
 morning at seven o'clock, Lionel Chavigny — " 
 
 " What, the banker ?" 
 
 " The man whose horse won last Sunday at 
 the Champs de Mars ?" 
 
 " No ! no ! you mean a dark, handsome- 
 looking fellow, who began by giving six 
 thousand francs a month to Florinde — " 
 
 " Chavigny was awakened by a violent ringing 
 at his beU, and surprised, a moment later, to see 
 his valet-de-chambre rush into his room, and 
 hear him annoimce the visit of a lady who was 
 so thickly veiled that no one could see her face, 
 but who said she must instantly speak to 
 M. Chavigny. After making a rapid toilette,
 
 12 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Chavigny hastened to receive the incognita, 
 when, judge of his astonishment, he found Ma- 
 dame de Boislambert !" 
 
 " Astonishment indeed !" exclaimed the 
 Baroness. " Why, the thing has been evident 
 for the last six weeks. At the last ball at the 
 Austrian Embassy he never left her an instant ; 
 and at the reception at the Hotel de Ville last 
 Saturday they were perfectly absurd. As to 
 that part of the affair, all Paris knew it ; but I 
 confess I thought it was a mere amourette, for 
 I did suppose that Madame de Boislambert was 
 too well-born to run away with a man whose 
 father was an agent de change.'^ 
 
 " I should not have dreamt of her running 
 away with any one," said Madame Ferrieres ; 
 " her reputation was so unimpeachable," 
 
 " Well, Gaston," added the Vicomte, " for 
 Heavens' sake, finish your story." 
 
 " There was Madame de Boislambert, at seven 
 o'clock in the morning, in Chavigny's apartment ! 
 and as to his astonishment being realy the sequel 
 will prove that. It appears that her first words 
 were : * Oh ! Lionel, I have sacrificed every 
 thing for you !' "
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 13 
 
 " Pleasant !" muttered the Vicomte. 
 
 " So thought Cha\'igny, as it seems ; for he 
 started back in dismay, and grew still more 
 terrified, when he heard these ominous expres- 
 sions followed up by the announcement of the 
 lady's plans. Every word of nonsense her 
 adorateur had ever uttered to her, she had 
 believed; and, after a considerable deal of 
 reasoning and reflection, had determined to 
 leave her husband and children, and fly to 
 Italy with Chavigny. Boislambert was absent 
 since yesterday, and not likely to return for a 
 week ; and she hoped to be at Milan, or at 
 Venice, before any thought of pursuit could be 
 entertained." 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the Baroness, " I suppose 
 M. Cha\igny had been talking to her about 
 gondolas, and the Adriatic, and ^ la solitude a 
 deux,' and all that kind of absurdity. ^Yell ! 
 and where are the happy couple now ? — on the 
 road to Lyons ?" 
 
 " On the contrary ; they are in Paris — at least 
 one of them is. Chavigny may be found at any 
 hour between five in the morning and three in 
 the day, at his apartment in the Rue Taitbout ;
 
 14 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 but as for la Marquise, no one knows where 
 she is." 
 
 "Probably in her own house in the Rue de 
 rUniversite," remarked M. de Moreton, " where 
 she will quietly await the coming of events, 
 and of the excellent M. de Boislambert." 
 
 " You are out there, Armand," replied the 
 relater of the tale. " She had a violent scene 
 with Chavigny, who talked reason to her, tried 
 to persuade her to return to her home, and 
 positively declined the responsibility of running 
 away with her. She declared that she would 
 leave France for ever, and that nothing should 
 induce her, after the step she had taken, to 
 re-enter her husband's doors." 
 
 " But," pursued the Baroness, " how did he 
 contrive to get rid of her ?" 
 
 " By telling her, I suppose, that his health, or 
 his purse, would not permit him to take such a 
 long journey," remarked the Vicomte, with a 
 sneer. 
 
 "I really do not know how he managed 
 matters in that respect," continued Gaston ; " but 
 I know that he is greatly annoyed by the whole 
 affair. He went directly to consult two of his
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 15 
 
 intimate friends on the occasion ; one of whom 
 related it all to me, not three quarters of an 
 hour ago." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I really pity him !" said the 
 kind-hearted Baroness. 
 
 "Diable!" cried M. de Moreton, laughing; 
 " he must have heen astonished when he saw his 
 innamorata! What \isions of trunks, band-boxes, 
 cap-cases, couriers, femmes-d^-chambre, doua- 
 niers, and musquitoes, must have passed through 
 his head, at the bare idea of a journey to Italy 
 under such circumstances !" 
 
 *'Well, I am not quite certain whether — 
 but hush" — and Gaston stopped short in what- 
 ever he was going to observe ; "let me Hsten to 
 the play ; a touch of Lucrece after all this will 
 be refreshing." 
 
 During the whole of the fifth act, the EngHsh 
 lady and her companion cast sundry side-glances 
 at their neighbours ; but, as it appeared, from 
 totally different motives. She never entirely 
 surmounted the kind of dread that was visibly 
 mingled with her curiosity ; whereas a spectator 
 would have said that, far from shrinking from 
 the impure contact, her companion seemed
 
 16 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 rather to derive from it pleasure, undeniable 
 though strange. Once or twice, however, the 
 lady's looks did rest with a certain degree of 
 complacency upon the stranger called Gaston. 
 And well, in truth, they might; for a more 
 striking, or a nobler figure has seldom met the 
 eye. It was not even so much the beauty of 
 the face (though that was handsome enough to 
 have rendered every other attribute superfluous) 
 which commanded attention, as the easy elegance, 
 the proud, aristocratical grace of the bearing. 
 There was a something almost royal about him, 
 that would have betrayed him — as Queen 
 Mary's hand did her — in the garb of a peasant. 
 
 At the end of the piece, while M. de 
 Moreton was arranging the shawl, the folds of 
 which it was his duty to superintend, Madame 
 de Cevezes turned round to Gaston : 
 
 " A propos though, to this affair," remarked 
 she, " you were saying, when the curtain last 
 drew up, that you were not quite certain of some- 
 thing — to what was it you alluded ?" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing. I merely meant to say, that 
 I was not quite certain whether Chavigny's 
 conduct could be excused."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 17 
 
 " WTiy, you would not have had the unhappy 
 man exile himself for the sake of Madame de 
 Boislambert ?" 
 
 " Humph ! I do not see how, consistently with 
 honour" — 
 
 " Bah ! what has honour to do with such 
 matters ?" exclaimed the Baroness. 
 
 "Little enough, I fear; still, Chavigny's was the 
 only name that had ever been coupled with hers !" 
 
 " Everything must have a beginning," laughed 
 Madame de Cevezes. 
 
 "That is possible; but it is for Chavigny 
 that she will have sacrificed all ; it is really he 
 who is responsible." 
 
 " Oh, my dear fellow !" yawned the Viscount, 
 "if it had not been he, it would have been 
 some one else ; and if he had been fool enough 
 to leave the world for her, she would have left 
 him for another lover before a year !" 
 
 Gaston made a shght gesture, clearly implying 
 that the justice of this argument could not be 
 denied, and the party moved on, leaving their 
 neighbours of the next box surprised in an 
 equal degree, though evidently from a totally 
 different cause.
 
 18 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 The lady and gentleman whom we have 
 seen far more attentive to their neighbour's 
 conversation than to M. Ponsard's tragedy, were 
 an English Baronet and his wife, Sir Edward 
 and Lady Vernon, who had arrived in Paris, 
 for the first time, two days before : a young 
 married couple, who had started early in the 
 winter of the preceding year, from the classical 
 haven of St. George's Hanover Square, to 
 navigate on the fitful sea of matrimony. Such 
 excellent advice had been given to them by such 
 excellent people; so many sermons had been 
 preached by so many respectable relations, the 
 whole tending to include the Continent in one 
 sweeping sentence of reprobation, that the young
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 19 
 
 husband and his still younger wife, being essen- 
 tially proper and well-brought-up people, looked 
 towards the opposite shore of the channel with 
 the sly longing of our first parents for the apple, 
 and contented themselves with wishing through 
 a whole twelvemonth in their own country. 
 
 At last, having shot, dined, and hunted 
 through two winters, and danced, breakfasted, 
 and bustled through one entire London season 
 (without counting a month of sea-batliing at 
 Ryde, in the autumn,) the temptation became 
 too strong, and on the 15 th of April 1843, 
 Sir Edward Vernon proposed to his wife, to 
 fly boldly in the face of the interdict laid upon 
 them, and repair at once to that pit of darkness 
 and abomination, to that Gomorrah and Babylon 
 of the righteous — to Paris. Lady Vernon agreed, 
 and on the 23rd of the same month a handsome 
 travelling-carnage, emblazoned with the Vernon 
 arms, rolled over the diabolical pavement of that 
 busy, brilliant city which certain rococo French- 
 men still persist in erroneously styling le Paradis 
 des femmes. 
 
 Mildred Egerton was the daughter of a 
 Westmoreland squire, or rather of a man whose
 
 20 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 grandfather having married a north-country 
 heiress, had emigrated from one of the midland 
 counties, and established his definitive home 
 near the lakes. The wealth of the original 
 settler had gone on increasing with each succes- 
 sive generation, so that Mr. Egerton, Mildred's 
 father, was justly looked upon as one of the 
 greatest land-owners and richest country gentle- 
 men in the north. The only thing that was 
 ever known to disturb his equanimity, was the 
 circumstance of having no heir. This did 
 occasion him considerable and constant vexation, 
 and after the birth of Mildred, he allowed Mrs. 
 Egerton to perceive, too plainly perhaps, how 
 bitter was his disappointment at the unlucky sex 
 of the child. 
 
 Hurt, on the one hand, at having no heir to 
 his name, in a country where, although newly 
 established, his riches had given him weight, 
 and where antiquity of race and purity of blood 
 is proverbial ; exposed in his home to every petty 
 annoyance that can be invented by a pious and 
 virtuous wife, whose sour temper only serves to 
 make virtue disagreeable, and piety odious ; poor 
 Mr. Egerton had recourse to the panacea of the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 21 
 
 Borderers, and died at forty-seven, from a too 
 liberal use of rum and water. The grave, 
 however, did not close on him before he had 
 had time to obviate, as much as in him lay, the 
 failure of male heirs to his name, by making a 
 will, in which his brother's son, Philip Egerton 
 of Braith, in the county of Lancashire, became 
 possessor of aU his landed estates, and of all his 
 funded property, save and except, the very 
 handsome portion of forty thousand pounds to 
 his only child. Mildred, at this period, had but 
 just completed her twelfth year, and whatever 
 counteraction her mother's austere method of 
 education might have met with in her father's 
 good-nature, that counteraction necessarily ceased 
 at his death, and Mildred became the docile 
 disciple of Mrs. Egerton, and the victim of her 
 misdirected zeal. 
 
 When young Philip Egerton, as he was 
 called, (he was then past thirty-thi'ee) received 
 the news of his uncle's death, and of his own 
 sudden accession of fortune thereby, he left 
 Vienna, w^here the news reached him, and 
 hastened to Westmoreland. He was met at the 
 widow's by his own mother, and with her again
 
 22 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 left the north, after a ten days' visit, declaring 
 that no consideration should induce him to 
 inhabit, unless as a guest, a house (which was 
 now his own) during his aunt's lifetime and 
 until the marriage of his cousin. 
 
 Here then was destroyed Mildred's last 
 chance of contemplating, by however small a 
 chink, the great world from which she was shut 
 out, or of varying in any degree the monotony 
 of her life. 
 
 She arrived at the age of eighteen without 
 any consciousness of her beauty, which was 
 remarkably great, and without any discontent at 
 her mode of life, which was dreary enough. If 
 Mildred had been an imaginative person, if she 
 had possessed that vivid poetical sense that can 
 brighten every common-place occurrence of life, 
 and that all-absorbing love of nature that is the 
 only real and profound passion of many a heart, 
 she would certainly have had no right to com- 
 plain. On the hazel-fringed banks of the deep 
 blue lakes, on the purple-mantled, heather- clad 
 Fells, she would have found that delight which 
 alone never cloys, that resource which alone 
 never fails. But Mildred was not 'a poetical
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 23 
 
 person; she was on the contrary, to the full 
 extent of the term, what has been called serious, 
 and followed demurely the matter-of-fact paths 
 of every day existence. 
 
 The autumn wind, as it moaned through 
 the dark pine trees on Whinfell, brought no 
 sound to her ears, as from an unknown sphere ; 
 the sun, as it set behind Helvellyn, spreading a 
 dais of gold over the hills, brought no ray of 
 sudden warmth to Mildred's heart, nor 
 quickened within her the sense of the Infinite. 
 It was not that her nature had resisted any 
 attempt at this sort of mental cultivation, but 
 that no such attempt had been made. 
 
 She grew up into a woman under her 
 mother's eye, and was in character more near to 
 forty than to eighteen. Still, although she had 
 nearly all Mrs. Egerton's opinions, she had but 
 few of her defects. Although she incHned to 
 anathematize (as it was highly proper she 
 should do) aU those who did not walk unflinch- 
 ingly on the thorny road of virtue, yet there 
 was something about her that seemed to say 
 this harshness was at variance \^ith her real 
 nature; and, unlike her mother, there was in
 
 24 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 her way of administering actual and material 
 charity, an ardour that betrayed an unconscious 
 dehght, at finding amongst her fellow-creatures, 
 some, at least, to whom she might allow her- 
 self to bo^kind. Mildred was as illiberal in her 
 ideas as it was well possible to be ; nay more, 
 she was narrow-minded, inasmuch as that of all 
 things she saw but one side, and would never 
 have imagined that it was admissible to view 
 the same question under two different aspects. 
 With her, right and wrong were absolute, never 
 relative. — It was the right and the wrong, and 
 not a Httle of each, counterbalancing and 
 neutralising the other. She was what the 
 French term toute d'une piece, and feU into the 
 grievous error of believing in the entire perfec- 
 tion of the apparently righteous, and in the 
 eternal perdition of those who had committed 
 one fault. Pitiless, inexorable for the latter, she 
 could not admit the existence of amiability apart 
 from the most exalted virtue, nor was virtue 
 itself quite indubitable in her eyes, if unac- 
 companied by its guardian, severity. 
 
 One morning at breakfast (shortly after 
 Mildred had completed her eighteenth year)
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 25 
 
 Mrs. Egerton received a letter from a former 
 friend of her own, whom she had not seen 
 above four or five times in the course of twenty 
 years. Lady Augusta Danvers announced that, 
 in a few weeks, she purposed making a tour of 
 the Lakes, on her road to Scotland, and hoped, if 
 Mrs. Egerton did not refuse to receive an old 
 school companion, to rest for some days at the 
 Larches. She was to travel with her husband, 
 the Hon. IMr. Danvers, and a young Baronet, 
 Sir Edward Vernon, to whom Mr. Danvers had 
 acted as guardian till within the last two years, 
 and in whose favour her Ladyship solicited an 
 extension of Mrs. Egerton's hospitality. Sir 
 Edward was going to visit a relation in 
 Scotland, and would probably not stay longer 
 than one or two days at the Larches. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Egerton was pleased with this 
 piece of intelligence is not known ; but Lady 
 Augusta was so highly respectable a person, 
 that it was impossible to do otherwise than 
 accept her offer with ever}' semblance of joy and 
 even gratitude. She was, therefore, in the 
 answer she received, requested to bear in mind 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 that she must consent to remain more than a 
 * few days' at the Larches, and that a 
 fortnight or three weeks was the shortest term 
 that her hostess would fix to so agreeable a 
 visit. 
 
 Every one, however good and worthy he or 
 she may be, bears somewhere the marks of 
 contact with what is called the world. Far 
 more disagreeable are the failings of those who 
 live alone ; far greater their vanities, far more 
 monstrous their selfishness ; but on the other 
 hand, worldliness will show itself inevitably, no 
 matter in how small or how hidden a manner, 
 in the very best of those whose home is in the 
 world. The worldhness of Lady Augusta 
 Danvers lay in a quiet kind of avarice, con- 
 trolled by her sense of her position, and by her 
 good taste and good breeding. Since Lady 
 Augusta's marriage, for example, she had never 
 spent the autumn and winter months any 
 where but in the houses of her friends. When 
 she received Mrs. Eger ton's letter, therefore, she 
 resolved instantaneously to conform to the wish 
 it expressed, and secretly agreed with herself
 
 MILDRED VERNON*. 27 
 
 (however dull she felt sure it would be) to 
 extend the 'fortnight or three weeks' — to a 
 month. 
 
 Early in September, the visitors arrived ; and 
 Mildred saw this unexpected diversion to her 
 daily tete-a-tdte take place, without e\TJicing, or 
 even feeling, the slightest annoyance or delight. 
 After a few days had passed, however, she really 
 did begin to feel considerable pleasure in the 
 society of Lady Augusta ; it was a still, imper- 
 ceptible, sort of pleasure, but pleasure it certainly 
 was. Mrs. Egerton, to do her justice, not\\'ith- 
 standing her puritanical notions, had not 
 neglected her daughter's education, and Mildi'ed 
 was, in her way, as accomplished as most girls 
 of her age. 
 
 In the society of her mother's guest, Mildred 
 found an undiscovered charm. Lady Augusta's 
 reputation was such, that Miss Egerton felt 
 obliged to look up to and respect her; at the 
 same time, she heard her constantly speaking of 
 a world with which she had hitherto thought it 
 pollution to mingle. This, while it took off the 
 distrust which similar discourses in any other 
 mouth might have awakened, stiU led her on 
 
 c 2
 
 28 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 to listen to, nay, even to become interested in, 
 persons and things, the very existence of which 
 was before unknown to her. The presence of 
 Sif Edward, too, who did not go to Scotland, 
 but awaited at the Larches the departure of his 
 friends, far from alarming Mildred, seemed to 
 help still further to draw her out, and certainly 
 diffused over the circle assembled at Mrs. 
 Egerton's a tone of gaiety utterly foreign to the 
 austere habits of the house. When the hand- 
 some young Baronet left Westmoreland, it was 
 with a warmer feeling of admiration for Miss 
 Egerton than he had himself suspected; and 
 strange to say, of the two, the separation did 
 not perhaps cause him the greater pain. 
 
 The following year Sir Edward Vernon 
 returned ; and a note dated Penrith, requested 
 the favour of a few moments' conversation with 
 Mrs. Egerton. 
 
 " I feel," said he, " that I am adopting a 
 course that ill accords with custom upon such 
 occasions ; but T also feel that my own peace of 
 mind requires it imperiously, and, therefore, 
 before I go further, I must be sure of your 
 support. I have seen enough of Miss Egerton
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 29 
 
 to be aware that everything must depend on 
 your consent — would you yield it to a union 
 between your daughter and myself? Is she free 
 to choose, and have I your permission to tr\- to 
 influence her choice in my favour ?" 
 
 Mrs. Eserton was too much flattered bv this 
 act of deference to refuse, and was not a little 
 touched at the thought of her daughter becom- 
 ing the wife of one of the earliest Enghsh 
 Baronets, with twenty thousand a year, and a 
 family estate dating from King Jolua. 
 
 Sir Edward Vernon, however, once assured of 
 meeting with no obstacle on !Mrs. Egerton's 
 part, had determined to let the official courtship 
 cease there, and play out the rest of the game 
 in his own way. This, he thought, would be 
 no very easy task, for Mildred never left her 
 mother's side when visitors of the male sex 
 were present, and he knew Mrs. Egerton too 
 well to suppose that she would institute an 
 exception in his favour, even under the present 
 circumstances. He contented himself therefore 
 with begging that the motive of his visit might 
 be kept an entire secret from Miss Egerton, 
 and took his leave, promising to return to the
 
 30 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Larches, at the end of the week, after a visit he 
 was forced to pay near Carlisle. 
 
 A month's residence under the same roof 
 renders people pretty well acquainted with one 
 another's domestic habits, and Sir Edward 
 recollected that one of Mildred's had been to 
 resort every evening, after dinner, to a certain 
 spot in the park, out of sight of the house, 
 where, under the shade of a wide-spreading 
 plane tree, she used to ponder over the pages of 
 her book. There was Mildred; seated, as 
 heretofore, on the old rustic bench; and, 
 screened by a thick group of shrubs behind, Sir 
 Edward could see every movement of her very 
 eyelashes as she turned her head towards his 
 hiding-place. Strange to say, though a book 
 was on her knee, it was unopened, and for 
 nearly a quarter of an hour, that he left her 
 undisturbed, her hand never sought to unfold 
 its contents. She seemed wrapt in thought, 
 but not in the kind of thought that indicates 
 calm or studious reflection. No ! there was a 
 vagueness in her look as it wandered over the 
 different objects around her, that would rather 
 - — if such a thing had been possible — have
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 31 
 
 shown that she was lost in a day-dream. The 
 rustling of the branches near aroused her, 
 and Sir Edward Vernon, hat in hand, stood 
 before her. " This proves ill for my topogra- 
 phical memory. Miss Egerton," said he 
 laughing. " I have been walking round by 
 Yanwath, and was endeavouring to regain the 
 town by crossing the fields, when I found 
 myself at an open gate, that I ought to have 
 recognised, and through which I came hither, 
 little thinking to disturb your studies." 
 
 Mildred was so great a novice that it was 
 impossible for her to disguise her emotion at 
 the sudden appearance of Sir Edward. She 
 could not — had she tried better than, in her 
 ignorance, she was capable of doing — she could 
 not have concealed the crimson flush upon her 
 cheek, the rapid beating of her heart, the 
 uncontrollable tremor of her voice. She had 
 been more affected than she was aware of by 
 the idea that he had revisited, and left the 
 Larches, without expressing a single wish to see 
 her ; and, although the feeling had not been one 
 of positive pain, it had approached nearly 
 enough to it to make that excited by his re-ap-
 
 32 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 pearance, one of pure, unequivocal delight. All 
 this was revealed to Sir Edward at a glance, 
 and he lost no time in taking advantage of it. 
 
 An hour — the happiest hour of Mildred's 
 hitherto solitary life, was spent under that wide- 
 spreading tree, and the sun had sunk to rest, 
 leaving only the last pale rays of his retreating 
 light upon the grass, before the lovers thought 
 of leaving the enchanted spot. At length. Sir 
 Edward, drawing Mildred's arm within his own, 
 began slowly to wend his way towards the 
 house ; and it is recorded of him that, in the 
 overflowing of his joy, he actually kissed Mrs. 
 Egerton. He did not, however, neglect to repeat 
 to the astonished matron the story of his having 
 lost his way, which Mildred, for her part, 
 implicitly believed, and for which she uncon- 
 sciously, and in her innocence, thanked Heaven, 
 — ^who as we know, had little enough to do in 
 the affair. 
 
 Mildred's wedding was fixed to take place in 
 six months, and Sir Edward was admitted as an 
 accepted lover. But in the mean time, Mrs. 
 Egerton died of a cold caught one day, while 
 disputing in the rain with a poor Catholic
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 33 
 
 woman who asked alms of her. This event 
 not only postponed the marriage, but necessarily 
 separated the bride and bridegroom. 
 
 The year of mourning was spent by Mildred 
 at the Larches, under the care of her aunt, the 
 mother of Philip Egerton ; whilst he himself, 
 the master of the domain, only visited it at 
 intervals, and for only a very few days together. 
 Miss Egerton grieved, as in duty bound, for 
 her parent ; but Mrs. Egerton was too unlove- 
 able a person for even the most pious daughter 
 to regret with that sorrow that knows no 
 healing. 
 
 The honeymoon was spent at Sir Edward's 
 place in Buckinghamshire, amongst the beautiful 
 box-wooded dells of the Chiltern Hills ; and then 
 commenced a series of visits to different rela- 
 tives and friends. During the following London 
 season, — of all the gaieties of which Lady 
 Vernon, to please her husband, partook, the 
 inexperienced and prejudiced country girl, if very 
 few of her opinions were radically altered, learned 
 at least the outward manners of the world, and 
 dropped some few of her austere observances. 
 For instance. Lady Vernon no longer thought 
 
 c 3
 
 34 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 it a crime to dance, though she absolutely 
 refused to waltz with any one but her husband : 
 she consented to occupy her box at the Opera, 
 and even allowed herself to be amused at the 
 French play, on such nights as the performance 
 happened to be fitted for a lady's ear. She 
 had gained in a year of married life, passed in 
 the midst of society, enough knowledge of 
 things, as they really were, to counteract the 
 baneful effects of some of the worst and most 
 dispiriting portions of her mother's false system 
 of education. Her youth, her great beauty, 
 and her natural elegance, made her an object 
 of general admiration ; whilst her conduct and 
 her reputation for strictness, both in morals 
 and piety, ensured her universal respect. 
 Warmly attached to her husband, whose 
 pride in his wife seemed manifest, nothing 
 appeared wanting to the happiness of the fair 
 Lady Vernon. 
 
 Of Sir Edward we have said little, because 
 little in truth there seemed to say. He was, 
 at five-and-twenty, (the period of his marriage) 
 what most young men are at that age. Left in 
 childhood an orphan, with a fine name, and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 35 
 
 a still finer fortune, he had passed (under the 
 guardianship of the Hon. ^Ir. Danvers) from 
 Eton to Cambridge, and from Cambridge to 
 the great school of the world, without, in 
 either, distinguishing himself from the herd. 
 He was a perfectly gentleman-like, well-educated 
 young man ; full of good nature and good heart, 
 which shone forth, right or wrong, upon all 
 occasions, and he was, therefore, supposed to be 
 amply stored with good principles, which no 
 one ever put to the test. Exceedingly handsome, 
 he had the decided merit of being neither affected 
 nor vain. 
 
 He had, however, unknown to himself, and in 
 common with too many of his countrjmen, 
 one failing: that of yielding too easily to the 
 attraction of the moment, \\ithout examining 
 from whence it sprung, or calculating whither 
 it might lead. The first charm that Sir 
 Edward Vernon found in Mildred Egerton, 
 was that of novelty. She held, in his opinion, 
 the position of a nun, to whom earthly sentiments 
 were forbidden ; and this only made him the 
 more anxious to win her. 
 
 Mildred had spent but forty-eight hours in
 
 36 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Paris, and she had already heard things which, to 
 her mind, were crimes not even to be named, 
 spoken of as of every day occurrence ; worse ! she 
 had heard a young and beautiful woman disclaim- 
 ing virtue as an attribute of her sex, and almost 
 the first French tongue whose accents had met 
 her ear, had given utterance to the fatal principle 
 upon which, in France, the whole system of social 
 relationships is based : the belief in the inevita- 
 bility of sin, and the disbelief in the individuality of 
 affection. " Moi ou un autre ;" — there is the 
 death-blow to the morahty and honour of social 
 France. With the belief in woman's purity, is 
 lost the respect without which she is deprived 
 of one of her incentives to virtue. With the 
 disbelief in the sacrifice come the ingratitude 
 and the dishonour.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The first impression produced on Lady 
 Vernon by the conversation she had overheard 
 at the Odeon, was, as many first impressions 
 are, an erroneous one, or rather, was based upon 
 an erroneous foundation. She was more 
 alarmed by the efi'ect than by the cause ; more 
 shocked at the existence of actual guilt, such as 
 she heard described, than at the profound 
 corruption of public opinion which was the 
 hidden fountain whence flowed each single guilty 
 fact. 
 
 On returning to their apartment in the 
 Hotel Bristol, Lady Vernon asked her husband 
 if he did not think Paris much too dreadful a 
 place to remain in, and if he did not agree
 
 38 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 with her that, as soon as they had seen all 
 the sights, (which they might contrive to do in 
 a week) it would be far better to leave it and 
 return to England. 
 
 Sir Edward laughed. "Really, Mildred," 
 said he, " you are too puritanical. There are 
 what you call improper people everywhere, and 
 even in England you will not go through life 
 without being exposed to hear of women running 
 away from their husbands ; but as there is no 
 danger of your following their example," (and 
 Sir Edward drew his wife towards him and 
 imprinted a kiss upon her cheek) " I do not see 
 why you need be alarmed." 
 
 Lady Vernon ventured on a very few words 
 more ; but as her husband's wishes to her were 
 a law, and as she saw that he really wished 
 to stay, she quickly gave up her point, and 
 resigned herself to make the best of her 
 forced sojourn in the sinful capital of Gaul. 
 
 Among the letters of introduction the travellers 
 had brought to Paris, was one to the Duchesse 
 de Montevreux, a still reigning star of the 
 aristocratical Faubourg St. Germain. The letter 
 had been sent, and cards exchanged, and the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 39 
 
 Duchess, having called on Lady Vernon without 
 meeting her, had left a charming note, written, 
 as only a Frenchwoman can write, begging for 
 the pleasure of Sir Edward and Lady Vernon's 
 company to dinner at the Hotel Monte\Teux 
 on the following Wednesday. 
 
 It was Sunday, and two days only were left 
 for Mildred to prepare a toilette that might 
 stand the scrutiny of one of the most critical 
 circles in Paris ; for the fame of the Duchess's 
 salon had already reached the ears of her 
 intended guests. The result, however, was 
 admirable, and ^Mildred had never in her life 
 looked lovelier. A white moire, of which the 
 thick folds hung heavy as the damask robes 
 of our grandmothers, showed off her slight and 
 somewhat bending figure ; half concealed amid 
 the rich spirals of her dark and lustrous hair, 
 was a water-lily, fresh from the atelier of 
 Constantin, whilst its sister-blossom drooped 
 gracefully on her bosom, and joined together 
 the two ends of a splendid berthe of point 
 d'Alenqon, made to match the costly trimmings 
 of her dress. 
 
 When Sir Edward and Ladv Vernon were
 
 40 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 announced, the Duchess advanced half way 
 to meet them ; and, conducting Mildred by 
 the hand into the midst of the small circle 
 formed at the upper end of the room, seated 
 herself immediately by the side of her new 
 guest. 
 
 " We should be great friends. Lady Vernon," 
 said she, " for Sir Edward's father and M. de 
 Montevreux were in habits of daily intimacy. 
 Poor, dear Sir John ! he contributed to render 
 Hartwell charming to us all ; and nothing could 
 surpass the consideration in w4iich he was held 
 by the King." 
 
 " Ah Madame !" exclaimed a little old man, 
 whose scrupulously-powdered head showed he 
 could belong to no other than to the old 
 regime, " your father-in-law had the honour 
 to be distinguished by the King, my master. 
 What a sad thing for you to visit Paris under 
 such different circumstances. Things are so 
 altered that — " 
 
 " Allans, M. le Due !" gaily interrupted 
 Madame de Montevreux, " do not let us 
 talk politics, you will frighten our new friend, 
 and make her think that Paris is no better
 
 MILDRED VERNON, 41 
 
 than it was in the days of the Revolution ; 
 whereas, I hope she wiU find that there are 
 stiU some, (and not a few) places of refuge, 
 where the traditions of other times are preserved, 
 and where things remain pretty much as they 
 w^ere in the reign of Louis XVI." 
 
 At this moment, the opening of a door 
 behind the sofa on which Mildred was seated, 
 admitted a fresh addition to the party. 
 
 " Gaston," said the Duchess, to this new 
 comer, " come here, that I may present you 
 to Lady Vernon. Sir Edward — my son." 
 
 Mildred could not help blushing, as she 
 looked up and saw in the young Due de 
 Montevreux, the handsome narrator of the 
 history of Madame de Boislambert. She felt 
 confused and alarmed, lest M. de Monte- 
 vreux should recognise in her, a person whose 
 ears, upon that occasion, had been polluted by 
 words such as no woman ought ever to have 
 heard. A few^ more guests arrived, and during 
 the remaining quarter of an hour that preceded 
 dinner, conversation became general. 
 
 " Were you at the concert, to-day, M. 
 le Due?" demanded a pretty-looking young
 
 42 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 woman, who was reclining in a hergere^ and 
 indolently biting the leaves of some white moss- 
 roses that formed her, at that season, almost 
 priceless bouquet. 
 
 " What concert ?" asked Gaston. 
 
 " As if there could be two !" replied the 
 lady, reproachfully. " Why our concert, to be 
 sure ; Madame de G — 's matinee, for which we 
 have been practising and rehearsing for these last 
 two months." 
 
 " A thousand pardons, Madame," said 
 M. de Montevreux, with a smile, "I remem- 
 ber ; a concert organized by Madame de G — , 
 for the victims of ... . I really do forget the 
 particular victims in favour of whom Madame 
 de G — wished to make all the world sing." 
 
 " For the victims of the late storms on the 
 coast of Brittany ; it is too bad of you, M. le 
 Due, not to remember these things." 
 
 " But Madame de G — is herself a Langue- 
 docienne," remarked Gaston. "What makes 
 her take so warm an interest in the Kernevotes 
 and the Tregorrois ?" 
 
 " Her brother-in-law has become a Deputy 
 for some town in the Finist^re."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 43 
 
 " Ah ! vous m'en direz tant I And did you 
 sing, Madame ?" pursued Gaston, turning to the 
 lady who had first addressed him. 
 
 " I \yonder Fame has not told you that 
 akeady," exclaimed a young man, who had 
 hithertjo been silent, " for all Paris is full of it 
 at this hour. Ah ! mon cher, you never 
 witnessed such a succes /" (the heroine of the 
 white moss-roses cast a languid glance at the 
 speaker, and vouchsafed him a sleepy smile.) 
 " In truth, Madame la Comtesse," continued he, 
 " I w^as occupied during the whole time of your 
 morceau in asking myself whether Malibran 
 and Sontag united, could ever have show^n 
 so much talent. Such a voice ! such expres- 
 sion !" 
 
 *' You flatter me," lisped the lady, " I never 
 was so enchanted in my life, as by your sister — 
 she was delicious, quite ravissante .'" 
 
 " Ah ! but no one can compare with 
 you. . . ." 
 
 " Ah ! Madame de Barre also was charming, 
 wonderful ! It is true, her voice is not so 
 fine as it used to be. She sings music that
 
 44 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 does not suit her. Her flexibility is astonishing, 
 quite extraordinary." 
 
 "But mere flexibility leaves one so cold," 
 added the determined admirer, "whereas, the 
 dramatic and simple style, — your style, goes to 
 the heart." 
 
 The cantatrice smiled again. 
 
 "Why certainly, Madame de Barre rarely 
 touches one much, or if she tries to do so, 
 she screams. It is, perhaps, wrong in me to 
 say so, it may look like vanity, but I certainly 
 do prefer the simple and expressive style. Did 
 you stay till the end ?" 
 
 An affirmative answer. 
 
 "Did you hear my grand duo .?" (the cantatrice 
 became more lively.) 
 
 " I did ; how splendidly you gave that passage, 
 * € figlio mio !' you made me tremble ; and 
 M. de Marsy seconded you very well." 
 
 "Pardon" exclaimed the fair songstress, 
 with a bitterness of which nothing in her pre- 
 vious manner could have given an idea, " he 
 very nearly spoilt my last entree by the absurd 
 fioritura he chose to put at the end of his
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 45 
 
 corresponding phrase. I never heard anything 
 half so ridiculous ;" and, animated with indig- 
 nation, the fair Comtesse, almost with tears 
 in her eyes, proceeded to state, in all its details, 
 a detestable plot of which, according to her, 
 M. de Marsy was the agent, and she herself the 
 intended \actim. 
 
 Whilst these two scions of two of the noblest 
 houses in France were discussing, in terms that 
 would not have been misplaced in the coulisses, 
 an affair more suited to Opera-singers than to 
 people of the world, Gaston was explaining why 
 he had missed Madame de G — 's public 
 matinee, 
 
 " To tell the truth," observed a lady of a 
 certain age, to whom Madame de Montevreux 
 paid great attention, "I had counted on your 
 arm for taking me to my carriage, for Raoul had 
 been forced to go away." 
 
 "■ Indeed, my dear aunt," rejoined Gaston, 
 " I should have been too happy to be useful to 
 you ; but I was forced to go to a place where 
 I am sure you would yourself have liked to be — 
 to the Chamber of Deputies." 
 
 " You are verv kind ! Prav what may make
 
 46 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 you imagine that I should like to find myself 
 in such bad company ? I would almost as soon 
 go to the Tuileries, — where all the united efforts 
 of M. and Madame Buonaparte failed to induce 
 me to put my foot.'' 
 
 Gaston laughed. 
 
 "I went," said he, "to assist at the first 
 speech of one of our newly re-elected deputies — 
 our faithful and glorious 'fletris !' "^ 
 
 "In that case, 1 grant that I could have 
 liked to be there," replied the Princesse de la 
 Roche Bermont (Gaston's aunt.) " Did Berryer 
 speak ?" 
 
 " He did — and magnificently." 
 
 " And the subject ?" 
 
 "I scarcely know how to say it before Sir 
 Edward Vernon," and Gaston accompanied 
 these words with a smile and a slight incli- 
 nation of the head ; " for I fear ces Messieurs 
 
 * The reader may recollect that, in the winter of 1843, 
 the Chamber pronounced public censure on the conduct of 
 those legitimatist deputies who had gone to see the Due de 
 Bordeaux in Belgrave Square. The word used was 'Jtetrir/ 
 and the "Jletris'' withdrew from the Chamber and re- 
 presented themselves before their constituents.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 47 
 
 were not very polite touching England and the 
 English government. The subject was the droit 
 de visite /" 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" rejoined the Princesse. " I 
 can conceive that on that subject Berry er must 
 have been eloquent/' and the look that she 
 bestowed on Sir Edward, plainly showed that 
 good breeding alone prevented her from pro- 
 ceeding further. 
 
 During all this time, Mildred, when not 
 entirely taken up in talking to the Duchess, had 
 been occupied with a silent examination of the 
 different objects that surrounded her. From 
 her first entrance into the Hotel de !Monte\Teux 
 she had been unable to avoid surprise. She had 
 heard fi-om her childhood of the poverty of the 
 French people ; of the miseiy and want of 
 comfort of their abodes ; and she had found 
 herself in a palace, the richness of which cer- 
 tainly equalled, and the elegance of which as 
 certainly surpassed, any of the fashionable houses 
 of London. 
 
 After passing through two immense salons, 
 in which gilt carvings of Louis the Fourteenth's 
 era, and Venetian miiTors, divided the decoration
 
 48 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 of the walls with choice paintings of the Italian 
 School, she had been ushered into the room we 
 have already mentioned, and of which MUdred 
 took an attentive survey. The floor was covered 
 with a carpet into which the feet sunk as into 
 deep moss. Each separate panel on the walls 
 displayed a marvellous piece of Gobelins tapestry, 
 representing the chivalrous feats of an ancestor 
 of the family, performed during the wars of the 
 Grand Monarque, and by him especially pre- 
 sented to the then existing Duke. 
 
 On the large chimney-piece of carved Italian 
 marble, gilt bronzes of the costliest kind, 
 twisted themselves into curious forms, and made 
 the lights they bore appear like glittering fruit 
 hanging amongst shining leaves. A clock, 
 worthy of Versailles, stood in the centre, whilst 
 all around, were countless smaller gems of art : 
 vases of Sevres, Dresden figures, bonbonnieres 
 of amethyst, and baubles of pure gold. Window 
 draperies of crimson damask showed through 
 their parted folds, the delicate texture of white 
 inner curtains, embroidered with fairy fineness, 
 much as a lady allows the Valenciennes lace 
 on her petticoat (when it has cost five guineas
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 49 
 
 a yard) to appear through the aperture of her 
 floating peignoir. Jardinieres of boule, filled 
 with lightly-perfumed flowers; colossal vases 
 from Japan, whence sprung huge tufts of lilies, 
 their gilt branches terminating in the softened 
 radiance of a lamp; etageres crowded with 
 curiosities, of which the least was alone a 
 treasure, contributed to make of this apartment 
 a fairy temple, whose divinity was evidently 
 good taste. 
 
 One of the greatest beauties of the Hotel 
 Montevreux was, that a single glance sufficed 
 to show you that no parvenu, however rich, 
 could have there made his home, and that its 
 inhabitants must have been of old and gentle 
 race. It was seen at once that luxury was not 
 looked upon as a superfluity, as a sort of fine 
 garment to be donned sometimes, and at others 
 carefully put by ; but that it was the constant 
 and indispensable companion of existence. There 
 were the easy habit of wealth, which had ceased 
 to astonish its possessor, and the purity of 
 taste that could aff'ord not to accumulate in one 
 heterogeneous mass, every object that money 
 could obtain. The traces, too, of noble birth 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 50 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 met the eye at every turn ; heir-looms were in 
 each corner, and all around, one felt the con- 
 secration of time. Throughout the gorgeous 
 apartments of the Hotel Montevreux, it would 
 have been as difficult to detect any object of 
 recent acquisition, any purchase of yesterday, 
 as any ornament, of whatever price, which did 
 not serve for daily use. 
 
 It is not every house in Paris that can boast, in 
 an equal degree, of this splendeur du coin du 
 feu. The conditions of luxury are widely diffe- 
 rent in different quartiers, and in one only has it 
 the aspect we have been endeavoiu-ing to paint. 
 The rich bankers of the Chaussee d'Antin — 
 from the Rothschilds downwards — though they 
 spend more on the decorations of their houses 
 than would keep in very proper style a gentle- 
 man's family in London — still cannot, do what 
 they will, divest their homes of that over- 
 powering odour of parvenU'ism that flies to your 
 head every time you enter their doors. Every 
 thing is too rich, too fine, too dazzling. There 
 is too much scarlet and gold, and blue and 
 silver; there are too many flowers, too many 
 lights, too many servants ! There are visible.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 51 
 
 too, in the masters and mistresses of the house 
 such a profound veneration for their own goods, 
 such a watchful carefulness, such an unquiet 
 admiration for every article which unto them 
 belongs ; — but, above all, every thing is too new, 
 and shows too clearly whence it sprung. 
 
 There is, between the abode of a gentilhomme 
 in Paris, and that of an enrichi, the difference 
 that exists between a cashmere of Lahore and 
 a shawl fabricated by Ternaux; between point 
 lace of Spain and Belgium, mellowed by the 
 deepening tints of centuries, and the bright, 
 staring, snow-white produce of imitative modem 
 industry. The woman of fashion, the lionne, 
 has also her style of luxury. She changes the 
 furniture of her apartment (no matter what the 
 price) once perhaps in every year, and at the 
 end of a twelvemonth, denounces as rococo the 
 fancies that have cost thousands ; but her style 
 is not so much a vulgar, as it is a bad style, 
 denoting instantaneously the eccentricity, if not 
 \iciousness of her mind and conduct. In the 
 Faubourg St. Germain alone, is to be found the 
 high-born, high-bred elegance, the unimpeach- 
 able taste, which produces that union of simplicity 
 
 D 2 
 
 UBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSiry OF lUINOts
 
 52 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 and richness, of magnificence and ease, which 
 none but a gentleman can appreciate, and to 
 which none but a gentleman can attain. 
 
 At the same time, however, this distinction 
 from the rest of society (a distinction which 
 extends to manners, habits, and certain senti- 
 ments) has been bought at a price which to 
 many may seem too high. If, as we have 
 heard Madame de Montevreux say, there are 
 in Paris, " places of refuge where old traditions 
 are held sacred, and where scarcely any thing 
 is changed since the days of Louis XVI," the 
 class to which these " places" belong, while 
 reserving, for its own indisputable possession, 
 the domain of good-breeding, and of all 
 noble traditions, has excluded itself from all 
 participation in the realities of life. Strangers 
 to the universal march of mind in other 
 countries, and to the pohtical transformations 
 of their own ; indifferent to events which they 
 instinctively feel will pass harmless over a 
 government they detest ; keeping up, more 
 from vanity than from any other sentiment, 
 the superstitious worship of institutions and 
 forms which they feel but will not avow, are
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 53 
 
 irretrievably and for ever destroyed — the aris- 
 tocracy of France, in their princely hotels and 
 chateaux, live apart from the rest of the positive 
 world, in a world peopled with illusions of their 
 own. 
 
 Silent, in the midst of the general clamour, 
 or only raising their voices to utter a hon- 
 mot ; motionless in the midst of the universal 
 activity ; disdainful of the knowledge all the 
 world is striving to gain; looking backwards, 
 while the eyes of all the world are on the 
 future; denying the existence of ever}'thing, 
 save themselves, and their creed — they remain, 
 politically speaking, a monument of glory in the 
 past, and, in the present, of utter inutility. In 
 a moral sense, they are of far greater conse- 
 quence ; and without them, you might, from 
 one end of France to the other, search in vain 
 for gentlemanly manners, habits, feelings, or 
 traditions. 
 
 Just as the conversation was beginning to 
 place itself on the treacherous ground of present 
 politics, dinner was announced, and, in a few 
 minutes more, Lady Vernon found herself 
 seated by the side of the Due de Montevreux,
 
 54 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 on whose other hand was his aunt, the Princesse 
 de la Roche Bermont. Opposite to Mildred (to 
 the right of the mistress of the house) was an 
 ecclesiastic, the Cure of a metropolitan parish, 
 and confessor to the Duchess. From the face 
 of this venerable man — venerable more from 
 his evident saintliness, than from his age, for he 
 could not have been more than fifty — Lady 
 Vernon could not, despite her rigid Protestant 
 tenets, avert her almost constant attention. 
 
 The Abbe de Nangis seemed, indeed, formed 
 by nature for his sublime ministry. Such a 
 mixture of mildness and dignity is but rarely to 
 be found, as was visible on the countenance of 
 the man, of whom an illustrious prelate had 
 said : " I know not whether he be more angel 
 than saint, or more saint than angel ; but one of 
 the two, if not both, he assuredly is." If, in 
 the broad expanse of brow, and in the finely- 
 chiselled nose, might be traced certain marks of 
 an inflexible firmness, that showed what a 
 character of majesty indignation must impart 
 to his countenance, the pure Unes of the benign- 
 ant mouth, and the gentle, kind, expression of 
 the eye, showed also that none but the impeni-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 55 
 
 tent guilty could excite it. Above all the rest 
 of his priestly functions, you would at once have 
 said that M. de Nangis was best quahfied 
 for those of a confessor; for you saw instan- 
 taneously, that, if sorrow and remorse were 
 sure to find in him advice, consolation, and 
 pardon, indifference would not pass unreproved, 
 and that the species of Jesuitical casuistry with 
 which people of the world contrive to disguise 
 their sins, even to themselves, would meet with 
 the uncompromising severity due to such 
 impious prevarication. Every one at table, 
 from the master and his guests down to the 
 last of the serving-men, treated the Abbe with 
 a respect, which, from a thousand little circum- 
 stances, was visibly paid even more to the man 
 than to the priest. 
 
 Before the first glass of wine that followed the 
 soup had well gone round. Sir Edward took an 
 opportunity of addressing M. de Montevreux 
 from the opposite side of the table. " If I 
 mistake not, M. le Due, you w^ere at the Odeon 
 last Thursday evening ?" 
 
 Mildred felt WTetched, and wondered how her
 
 56 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 husband could make such an allusion before 
 her. 
 
 " I was ;" replied the Duke ; " how unfor- 
 tunate for me not to have been already aware — 
 perhaps, unconsciously, T was in your neighbour- 
 hood r 
 
 " The very next box," replied Sir Edward. 
 
 Mildred became crimson, and felt so painfully 
 convinced that she had been, upon that 
 occasion, placed in an equivocal position by her 
 mere approximation to persons whom she 
 imagined must be out of the pale of society, 
 that, in her confusion, she found no answer to 
 Gaston's question of " how had she liked 
 Lucr^ce?" Luckily, Madame de Montevreux 
 came to her aid. 
 
 " So !" said she, looking good-naturedly at 
 her son, " So! You were there on Thursday ! 
 It was to admire M. Ponsard's verses, that 
 you left me at Madame de D — 's ? Well ! 
 if I am not indiscreet, with whom were 
 you?" 
 
 " With Madame de Cev^zes," answered 
 Gaston carelessly.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 57 
 
 "Ah !" said the Duchess, with an emphasis 
 and an expression of physiognomy wherein the 
 very uninitiated alone could have failed to read 
 volumes. 
 
 " And with Madame Ferrieres," added the 
 young man, somewhat hastily. 
 
 The Abbe looked displeased. 
 
 " Voyons, chere Duchesses'' drawled forth 
 the Comtesse de Brevannes (the lady of the 
 white roses and the grand duo,) " pray do 
 not be severe upon Madame de Cevezes ; you 
 know she is my intimate friend." 
 
 Lady Vernon could scarcely control the 
 manifestation of her surprise. What ! the 
 woman whose conversation she had overheard, 
 was received in society, and claimed as a friend 
 by a person admitted at the table of the 
 Duchesse de Montevreux ? 
 
 " I compliment you on your choice, ma 
 chere,'' said the Duchess, ironically. 
 
 " We were brought up together, and 
 mamma and Madame de Vallemer, you know, 
 were always inseparable. I assure you, Aurelie 
 is much better than her reputation; besides 
 
 D 3
 
 58 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 which, she is such a dear, odd, creature, and so 
 delightfully amusing !" 
 
 "That may be," replied the Duchess, -' but you 
 forget that Madame de Moreton is my cousin." 
 
 " Well, really, Duchess," continued Madame 
 de Brevannes, '^I think you must allow that 
 the Viscount has been far more to blame than 
 Aurelie." 
 
 "More to blame, Madame la Comtesse !" 
 exclaimed the Princesse de la Roche Bermont, 
 rather indignantly. " I am at a loss to com- 
 prehend how, in a case where there can be no 
 excuse, there can be more or less blame ?" 
 
 " Why in truth," retorted Madame de 
 Brevannes, " the strongest are not always 
 strong ; look at Madame de Boislambert !" 
 
 The mention of this name made a profound im- 
 pression ; a shade passed over every countenance 
 and from almost every breast escaped a sigh. 
 
 " Poor Louise !" said the Duchess. 
 
 The Cure laid down his knife and fork, and 
 passed his hand over his forehead. 
 
 The Princess shrugged her shoulders, and 
 consoling herself with a long pinch from a gold
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 59 
 
 snuif-box, on which was the portrait of Marie- 
 Antoinette mounted in diamonds, murmured, — 
 " It is perfectly inconceivable !" 
 
 " There ! you see how unjust you are !" 
 observed Madame de Brevannes ; " you con- 
 demn Madame de Cevezes \yithout pity ; and 
 when one of your own particular idols is in 
 question, you are all astonishment and indul- 
 gence." 
 
 " But what a difference, Countess !" rejoined 
 Madame de Monte vreux ; " for, intimate as you 
 may be with the Baroness, 1 do not imagine 
 that you would ever dream of comparing her 
 with our unfortunate Louise." 
 
 " Their educations were so different !" 
 objected the Countess. 
 
 " Indeed they were, I promise you !" added 
 Madame de la Roche Bermont. " It is not 
 under the guardianship of her sainted mother, 
 or under the care of her aunt, the Superieure of 
 the Dames de la Visitation de St. Malo, that 
 she would have learned much proficiency in 
 those lionneries of which your friend the 
 Baroness is so proud."
 
 60 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 "Poor thing!" said the Duchess, " I was 
 present at her marriage." 
 
 "And I," added the Abb^ mournfully, "gave 
 her the nuptial benediction/' 
 
 " Well do I remember that, M. le Cur6," re- 
 joined the Princesse de la Roche Bermont ; 
 " for you never made a more impressive dis- 
 course." 
 
 " That is not extraordinary, Madame la 
 Princesse," replied he, " for I never felt more 
 deeply moved upon any occasion. I had 
 baptized as an infant, admonished as a child, 
 confessed as a girl, the woman who knelt at the 
 altar. Five short years before, she had knelt 
 upon the same spot, when, for the first time, I 
 administered to her the Holy wafer in Com- 
 munion. I knew — I am convinced I knew — 
 every secret of her mind and heart ; and, up to 
 the time when I was obliged to leave Paris, a 
 year and a half ago, I could have told every 
 thought that crossed her brain. A purer, 
 nobler, more high-minded, or more sincerely 
 pious being, never bent her knee in my confes- 
 sional. You may judge, Madame la Princesse,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 61 
 
 of my astonishment, of my horror, of my grief, 
 when, on my return from Rome, three days ago, 
 I heard the dreadful news that awaited me." 
 
 "You can of course form no idea of where she 
 is likely to have flown for refuge ?" said Gaston, 
 with a look of real interest. The Abbe shook 
 his head. " Not the most distant one," repHed 
 he i " but I hope, and I think I am sure, that 
 she wtU have sought spiritual comfort in 
 religion ; and that, what I know must be her 
 sorrow and her repentance, may have found 
 grace in the eyes of Him who alone can vouch- 
 safe forgiveness." 
 
 " What has become of ^M. de Boislambert ?" 
 inquired Madame de Monte \Teux. 
 
 "No one appears to know," replied her son ; 
 " he was absent at his terre in Lorraine when 
 his wife left her home, and was immediately 
 sent for; but, since then, every one seems 
 ignorant of what has occurred." 
 
 " Well !" remarked Madame de Brevannes, 
 " you will not say, that it was he who drove her 
 to forget her duty — for if ever a husband 
 existed who spoilt and doted on his wife, that 
 husband was General de Boislambert."
 
 62 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " Well !" said the Abbe de Nangis, "I never 
 liked the marriage, and so I told Madame de 
 Beaumeillant ; but her husband's last wish had 
 been, that a union should take place between 
 the General and his daughter. I did not — 
 Heaven is my witness — fear for the conduct 
 of Mademoiselle de Beaumeillant, but for her 
 happiness. I, too, thought she should have 
 married a younger man ; but the noble, the 
 almost perfect character of M. de Boislambert, 
 and Mademoiselle de Beaumeillant's own assu- 
 rances that she wished to become his wife, tran- 
 quillized me, and made me hope that her 
 future happiness was as much assured as I felt 
 certain his must be." 
 
 The Duchess turned to her neighbour. 
 **You can have no conception, Sir Edward," 
 said she, " how this unfortunate event has 
 affected the society of our Faubourg ; for, 
 though the General de Boislambert differed in 
 politics wholly and totally from us all, we had, 
 from his and his wife's birth and connections, 
 never ceased to regard him as one of us." 
 
 " I confess I had been taught to think," 
 replied Sir Edward, with a smile, " that
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 63 
 
 occurrences of this kind were more frequent 
 in Paris society, and consequently less heeded 
 than I perceive is the case." 
 
 " Taris society' is a wide word, Sii* Edward," 
 answered Madame de Monte vreux ; "we have 
 our own, and mix but little in that which is 
 generally so termed ; but aniongst the singu- 
 larities with which we are reproached by a 
 certain world — from which we hold ourselves 
 entirely apart, is to be reckoned that of the 
 respect we still retain for the faith of our 
 ancestors, and for the traditions of honour they 
 have transmitted to us. We say ' noblesse 
 oblige ;' and certainly, in that sense, the grands 
 seigneurs and the grandes dames of our two 
 revolutions, have a perfect right to their liberty 
 of action." These last words were uttered with 
 an expression of disdain that, in any one less 
 unmistakably a gentlewoman than the Duchess, 
 would have been all but unseemly; in her it 
 was so evidently unaffected that it scarcely struck 
 you at all. 
 
 " How very strange that we, who live so 
 much abroad, and particularly in Paris, should 
 have formed so incorrect an opinion of the
 
 64 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 general state of morality in the upper classes 
 of French society," observed Sir Edward. 
 
 " In the first place," replied the Duchess, 
 " allow me to remark, that I am not speaking 
 of the general state of morality in France, or of 
 general society, but of one particular portion of 
 the Parisian world ; and in the next, do not be 
 offended if I ask you, how your compatriots 
 should be able to form a just estimate of the 
 manners, or social habits of any nation they may 
 visit, seeing that they rarely associate with any 
 but themselves, or with the least respectable of 
 the foreigners who surround them. As to their 
 entire ignorance of our particular customs and 
 traditions, that is easily accounted for, by the 
 small opportunities they have of observing 
 us." 
 
 ' " How so ?" interrupted Sir Edward, with 
 much curiosity. 
 
 " We frequent, but very little, the houses of 
 others, and receive almost as little in our own. 
 Our circles are formed of our relations, con- 
 nections, and intimate friends ; but of what the 
 world styles chance acquaintances, we have, I 
 may safely say, none. Above all, we avoid
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 65 
 
 foreigners, and, for instance, I may tell you that 
 Lady Vernon and yourself are the only English 
 people who have entered this house since 1830 ; 
 but then," and Madame de Monte vreux had a 
 grace of manner whilst saying this to which 
 nothing can be compared ; " you will accept our 
 intimacy, I hope ; for of what is termed 
 amusement, or gaiety, we have but httle to 
 offer." 
 
 Sir Edward had hardly completed the 
 expression of his thanks, when his attention 
 was attracted by Madame de Brevannes, who 
 called upon him, in his character of an English- 
 man, and consequently an hahitue of the tmf, 
 to settle some knotty point between herself 
 and her neighbour, concerning the winner of 
 last year's Derby. The question decided, Sir 
 Edward could not help expressing his surprise 
 at finding a French lady so learned in such lore. 
 The Duchess smilingly interrupted him. " Ah," 
 said she, shaking her head at the Countess, 
 " Ir^ne is quite spoilt, she is becoming a perfect 
 lionne /" 
 
 " Fumez-vous, Madame?'' asked the Princesse
 
 66 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 de la Roche Bermont, with a look and a tone as 
 difficult to imagine as to describe. 
 
 Whilst exclaiming : " Oh! Prince sse .'" with 
 well-aifected disgust, the Countess looked some- 
 what confused. " You have so terrified Sir 
 Edward Vernon, chere Duchesse,^' continued 
 she, " with your account of my sins, that he has 
 refused to take a sorbet a la Caradoc. That 
 is a crime of lese-friandise that ought not to be 
 forgiven. You ought to try one. Sir Edward, 
 for two reasons : first, that this is the only 
 house in Paris where they are as good as at 
 the inventor's own table ; and next, out of 
 patriotism, and because it is no slight merit 
 in an Enghshman to have attached his name to 
 anything in the kingdom of Vatel and Careme." 
 
 " I will take one, Madame la Comtesse, 
 because you recommend it," rejoined Sir Edward, 
 who seemed to wish, for some unknown reason, 
 to be more than commonly civil to Madame 
 de Brevannes ; and, as he raised to his lips 
 the glass of what looked like rose-coloured 
 snow, the bow he addressed to her was 
 answered by a careless, languid smile.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 67 
 
 Between the end of dinner and the early 
 hour when it is usual in Paris to leave the 
 house where you have dined, the Duchess's 
 salon became animated by one of those delicious 
 causeries, of which the secret is not wholly 
 lost in France, but which is principally to be 
 met with in perfection in the boudoirs of the 
 Faubourg St. Germain. The matter was 
 nothing, it was the manner that was so 
 charming. The most futile subjects (indeed 
 such alone were broached) became the frame- 
 work to which was attached a whole arsenal of 
 the fireworks of wit — " de V esprit, de V esprit, 
 toujours de V esprit!'' as Rousseau said of 
 Voltaire. It flashed, frothed, and sparkled ; 
 but when it was once done, left behind it as 
 little as the light of a rocket, or the foam on a 
 glass of champagne. Mildred, who had been 
 duly presented to the whole circle, took rather an 
 attentive than an active part in the conversation. 
 Not so Sir Edward, who, for upwards of half- 
 an-hour, devoted himself to Madame de Bre- 
 vannes. 
 
 When the party broke up, he had already 
 made an appointment to meet the fair Countess
 
 68 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 on the ensuing day, at the Manege^ in order to 
 assist her with his opinion on the merits of a 
 horse she had an inclination to purchase. 
 
 " That is," premised she, laughing in her 
 somnolent way, "if Lady Vernon will not be 
 jealous ; for I have heard so much of the jealousy 
 of your English wives, that I confess they frighten 
 me out of my wits."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 69 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 For a fortnight after her first grand diner 
 in Paris, nothing happened that could materially 
 influence Mildred's opinion of French society, 
 excepting that, from her closer intimacy with 
 the habitues of the Hotel Montevreux — she 
 perceived that there were some people in France 
 who had the good taste not to treat either vice 
 or virtue lightly, but boldly to reprobate the 
 one and as boldly to uphold the other. 
 
 I will not say that, upon a nearer examination, 
 Gaston de Monte\Teux would have been found to 
 be as rigid in any of his opinions as his mother. 
 He had mixed somewhat more than she had 
 with the society of the Revolution of July, and 
 amongst a certain set of men, club and coulisse
 
 70 MILDRED VERNON 
 
 fixtures, {et tout ce qui s'ensuit), many of his 
 earlier ideas had been changed, though cer- 
 tainly not to the advantage of humanity. Still, 
 the Due de Montevreux had retained all his 
 gentlemanly habits; and whatever he might 
 admit in his conscience as possible or impossible, 
 the uneradicable good taste he had been taught 
 to venerate from his cradle forbade him from 
 openly professing immorality, or seeking to 
 ridicule its reverse. Gaston might have been 
 corrupt, but never could have been cynical. 
 His mother, with all a woman's, and a French- 
 woman's tact, guessed instinctively that her son 
 differed from her upon more than one point ; so 
 did the Abbe de Nangis ; but they were both 
 of them too able tacticians, and too certain, 
 in the main, of Gaston's good heart and 
 honourable principles, to provoke an explosion 
 on his part by inquiring too deeply into his 
 opinions. 
 
 Not a day passed without bringing together 
 the Vernons and M. de Montevreux. He ac- 
 companied them in the morning, and met them 
 in the evening. Often alone with Mildred (for 
 Sir Edward was now constantly engaged, no
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 71 
 
 one knew where), Gaston's ideas, though they 
 had sometimes startled, had as yet never shocked 
 Lady Vernon. She felt perfectly at her ease 
 with him, and took a decided pleasure in his 
 society ; whilst he, on the other hand, initiated 
 her into many of the little secret intricacies 
 of Paris life, without which such a novice as she 
 was would have been lost. 
 
 Mildred had already, on the few occasions 
 afforded her of appearing in the world, obtained 
 the reputation of a beauty, and in all the 
 fashionable circles of Paris, la belle Lady 
 Vernon was spoken of as an object of curiosity 
 and admiration. This celebrity seemed to please 
 the husband more than it did the wife; and 
 whilst Sir Edward evidently enjoyed the no- 
 toriety, Mildred shrunk from it abashed. 
 
 In the very first days of May a ball was 
 
 to be given at the embassy, towards 
 
 which all Paris was anxiously looking. The 
 night came. Mildred, as she passed through 
 the long suite of rooms, leaning on her husband's 
 arm, and sought the spot where the Ambassa- 
 dress was standing, could not avoid hearing the 
 admiring murmurs that both met and followed
 
 72 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 her steps. She turned to her husband once 
 as if to catch his eye, but he was searching 
 for some one in the crowd ; and as soon as 
 he perceived the Due de Monte vreux, he darted 
 off, leaving his wife to Gaston's care. 
 
 As the latter was conducting Mildred to 
 a seat, " How late you are !" said he. " My 
 mother has been here this hour, and looking for 
 you everywhere/' 
 
 " Is the Duchess here to-night ?" inquired 
 Lady Vernon, surprised. " I thought she never 
 frequented these great crowds." 
 
 " Rarely enough," rephed the Duke ; " but 
 she is here to-night for a particular purpose. 
 Madame de Moreton has just arrived in town, 
 and my mother has come on her account. She 
 desired me to say, if I met you, that she 
 wishes to present her to you, and counts upon 
 your kindness for being more than usually 
 amiable to my cousin. You are aware of her 
 position ?" 
 
 " Perfectly," answered Mildred. " Poor thing! 
 Is her husband here, do you think ?" 
 
 " Here ? of course he is ! I have been talking 
 to Madame de Cevezes in the card-room."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 73 
 
 ** How can you do so ?" rejoined ^Mildred, 
 reproachfully. " I really cannot understand 
 your continuing on even bowing terms with 
 either her or the Viscount." 
 
 "Why, after all," answered Gaston, "what 
 business is it of mine ? I am very sorry for 
 my cousin, but she has two brothers, and if 
 they do not choose to take up their sister's 
 quarrels and cut Moreton's throat, I have really 
 no right to do so. !Moreton and I are old 
 acquaintances; I will not say friends, for I 
 do not approve his conduct, and would not 
 make him my intimate ; but, if one were to 
 cut every man who is faithless to his ^^'ife, 
 one should soon have no one left to bow to." 
 
 " But the Baroness ?" added Mildred, indig- 
 nantly. " How do you continue to know 
 her?" 
 
 " Because in France no man is ever othersvise 
 than polite to a woman, whatever may be his 
 opinion of her conduct ; and also, because one 
 meets her ever}^where ; and that, after all, she is 
 exceedingly amusing." 
 
 Mildred was not satisfied with this answer, 
 but said no more. The Duke seated himself 
 
 VOL. L E
 
 74 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 beside her in one of the principal salons, and 
 offered to show to her the different celebrities 
 as they passed. 
 
 " Above all," exclaimed Lady Vernon, " who 
 is that ghost-like looking woman ?" 
 
 " Which ? the one who is leaning, in a half- 
 inspired sort of attitude, against the marble 
 column ?" 
 
 "Yes ! with her head wrapped up in a veil, 
 and eyes that are starting out of their orbits." 
 
 " That is the famous Princesse Belcolore, of 
 whom you surely must have heard." 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 " How vexed she would be if she thought 
 that ! The dream of her life has been noto- 
 riety, and she certainly has left no stone unturned 
 to obtain it. She arrived here from Italy, an 
 exile, some ten or twelve years since ; and 
 her fancy for the moment was poverty. With 
 enough in her purse to have lived, like all the 
 world, she resolved to lodge in a garret, and 
 there she was to be found, cooking her own 
 dinner and mending her own clothes ; de plus, 
 giving lessons in painting. She soon, however, 
 tired of this, and after taking successively every
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 75 
 
 different tone in politics, Religion, literature and 
 the arts, she found it convenient to be reconciled 
 to the Austrian Government, and to open a 
 magnificent house with the fortune the iVmnesty 
 had restored to her. Here, the various comedies 
 that were enacted, it would be difficult to 
 enumerate. One day, politics were the rage, 
 and not a petty journaHst but was received 
 with open arms ; the next, music reigned su- 
 preme, and pianists supplanted politicians. One 
 never knew with whom one was, or was not ; 
 
 and a story is told of the Marquis de C 
 
 having his card returned to him at the door 
 by a page (an original in his way) with these 
 w^ords : ' You are too late, M. le Marquis. You 
 should have called last month. Voila tantdt 
 trois semaines que nous ne recevons que de la 
 canaille.' " 
 
 " But her husband ?" inten-upted Mildred. 
 Gaston laughed. " Oh! le cher Prince was not 
 likely to be veiy severe ; he had begun by striking 
 out a road for himself, totally separate from that 
 followed by his wife ; and he ended by running 
 away last year with a fair lady, who some years 
 before had herself run away with her husband, 
 
 E 2
 
 76 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 under pretence that she loved no one else well 
 enough to marry him. But to return to the 
 Princess. Before you, Lady Vernon, I can 
 scarcely hint at the irregularities of her conduct ; 
 but, suffice it to say that they were such, that 
 even here, amongst the most eccentric of the 
 lionneSj she has been looked upon as a kind of 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Well, after having recourse to everything 
 to attract and enchain fame : to poverty and 
 politics, music and magnetism, vanity and vice, 
 charity and Chinese (for she shut herself up to 
 study the language) she has ended by writing a 
 work in ten volumes on certain Fathers of the 
 Church, wherein, to be for once consistent, she 
 has dwelt with great complacency on the sinful 
 portions of their lives, and on the temptations 
 over which they triumphed. In allusion to 
 this work and to the strange mixture of lip- 
 orthodoxy and impropriety of conduct exhi- 
 bited by the Princesse Belcolore, Heinrich 
 Heine is reported to have said of her : ' That 
 woman is only fit to become the Abbess of a 
 convent of Benedictine monks. 
 
 > » 
 
 Mildred was about to make some observa- 
 tion, when Gaston interrupted her by directing
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 77 
 
 her attention to a gentleman who was speaking 
 to the Princess. 
 
 This was a half-military looking man, with a 
 resolute air, and a blue coat buttoned up to the 
 chin with brass buttons, who could not have 
 been passed by without eliciting a remark. 
 There was that in his bare forehead, arched 
 nose, and brilliant eye, that utterly forbade in- 
 attention. Still less likely is it that he would 
 have been left unnoticed, had any stranger come 
 within hearing of his voice. 
 
 " That is Berryer," said Gaston, " the 
 greatest orator we have, in the purely dramatical 
 sense of the word. For everything else, there 
 is one who leaves far behind, not only him, but 
 every political speaker in France ; — turn round, 
 and look at the centre figure of a group that 
 has formed itself just by the window." 
 
 Mildred did as she was desired, and beheld 
 a head, such as is rarely seen, but, once ob- 
 seiTcd, is never to be forgotten. 
 
 On the broad, furrowed, pale, expanse of 
 brow, the whole weight of an empire might 
 have rested; with the bold, daring glance of 
 that bright eagle eye, the destinies of an 
 
 VOL. I. E 2*
 
 78 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 empire might have been controlled ; by the 
 sharp, firm, compression of that proud, disdain- 
 ful lip, the fate of an empire might have been 
 sealed. Never did outward appearances better 
 serve a man who acts as though his only busi- 
 ness were to deceive. The thoughtfulness of 
 the brow is false, the bright boldness of the 
 eye, the firm disdain of the lips — all, all are 
 false 1 
 
 " Mildred smiled, " I almost think I can guess 
 who that is," said she with a smile. " Is it 
 
 not . . . r 
 
 " Monsieur Guizot," added Gaston, finishing 
 her sentence. " Yes ! There is one of the 
 greatest orators we ever had. All that the 
 features promise, the talent fulfils ; and nothing 
 can describe the torrent of eloquence I have 
 heard pour from those hard lips." 
 
 " And you a legitimist, M. le Due !" ex- 
 claimed Mildred. 
 
 " Even as you say, Lady Vernon," replied 
 Gaston ; " and I yet a legitimist. 1 am putting 
 aside the party, and am speaking of the talent, 
 of the individual intelligence, as I might of a 
 work of art. However I may deprecate and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 79 
 
 detest (as on a late occasion) the opinions of 
 the Minister, and the cause by him defended, 
 I cannot but be transported by the Speaker's 
 force and skill." 
 
 Gaston was about to point out to Mildred 
 several other celebrities ; he had already named 
 Victor Hugo, big at that period with the 
 " coming event" of his promised elevation to 
 the Peerage, and nothing daunted by the fate of 
 his Burgraves ; he had marked the poet- 
 statesman, Lamartine, \vho, tall and aristocratic- 
 looking, was bending gracefully over the chim- 
 ney-piece, and defending ^^^th elegant energy 
 his late conversion to the doctrines of the 
 opposition, against the ugliest man in France, 
 M. Villemain ; he had signalized in one corner 
 M. Duchatel, talking to the Chancellor and to 
 the Due Decazes ; in another, M. Thiers, ges- 
 ticulating in front of M. Mole and hanging fast 
 to the button-hole of the noble peer's coat ; and 
 he was on the point of naming a lady to whom 
 he had just bowed, the notorious, rather than cele- 
 brated Countess S — , when the voice of Madame 
 de Monte\Teux struck upon Mildred's ear. 
 " So !" exclaimed the Duchess, " after much 
 VOL. L E 2^^
 
 80 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 seeking, found at length ; and now, if you 
 please, let us make up for moments lost. 
 Allow me, dear Lady Vernon, to present you 
 my cousin, Madame la Vicomtesse de Moreton. 
 You know my motto : que s* entr' aiment ceux 
 que faime ; therefore, as Clementine is almost 
 my child, you are bound, both of you, to be 
 warm and sincere friends." 
 
 " It shall not be my fault if we are not 
 so," said Mildred, frankly extending her 
 hand. 
 
 As Madame de Moreton stood leaning on 
 the Duchess's arm, it was difficult to conceive 
 a more interesting figure. From beneath the 
 broad braids of her light brown hair, of that 
 peculiarly delicate tint, termed blond cendre\ the 
 pure outlines of her features made her resemble 
 a Madonna of Overbeck. Through the fringe 
 that bordered the somewhat drooping lids, her 
 large soft eyes beamed with that tender radiance 
 we may sometimes discern in the eye of a young 
 fawn. Very slight, and apparently not much 
 past twenty, there was yet, in the almost girlish 
 beauty of the Vicomtesse, a something that 
 pained, even more than it pleased. The pale-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 81 
 
 ness of that young cheek was unnatural, and a 
 certain anxious, imploring look, that from time 
 to time trembled in those deep \'iolet eyes, told 
 of sufferings unconsoled, and of ardent entreaties 
 spurned. 
 
 M. de Monte vreux had risen to yield his 
 place to his mother, and the two ladies sat 
 down one on each side of Mildred, who was 
 unfeignedly charmed with her new^ acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Soon, however, the Duchess made a sign to 
 her son. " Give me your arm, Gaston," said 
 she. " I have just perceived in the door-way 
 some one who w'ill give me new^s of the 
 General." 
 
 "Of what General?" 
 
 " M. de Boislambert. Come." And the 
 Duchess, taking her son's arm, moved away. 
 Madame de Moreton sighed. 
 
 " Have you heard that history, Lady Vernon ?" 
 asked she of her neighbour. 
 
 " Of course," replied Mildred ; " but does it 
 then also interest you ?" 
 
 " More than most people ; for Madame de 
 
 E 3
 
 82 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Boislambert was my dearest, most intimate 
 friend." 
 
 Lady Vernon had heard of the Viscountess as 
 of one whose morals and conduct were above 
 even a remark ; and she turned to her sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " Is it possible," said she, " that you can con- 
 tinue to take any interest in so guilty a crea- 
 ture?" 
 
 " I knew her from her infancy. She was 
 ever my best and kindest friend," repeated 
 Madame de Moreton again. 
 
 " But surely," insisted Mildred, " her in- 
 famous conduct has destroyed your sentiments 
 of friendship ? Surely every other feeling must 
 be absorbed in the all-powerful one of repro- 
 bation ?" 
 
 " Far from it," replied Madame de Moreton. 
 " What right can I have to condemn her ? I 
 pity her from the bottom of my soul." 
 
 " Pity !" said Mildred ; " not condemn ? Why, 
 good Heavens ! where then is the distinction 
 between vice and virtue ? Where is the recom- 
 pense ? Where the punishment ?"
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 83 
 
 " Oh ! dear Lady Vernon !" exclaimed the 
 Viscountess, " do you then count for nothing 
 the reproaches of our own conscience ? Do you 
 think that the guilty can taste happiness of 
 which you, the innocent, should be envious? 
 Is then \Trtue so unblessed a thing that, 
 losing it, you shall not have lost all? We 
 have, I see, different modes of judging these 
 questions in England and in France ; but 
 forgive me. Lady Vernon, if I think ours 
 the most moral, the most christian-like of the 
 two." 
 
 This was a theme on which Mildred had 
 such decided, determined convictions, that she 
 never declined a discussion, and therefore re- 
 sumed : 
 
 "But upon the pubhc and inflexible con- 
 demnation of sin is founded the only chance of 
 social morality. The punishment — " 
 
 The Viscountess interrupted her : 
 
 " Punishment for punishment's sake, Lady 
 Vernon, is an odious and a useless thing. When 
 to chastise is not to mend, it is to do worse than 
 nothing. We, erring as we are, have no power 
 to revenge. The power to reclaim has been
 
 84 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 given us, and, believe me, it is the nearest to a 
 divine attribute that we possess." 
 
 " But the example !" objected Mildred. 
 
 " Will never deter the absolutely wicked from 
 the perpetration of crime, and will scare the 
 timid and the accidentally erring from returning 
 to the paths of virtue." 
 
 " I confess I have been taught to make no 
 such nice distinctions between those whom I 
 regard with equal horror," rejoined Mildred. 
 
 " Equal horror. Lady Vernon !" exclaimed 
 the Viscountess, with undisguised surprise — 
 " equal horror ! What ! equal for the shameless 
 who glory in their sin, and for the repentant 
 fallen ? Oh ! do not say that !" 
 
 " But I must say it," rejoined Mildred, with 
 a smile ; " for, though I am sorry it offends you, 
 (this was a great deal for Lady Vernon to 
 admit !) it is an article of my social creed." 
 
 " Then I rejoice that you did not know my poor 
 Louise, for I would not have had her rendered 
 more miserable than she must be by the sight 
 of a friend who, in her need, should turn away 
 from her, and who, in her anguish, should refuse 
 to take her out-stretched hand."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 85 
 
 What Lady Vernon might have answered 
 is not known, if her attention had not been 
 attracted by the death-like paleness that sud- 
 denly overspread her companion's face. She 
 followed the direction of the Viscountess's eyes, 
 and, in a door-way opening into an inner room, 
 perceived Madame de Cevezes leaning on the 
 arm of a tall, dark man, whom she had but little 
 trouble in recognising as M. de Moreton. 
 
 The intention of the Baroness was evident ; 
 she wanted to appear before the Viscountess in 
 the attitude of her husband's enslaver, which was 
 easily to be accomplished, as M. de Moreton 
 was not aware of Clementine's presence at the 
 ball. Chance, however, saved Madame de 
 Moreton from the humiliation prepared for her 
 by her rival. The Viscount, as he turned to 
 enter the room, looked round ; and at the oppo- 
 site end of the salon, perceived his wife. He 
 was as instantaneously aware of the Baroness's 
 plan as determined to defeat it ; and scarcely 
 had he seen Madame de Moreton when 
 he abruptly disengaged his arm from that of 
 Aurelie, and quitted the room, leaving Madame 
 de Cevezes alone, and a prey to more rage than
 
 86 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 she chose to let her pretty face betray. Ten 
 minutes later, Sir Edward Vernon passed before 
 the sofa where his wife and the Viscountess 
 were seated, with Madame de Cev^zes on his 
 arm. In passing her, he gave a smile of recog- 
 nition to Mildred, who barely answered it by an 
 inclination of the head, for she was shocked for 
 Madame de Moreton. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman ?" asked the latter. 
 
 " My husband." 
 
 The Viscountess looked hurt. " He is very 
 handsome," remarked she, in what she tried to 
 render a careless tone. 
 
 " Have you no wish to join the dancers in 
 the ball-room ?" asked M. de Montevreux, who 
 had just found his way to Madame de Moreton's 
 side. " Ma belle cousine, will you not try one 
 little tour de valse .?" 
 
 *' I had rather not dance to-night," murmured 
 his cousin. 
 
 " And you. Lady Vernon ?" 
 
 Mildred blushed very deeply, and seemed 
 aware that she was giving utterance to some- 
 thing extraordinary in replying, " I never waltz 
 but with my husband."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 87 
 
 Sir Edward had joined the group unperceived, 
 (and alone this time.) A laugh was his first 
 comment on Lady Vernon's speech. She 
 turned round with no very pleased counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Come, Mildred," said he, " do not look 
 angry ; it does not suit you at all. Just get up 
 and waltz with M. de Montevreux, like a good 
 child, and without any more nonsense. I assure 
 you, M. le Due, you will find her an excellent 
 partner." 
 
 Lady Vernon still hesitated ; but her husband 
 drew closer to her. 
 
 "You have made me ridiculous enough 
 already," said he ; "I must beg of you to do 
 so no more." 
 
 These words, though whispered, were in so 
 sharp a tone, that ^lildred immediately rose, 
 and laying her right hand on Gaston's proffered 
 arm, and with the left supporting Madame de 
 Moreton, the three proceeded together towards 
 the ball-rooni. The last figure of a quadrille 
 was not yet finished. The Duchesse de Mon- 
 tevreux joined the party. 
 
 " At last then, chere belle" she began,
 
 88 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 smilingly addressing Lady Veraon, "you have 
 been persuaded to waltz with some one besides 
 your husband." 
 
 " Edward would have it so," replied Lady 
 Vernon. 
 
 " Well," replied the Duchess, " do not look 
 so grave, or you will be paying Gaston too bad 
 a compliment. But let me take care of Clemen- 
 tine while you dance." And so saying she 
 passed the Viscountess's arm within her own. 
 
 The first notes of Strauss 's Donau Lieder 
 had hardly commenced, before Sir Edward 
 Vernon and Madame de Cev^zes were to be 
 seen gliding swiftly over the glass-like surface 
 of the parquet. 
 
 " Do you wish to stay longer here ?" asked 
 Madame de Moreton of the Duchess. 
 
 " No ; but it is very early. Do you already 
 wish to go ?" 
 
 " I am tired to death," pursued the Viscoun- 
 tess. 
 
 The Duchess took her hand. " You know, 
 Clementine, I only came because I was resolved 
 you should be seen here to-night ; therefore let 
 us go at whatever moment you please."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 89 
 
 The two ladies disappeared, after bidding 
 adieu to Lady Vernon, who w^as just preparing 
 to follow her partner into the glittering throng 
 of the dancers. 
 
 Gaston de Montevreux was, in spite of his 
 mother and the Abbe, — who would both have 
 wished to deny the fact, — a lion of the very first 
 order. He was too strikingly handsome not to 
 be adored by the women, and too famous for 
 possessing all the qualities of a genuine grand 
 seigneur not to be a favourite w4th the men. 
 He was, besides this, enormously rich. His 
 horses were finer than any, and he rode them 
 better than most people; he gave the best 
 suppers, carried off the greatest succes, and was 
 le plus beau joueur du monde. This was more 
 than enough to render celebrated any woman 
 whom Gaston should admire ; and before the 
 waltz was ended, nearly every man of any note 
 in the room had asked to be presented to Lady 
 Vernon. Mildred could not be blind to the 
 sensation she created, but she watched anxiously 
 for her husband, for she felt lonely and lost in 
 the midst of so much eclat. At length she saw 
 him approaching her, and with a smile that
 
 90 MILDRED VERNON, 
 
 had in it more coquetry than one should have 
 dreamed of from her, 
 
 " Are you coming to reclaim your partner at 
 last ?" said she, in a gentle voice. 
 
 " No, indeed, my love, I am engaged twenty 
 deep ; but I am coming to compliment you on 
 your success. Every one is talking of you, and 
 you will be obliged to dance with all the 
 world." 
 
 " That is just what annoys me," replied 
 Mildred. " I can now refuse no one, and I do 
 not think it right to dance in this way with 
 every stranger !" 
 
 Sir Edward interrupted her : " for Heaven's 
 sake, Mildred, do not be a fool ! It is perfectly 
 right and proper ; it is what every one else does, 
 and what I hope to see you doing every night." 
 
 Lady Vernon was astounded. This was the 
 first time her husband had ever addressed her 
 in such a manner. She however concealed, as 
 well as she could, her vexation, and in a more 
 winning tone, " I will do as you choose," 
 answered she, " but I wish that this once you 
 would humour me, and let me escape from the 
 crowd; the heat overpowers me."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 91 
 
 " Then go home, my dear child ; I have no 
 wish to prevent you from doing in that respect 
 whatever you think fit." 
 
 " You will stay ?" inquii'ed Mildred, per- 
 ceiving that her husband was preparing to turn 
 away. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Shall I send back the carriage for you ?" 
 
 " Not the least necessity for it — the night is 
 beautiful — good bye — I am engaged for this 
 polka !" And Sir Edward left his wife, and 
 hastened to secure his partner. 
 
 Gaston was there ; he handed Lady Vernon 
 to her carriage, and, jumping into his own 
 brougham, drove away. 
 
 Sir Edward was now left at perfect liberty 
 to do whatever might please him best. M. 
 de Moreton had quitted the salons of the 
 Embassy almost immediately after ascertaining 
 the presence of his wife ; and Madame de 
 Cevezes, delivered of whatever restraint he 
 might impose upon her, was determined to turn 
 her freedom to good account. Her acquaint- 
 ance with Sir Edward Vernon dated from the 
 day when he had agreed to assist ^Madame de
 
 92 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Brdvannes in the choice of a horse. At the 
 Manege he found the two friends together ; 
 Aurelie attired for riding, and mounted on an 
 Arab mare "not wilder," to use her own 
 expression, " but as wild, as herself." Horse 
 and rider went through numberless feats and 
 evolutions, each more extraordinary than the 
 other; and Sir Edward (who did not exactly see 
 that the whole was ' got up' especially for him) 
 was enchanted, without at first being able to 
 decide which was the more lovely or more folle 
 of the two : the little, soft, white sylph that 
 filled the saddle, or the little black, vicious 
 demon that bore it. 
 
 The feeling with which Aurelie inspired him 
 at this first interview was nearly akin to that 
 which is produced by the clever tricks of a cat 
 or a monkey. He felt the sort of irresistible 
 desire, inherent to human creatures, to make a 
 pet of an animal that, in addition to its beauty, 
 bites and scratches. He had, in his childish days, 
 seen Jenny Vertpre in La Chatte, and Madame 
 de Cevezes realized his idea of a feline love. 
 From this time he had continued to meet 
 Aurelie at Madame de Brevannes', and had
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 93 
 
 never thought it necessary to inform Mildred of 
 the fact ; so that, when she saw her husband 
 giving his arm to the Baroness, she supposed 
 they had been that evening presented to one 
 another for the first time. 
 
 Madame de Cevezes had two reasons for 
 drawing Sir Edward into a flirtation. First ; 
 she saw that with him she could indulge her 
 passion for fun and frolic, — which is by no 
 means an easy matter even for a lionne in 
 Paris, where, as long as you remain within the 
 boundaries of good society, what we call fun is 
 regarded as improper, and where, as soon as you 
 have passed beyond that barrier, it becomes by 
 no means a laughing matter ; — and next, 
 she could not resist the pleasure of so\^ing 
 discord and distrust between two people 
 who were reported to be sincerely attached, nor 
 the desire to force a moral Englishman into the, 
 at least apparent, forgetfulness of his duty. The 
 Viscount was so determined to revenge himself 
 to the death upon any man who should venture 
 to approach Madame de Cevezes, that in the 
 conviction he entertained of no one caring to 
 provoke him, he sometimes overlooked possible
 
 94 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 dangers, and allowed the wily Baroness rather 
 more security than was quite consistent with 
 prudence. 
 
 Be it as it may, on the night of the ball, 
 Aurelie and Sir Edward were left to their own 
 guidance as entirely as though neither were held 
 by a tie of any kind in the world. Towards 
 two o'clock, the salons, as is usual in Paris, 
 were cleared of all except the most determined 
 dancers, amongst whom Sir Edward's compa- 
 triot es shone conspicuous. Madame de Bre- 
 vannes, having received from the Baroness the 
 refusal of accompanying her home, had retired ; 
 and of Aurelie's habitual acquaintances no one 
 remained save a few men. 
 
 But it was now that the brilliancy of the 
 f^te was at its climax, for the intrepid few 
 who remained; now that the flowers exhaled 
 their spiciest perfumes; now that the voice 
 of the orchestra uttered witching notes of 
 joy ; now that the floor seemed to recede from 
 the gliding foot, and that pleasure, forgetful 
 of aught except itself, was rapidly merging 
 into what sober people denominate, frenzy. 
 From polka to waltz and from waltz to
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 95 
 
 mazurka, Madame de Cevezes had constantly 
 been the partner of Sir Edward, and for the 
 last hour his arm had scarcely left her slender 
 waist. 
 
 There was no denying that she was very 
 lovely ; and then, too, so peculiarly fairy-like ! 
 Her white tarlatane dress (she wore nothing 
 richer) floated round her like gossamer, and its 
 light flounces fluttered like the wings of 
 butterflies. In the centre of her corsage a 
 V enfant bloomed a cluster of natural flowers; 
 red rose-buds and geraniums, and two large 
 touffes of the same, were the sole ornaments 
 of her head. No diamonds, no rich stuff's, 
 no chains, no rings, no laces — except indeed 
 that which trimmed her handkerchief and made 
 it as valuable as many a jewelled diadem. This, 
 in its arrogant simplicity, was her toilette ; and 
 no Wili or Sylphide ever seemed more an 
 inhabitant of the air, than did Aurelie as her 
 tiny feet bore her noiselessly round the room. 
 In Sir Edward's mind, the idea of the curiosity, 
 of the pet bird or favourite kitten, was still 
 uppermost ; but mingled with it was something 
 else he did not so weU define.
 
 96 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 When the cotillon was ended and the 
 Ambassadress had retired, the number of 
 guests waiting in the ante-room did not exceed 
 thirty at the utmost. Carriage after carriage 
 was announced, but no servant of the Baro- 
 ness's answered the call of the Ambassador's 
 chasseur. 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to drive me 
 home, which will take you considerably out 
 of your way," observed Aurelie. 
 
 " I wish I could," answered Sir Edward ; 
 " but, unluckily, I begged Lady Vernon not to 
 send back the carriage." 
 
 Madame de Cevezes advanced carelessly to 
 a window that looked upon the court, and 
 drew aside the curtain. A few moments more 
 elapsed, and still none of her gens appeared. 
 There now remained not more than ten or 
 twelve people in the ante-room. Aurelie cast a 
 rapid glance upon these, and another on the 
 string of carriages in the court. 
 
 " Come along, Sir Edward !" exclaimed she, 
 abruptly, " there is my carriage ; I will walk 
 to it," and she darted towards the door. 
 
 " You will catch your death of cold,"
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 97 
 
 objected her prudent cavalier, " wait at least, 
 till your servant brings your cloak." 
 
 " Wait !" rejoined Madame de Cevezes, 
 impatiently, " I may wait an hour — I am tired 
 of waiting, I tell you. There is the carriage, 
 at the end of the court. I will walk to it, 
 and if you do not choose to come, why, bon 
 soir ;" and, thus saying, Aurelie hurried down 
 the stone steps of the perron, followed by Sir 
 Edward, who had barely time to secure his 
 paletot and fling it over his arm. 
 
 "That is the wildest little animal in Paris," 
 said Colonel Mowbray, as the Baroness bounded 
 past him, and descended into the open air ; 
 and, with the gesture and grimace of a man 
 who is rejoicing over a blazing fire upon having 
 escaped from a tempest without: " J'ame 
 mieux que ce soit Moreton que moi,'" 
 added he; at which most of the bystanders 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Follow me !" cried Aurelie, when Sir 
 Edward had joined her, and she flew, rather 
 than ran, to the very end of the court. They 
 had passed the outer gates, and were actually 
 in the street. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Sir Edward looked up and down and on 
 all sides, in dismay. " But I see no signs of 
 your carriage," he remarked, almost in alarm. 
 
 Aurelie burst into a loud fit of laughter. 
 " Did you really think you had any chance of 
 doing so ?" 
 
 Sir Edward stared. " Why then, did you ?"— 
 
 The Baroness interrupted him. "There is 
 no time for talking, mon cher Monsieur ; be so 
 kind as to give me, first your paletot, and next 
 your arm, and then, ma foi I — a la guerre 
 comme a la guerre — we must walk to our homes. 
 Comme c'est drdle /" and Aurelie laughed like 
 a child escaped from school. 
 
 Sir Edward did as he was bid, and in a 
 few moments more, found himself alone with 
 Madame de Cev^zes in one of the loneliest 
 streets of the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 
 When they had arrived at the Place Belfe 
 Chasse, the Baroness came to a full stop, and 
 turning quickly round, " Pray now, did you really 
 imagine," enquired she, " that I was fool 
 enough, if I had in fact perceived my carriage, 
 to run off to it so eagerly for the sole purpose 
 of saving five minutes ?"
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 99 
 
 " Upon my life, I scarcely know what I 
 imagined." 
 
 " That is to say that, en termes polls, you 
 think me fool enough for anything." 
 
 " If you had said charming enough to do 
 whatever you please, you would be nearer the 
 mark," replied Sir Edward, gallantly. 
 
 " Well, we won't quarrel about terms, for I 
 want to get home ; three o'clock, by the dial of 
 the Chambre des Deputes /" 
 
 As they piu-sued their course up the Rue de 
 Bourgogne, " What a delicious place for a 
 galop /" exclaimed Aurelie, pointing to the 
 trottoir, unusually good and even in that spot ; 
 and without further preliminary, off she started, 
 to the utter consternation of the sentinel on 
 guard at the Palais Bourbon, w^ho rubbed his eyes 
 for very wonderment, and to the inexpressible 
 dehght of Sir Edward, who, nevertheless, thought 
 himself under the influence of a dream. On the 
 Pont de la Concorde they halted again, and 
 Aurelie leaned upon the parapet with her 
 companion by her side. 
 
 A soft May breeze played lightly with the 
 broad lace of the Baroness's handkerchief, which 
 
 F 2
 
 100 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 she had tied round her head, not out of 
 prudence, but because she knew well it became 
 her, and the trembhng rays of the stars poured 
 their radiance into her upturned eyes. Madame 
 de Cevezes was very lovely in this position, and 
 not by any means to be gazed at with impunity. 
 
 Sir Edward, had he been wise, might have 
 felt that ; — perhaps he did ; but he still went on 
 gazing, and, (what no Frenchman would have 
 been guilty of) he remembered a picture he 
 had seen in a village on the banks of the Rhine ; 
 a picture where a fisherman is transfixed 
 in mute amazement at the aspect of a golden- 
 haired Syren, Lurleya, who has just risen from 
 the wave. 
 
 The scene, the hour, too, all conspired to 
 bring on a dangerous train of thought. The 
 waning moon, in the clear grey heavens, threw 
 a veil of silver haze on all around, touching 
 on the white columns of the Legislative 
 Chamber on one side, and on the other leaving 
 the dark trees of the Tuileries and the Champs 
 Elysees in deep shade. To the left, the view 
 was bounded by the Greek outlines of the 
 Madeleine ; to the right, the silent homes of
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 101 
 
 the Historic Great, half hid themselves behind 
 the motionless curtain of the poplars. In 
 front stood the palace " whence glory itself was 
 forced to fly ;"* and in the distance, the towers 
 of the antique Cathedral rose dimly towards 
 the canopy of the sky. The river rolled silently 
 beneath the bridge, or, chafed by the stone 
 barrier that opposed its current, answered only 
 by a ripple the low murmurs of the trees upon 
 its banks. Onward it flowed, through the 
 heart of the slumbering city, confined by its 
 broad desert quays, and lighted by the twofold 
 row of lamps, that on either side adorn it like a 
 double diamond chain. Not a step was to 
 be heard, not a form was to be seen, no sound of 
 human creatures disturbed the stillness of the 
 night. Sir Edward and Aurelie were alone. 
 
 Standing on tiptoe and bending over the 
 balustrade, " If I were to jump into the river 
 at this moment," demanded she suddenly, " pray, 
 Sir Edward, what would you do ?" 
 
 " How can you ask ?" replied he, in a 
 tone wherein I am afraid there lurked a degree 
 more of tenderness than was called for. The 
 
 ♦ M. de Chateaubriand.
 
 102 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Baroness untied the handkerchief upon her 
 head, and, wrapping it tightly round the bouquet 
 she still held in her hand, " There !" said 
 she, flinging them both over the bridge, " you 
 would not go and fetch that back, whatever 
 I might say to you." 
 
 Sir Edward was in that state of feverish and 
 unnatural excitement, when, if you had dared 
 him to go and dance a reel in a powder 
 magazine, with a lighted candle on his head, 
 he would have done it. 
 
 Madame de Cdvezes saw this at a glance, 
 and laying her hand upon his arm. " But I 
 cannot let you do it now," she added, "for 
 I really want to get home, and we have 
 still a long way to go, to reach the Rue de la 
 Rochefoucault." 
 
 Her companion stared at her. "But what 
 made you then throw away your handkerchief?" 
 demanded he. 
 
 " Oh ! a whim. There was a leaf in one 
 corner of the lace that irritated my eye." 
 
 "I heard, to-night, a lady who had been 
 enviously admiring it, say, that in her life she 
 had never seen a richer one."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 103 
 
 " She might be right. I bought it yesterday 
 for fifteen hundred francs. It was made for 
 the trousseau of a German Princess, but re- 
 turned, because it was thought too dear." 
 
 Sir Edward scarcely knew w^hether to be most 
 shocked or most astonished at this spirit of 
 wanton prodigality : au demeurantj he was con- 
 siderably amused. 
 
 " You are a very Cleopatra," remarked he. 
 
 " That has always been my dream ! Cleopatra ! 
 — Agnes Sorel ! — Diane de Poitiers ! What 
 would I not give to have the wasting of the reve- 
 nues of an empire ! Instead of which — it really is 
 too disgusting I — I am forced to live like all the 
 rest of the stupid world, and even pay my debts 
 as I go." 
 
 Sir Edward was about to reply, when the 
 Baroness interrupted him, and directed his 
 attention to a hack cabriolet that was at that 
 moment about to cross the Place Louis XV. 
 
 " Let us secure him," exclaimed Aurelie, 
 " for I have had enough of my walk in these 
 thin satin shoes;" and running forward, ^^ He ! 
 cocher •'" cried the mischievous sprite, in an 
 accent worthy of Dejazet, and, laying her own
 
 104 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 infantine hand on the bridle of the broken- 
 winded Bucephalus, she jumped into the crazy 
 vehicle, before Sir Edward had time even to 
 come to her assistance. 
 
 Between the loud fits of laughter excited by 
 the adventure, and occasional apostrophes ad- 
 dressed, in the most approved slang, to the 
 astonished coachman, our vagabond pair gained 
 the top of the Rue Royale. As they were 
 turning round the corner towards the Boule- 
 vards, the Baroness dived into the side-pocket of 
 Sir Edward's paletot. 
 
 " Enjin /" cried she, pulling forth a cigar-case, 
 " I have been trying all the other pockets in 
 vain for the last hour ; but here it is at last, 
 and now we may smoke in peace," and with 
 these words, she selected carefully a cigar for 
 herself, and handed the remainder to her com- 
 panion 
 
 "But I have no briquet" objected the 
 latter. 
 
 " That is easily remedied ;" and giving, with 
 her dainty fingers, a tap on the driver's shaggy 
 coat, " Cocher de mon cwur '" continued the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 105 
 
 reckless creature, " try if thou canst persuade 
 thy impetuous steed to stay his headlong pace, 
 and allow me to borrow a spark from thy 
 pipe." 
 
 The light was communicated to the cigars, 
 and after one or two preliminary whiffs, " Take 
 back thy pipe, 6 venerable cocker /" added 
 Madame de Cevezes, " but moderate thy w^hirl- 
 wind course. Think of M. Delessert,^ and 
 have mercy on oiu* bones !" 
 
 Sir Edward was astounded, but convidsed 
 with laughter. It was the first time he had 
 seen a lady smoke. As the perfumed cloud 
 came curling out of Aurelie's ripe lips, and 
 as she continued speaking, nothing hindered 
 by the familiar weed, his astonishment grew 
 more intense every moment ; and certainly into 
 the kiss he could not refrain from imprinting 
 on her hand, as he bade adieu to her at the 
 door of her own house, there entered a vast 
 deal of admiration, unmixed with the slightest 
 tinge of reproof. 
 
 As Sir Edward re-entered the cab alone, ''Ah! 
 milor .'" exclaimed the driver, who, with the 
 
 * The Prefet de Police. 
 
 F 3
 
 106 . MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 instinct peculiar to French people of his class, 
 had instantly guessed to what country his pas- 
 senger belonged " m^est avis que &en est une 
 veritable de ce quHls appellent Lionne dans la 
 haute /" 
 
 Day was just beginning to break when Sir 
 Edward reached the Place Vendome. Dismiss- 
 ing his sleepy valet, he passed through the whole 
 suite of apartments until he came to the door of 
 his wife's chamber. He paused a moment ; aU 
 was stilt, and, laying his hand upon the lock, he 
 stole noiselessly into the room. Opposite to 
 the door by which he had entered was another, 
 opening into the immediately adjoining chamber, 
 appropriated by Sir Edward to his own use. 
 Instead of merely passing through, he stopped, 
 and shading the hght of his candle with his 
 hand, advanced towards the bed. There lay 
 Mildred in all the brightness of her innocent 
 beauty. Neat and precise almost to puritanism 
 was her attire ; not even a stray curl of the 
 silken hair had escaped the bonds that bound it ; 
 and on the bloom of the downy cheek rested the 
 lace of the cap, flat and unruffled as the plaits of 
 a quakeress's coif The soft breath came through
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 107 
 
 the gently-parted lips with infantine regularity, 
 scarcely disturbing the covering of the bosom. 
 
 As she slept, looking so good, so beautiful, 
 and pure, it was scarcely possible for any one 
 to gaze on her without experiencing a senti- 
 ment of tender respect. Sir Edward ought to 
 have been deeply impressed with the contrast, 
 and so he was, but not in the right sense. 
 He had already drank of the intoxicating 
 draught, and his taste was gone for the whole- 
 some beverage. The sight of his wife did not 
 seem to put him quite at ease with himself, for, 
 after gazing upon her for a ver}^ few moments 
 he passed his hand over his forehead with a 
 hasty, impatient motion, and proceeding into the 
 adjoining room, closed the door of communica- 
 tion. 
 
 If Sir Edward was not positively in love with 
 Madame de Cevezes, he was very nearly so. He 
 could think of nothing else ; and the recollection 
 of her child-like figure, as it fluttered beside him 
 on the bridge, but above aU, of her ten thousand 
 extraordinary^ whims and ways, filled his mind 
 with strange thoughts and unhallowed fancies. 
 His imagination, to say the least, was captivated ;
 
 108 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 but as he had never indulged in any regular 
 habits of self-examination, he was utterly unsus- 
 picious of any real danger. 
 
 The pretty daring with which Aurelie 
 laughed to scorn things which Sir Edward had 
 deemed sacred ; the bitter ridicule she cast on 
 those who still upheld the right, and the 
 position from which it seemed as though 
 nothing was powerful enough to remove her^ — 
 all this had enveloped our hero's senses in the 
 kind of fascination that a rattle-snake exercises 
 over a bird. He was dazzled by a glare, which, 
 though baneful, was brilliant ; confused by the 
 fumes of a cup which, though deadly, w^as 
 delicious ; and to this cleverness of corruption, to 
 this elegance of vice, he found no arms to 
 oppose. 
 
 Sir Edward Vernon, as I have said, had been 
 brought up out of the way of temptation ; and 
 the consequence was, that, not naturally of a 
 very strong mind, he was without any moral 
 defence to oppose to the first temptation that 
 might fall in his way. Madame de Cevezes, 
 too, of all women in the world, was the very one 
 who was most likely to be dangerous to him, for
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 109 
 
 she possessed, to an eminent degree, that charm 
 of forhidden fruit for which Englishmen have 
 such a decided predilection. There is nothing 
 through which our continental neighbours 
 establish on us so strong and easy a hold, as 
 through our frank and fervent admiration of 
 their most eccentric celebrities. The undis- 
 guised enthusiasm which we have lavished on 
 the most risquee of their actresses, and on the 
 least recommendable of their books has, while it 
 astonished France, taught her that the way to 
 the ultimate perversion of our morals lay 
 through the perversion of our taste. The 
 Mysteres de Paris, and Mathilde, (without 
 descending to authors lower still than Sue, 
 whom no one above a lady's maid w^ould admit 
 in France to having read) have furnished forth 
 the matter for more than one yo\mg EngHsh- 
 man's waking dreams ; wMst Dejazet, and a few 
 others of the same debraille school, realize to 
 his mind the type of all that, if it originated in 
 his own country, he w^ould not dare admire. 
 Our neighbours estimate these things at their 
 exact value ; w^e do not ; and therein lies the 
 difference. All the seductive viciousness of
 
 110 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Eugene Sue's Ursule, all the entrain of Fretillon 
 herself, although they might drain a French- 
 man's purse and ruin him in a pecuniary point 
 of view, would never make him commit a 
 serious and irretrievable folly, nor prevent him, 
 his wild oats sown, from settling down syste- 
 matically into an orthodox, homme de quarante 
 ans, deputy, Pair de France, Pere de famille, 
 and what not — the whole achieved by an excel- 
 lent match with a girl of seventeen whom he had 
 never seen. 
 
 All the oddities, however strange; all the 
 fascinations, however winning, of all the Lionnes 
 of every class in Paris, would fail to draw a 
 Frenchman into a hopeless scrape; — he knows 
 the value of every one of these cat-like tricks ; 
 knows their beginning and their end, what they 
 mean and whither they lead ; and the baneful 
 effects of the entire science are averted from him 
 by that one talismanic word " connu •'" But an 
 English novice has no such preservative; his 
 timidity even is of no avail; for those with 
 whom he has to deal are bold enough to supply 
 all deficiencies, and he is generally past reclaim- 
 ing before he has thought of organizing any 
 resistance.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. Ill 
 
 Thus it was with Sir Edward Vernon ; 
 Madame de Cevezes realized a type he had 
 barely ventured to think real, even in his 
 dreams ; and he was incapable of bending his 
 mind to any other idea, though he had not the 
 remotest conception of being in love with her. 
 Ursule, Fretillon, all the various transformations 
 of the dear dehghtful, wicked tribe, seemed to 
 him embodied in this one witching sprite ; and, 
 as his head sunk upon his pillow, Sir Edward 
 had visions of waltzing with Dejazet as 
 Richelieu, and talking slang with Esther in the 
 descente de la Courtille, whilst, in the intervals 
 of his fitful slumbers, he clearly recognised, 
 under the costumes of Esther and Dejazet, the 
 infantine features of Aurelie de Cevezes.
 
 112 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Towards the lower end of the Rue de I'Uni- 
 versite, rather above the point where it joins the 
 Rue St. Dominique, is situated a handsome 
 hotel of the time of Louis XV. From the 
 opposite side of the street, the eye, glancing 
 upwards over the stone arch that protects the 
 unwieldy Porte-cochere, may discern, at the 
 end of the court-yard the ornamented facade of 
 the house, with the large windows of its first 
 floor opening down to the ground, and the 
 magnificent iron fretwork of a spacious balcony 
 in the style Rocaille. It is with the interior of 
 this house and with its inmates that we would 
 make our readers acquainted. 
 
 In a small room on the ground floor, a sort of
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 113 
 
 study, to judge from the comfortable rather than 
 elegant way in which it was furnished, sat a tall, 
 handsome man of, it might be, fifty, or there- 
 abouts. A single lamp, its globe covered by a 
 paper shade, burnt on a table by his side, and 
 shed a dim light over the rest of the apartment. 
 From the bronze clock on the chimney-piece 
 had just fallen the silver sound of the half hour 
 past eight. 
 
 The human heart is a faithful barometer of 
 the mental atmosphere around it, and you can- 
 not mistake its indications ; it will never point 
 to fair unless the heavens are unclouded ; and 
 not a pulsation of it but will warn when storms 
 are in the wind. 
 
 There was a gloom spread over the whole 
 scene, deeper than that shed by the deadened 
 radiance of the lamp, and which told at once of 
 broken repose and of hopes destroyed. It was 
 not death that had cast its shadow on that 
 hearth, for in all that surrounds and accompa- 
 nies the Dread Presence there is a fatal majesty, 
 a solemn awe, inspired by the idea of the irre- 
 vocable, which, the first outbreak over, gives to 
 grief itself a deep stillness — the calm of entire 
 despair. This was absent here. From the
 
 114 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 first moment of entering the house there were 
 signs unmistakeable of trouble, but of trouble 
 brought about by human means. There was 
 desolation, but it was the desolation that pro- 
 vokes revolt, and not that inflicted by the 
 mighty Chastener, against whom it is hopeless 
 to rebel. 
 
 Confusion and neglect spoke volumes at 
 every step ; disorder was evident everywhere ; 
 in the deserted aspect of the rooms through 
 which you passed, in the lazy gait of the 
 servants, and in the carelessness of their attire. 
 But in the room of which I first spoke these 
 marks of mental disquietude were stUl more 
 obvious. Books were lying on the floor open, 
 and their crumpled leaves downwards ; the door 
 of a closet in the panelling stood yawning 
 apart from its parent wall, as though the hand 
 that had unlocked had forgotten to close it 
 again. On the table that supported the lamp 
 lay heaps of tumbled papers, some, letters, and 
 some deeds and parchments; there they had 
 probably lain for a few days at least, for where 
 from among them portions of the table appeared, 
 a coat of dust was distinctly visible. 
 
 The habitant of this cheerless chamber sat in
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 115 
 
 a capacious and luxuriously-stuffed /aw/ ew/Z, but 
 seemed in no mood for tasting any of the 
 material comforts of life. The right arm rested 
 on the table, and supported the head in an 
 attitude of profound reflection, whilst the left 
 one hung down over the border of the chair 
 with a Hstlessness difficult to paint, and which, 
 in an individual so ^-igorously constituted, indi- 
 cated a state of despondency almost incon- 
 ceivable. Heavens ! what weariness of spirit 
 did that one limb betray ! and yet, under the 
 weight which seemed to bow down the whole 
 form, how clearly its natural dignity was per- 
 ceived. The brow, of an unusual expanse, was 
 knitted by painful thought, that could not 
 entirely disguise its habitual benignity. The 
 lips, now sternly compressed, were evidently 
 made to smile ; and the eyes, clouded as they 
 were by anger and suffering, had evidently been 
 used to an expression of indulgent tenderness. 
 Age had as yet taken nothing from, and it had 
 added much to, a personal appearance- fitted 
 rather to display dignity than grace. The very 
 silver with which time had interspersed the 
 raven locks of youth, only softened a colouring 
 which might otherwise have been harsh, and
 
 116 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 gave to the whole head the mellow tints of a 
 picture by some old master. 
 
 The half hour had not struck above a few 
 minutes when the door of the apartment opened, 
 and a servant announced the Abbe de Nangis. 
 Rising from his chair, the master of the house 
 advanced to meet his visitor, and shook both 
 his hands with silent earnestness. The Abbe 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 " General," said he gravely, " although aware 
 that you were in town, I should not have 
 intruded on you unless you had sent for me." 
 
 " I thank you much," replied the General, 
 " for not losing a moment when I did send." 
 
 " I received your note only two hours since. . . ." 
 — and, turning round, — '* down, down !" added 
 the Abbe in an under tone, making useless efforts 
 to drive away a dog, that, from the moment he 
 entered, had persisted in fawning upon him — 
 when, looking at the animal for the first 
 time, he suddenly changed countenance, and 
 stooping to caress the object of his previous 
 annoyance, " Poor Nelly !" exclaimed he in an 
 altered tone, " is that indeed you ?" 
 
 The General, in whom our reader has already 
 discovered the Marquis de Boislambert, passed
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 117 
 
 the toe of his boot fondly over the spaniel's 
 silky paws, and, almost as though speaking to 
 himself; " I cannot drive the poor beast away," 
 remarked he. " She will not go from me ; 
 she leaves me neither day nor night." 
 
 After a pause of a few seconds, M. de Bois- 
 lambert motioned the Abbe to a chair, and 
 resuming his own, the General and M. de 
 Nangis seated themselves on either side of 
 the table, with the dimly-burning lamp between 
 them. 
 
 It w^as a curious thing to mark the difference 
 in those two men, both equally rich in moral 
 fortitude, but the one of whom had acquired 
 strength in the constant development of outward 
 activity, and the other, in the patient labours 
 of inward meditation. The Cure was younger 
 by five or six years than M. de Boislambert, yet 
 at first sight, he would have been pronounced 
 to be ten years the General's senior. The few 
 thin locks that escaped from beneath his black 
 calotte were white as snow, and the high fore- 
 head was furrowed by the ploughshare of 
 anxious thought. 
 
 They sat in silence for a few moments, 
 neither seeming desirous to touch upon the
 
 118 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 subject which lay nearest to both their hearts. 
 At length, M. de Boislambert, making what 
 appeared a slight effort, and what was in reality 
 a violent one, turned towards his guest, and 
 addressing him in a tone of voice he sought 
 to render perfectly calm : 
 
 "M. I'Abbe," said he, "there is but one 
 subject of conversation possible between us at 
 this moment. Do you know any thing of 
 her ?" 
 
 " If I did," replied M. de Nangis, " I should 
 not think myself authorized to tell." 
 
 "Then you do at least know something?" 
 interrupted the General, eagerly. 
 
 " Nothing !" rejoined the Abbe, with a sigh. 
 
 "Nothing?" repeated the Marquis, in a tone 
 that showed how much of latent hope had been 
 destroyed by that word : " what ! not a guess, 
 not an idea?" The Abbe mournfully shook 
 his head. M. de Boislambert started on his 
 seat. " Good Heaven !" exclaimed he. " Sup- 
 pose for an instant that, driven by despair—" 
 he shuddered. 
 
 " No, M. le Marquis," said the Cure, so- 
 lemnly ; " she will not sacrifice her eternal 
 welfare thus. I am utterly ignorant of all
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 119 
 
 concerning her ; but I know she will not 
 abridge one day of a life that henceforward 
 wiU appear to her due entirely to repentance." 
 
 " Repentance !" The General struck his 
 clenched hand upon his forehead. '* Repentance ! 
 Heavens ! that such a word should be coupled 
 with her name !" and, after a few moments' 
 silence, M. de Boislambert took from the table 
 a sealed packet. " Tenez, M. UAhhe,'' said 
 he, impatiently, "there is a letter for you," 
 and handing it to M. de Nangis, he abruptly 
 quitted his chair, and began to pace up and 
 down the apartment with uneasy steps. Sud- 
 denly, however, his purpose seemed to change ; 
 and he established himself at the chimney-piece 
 as in a position whence he could command every 
 varying expression of the Abbe's countenance. 
 
 A momentary joy lighted up the Cure's 
 benevolent face at sight of the well-known 
 hand ; but this quickly gave place to a sadder 
 feeling, as he marked the almost unintelligible 
 characters in which his name was traced. 
 
 What consolation could any letter bring to 
 him ? Was not she whom he had looked upon 
 as his child, lost in the pathways of sin ? What
 
 120 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 remedy could aught she might allege bring to 
 her earthly ills? What that she could say 
 would alter the fact of her having " fallen from 
 her high estate ?" 
 
 All these thoughts passed rapidly through 
 the Abbe's mind as he looked at the un- 
 opened epistle on his knee. Not so with M. 
 de Boislambert. Unacknowledged impatience 
 and curiosity evidently struggled in his breast 
 against the vain wish to appear unmoved. At 
 length, unable to resist the impulse any longer : 
 
 " M. I'Abbe," said he, in a stifled tone, " you 
 take less interest than I supposed in this com- 
 munication." 
 
 Whil^ engaged in its perusal, the General's 
 eyes never left the Cure's face for a second, but 
 literally fastened upon its every lineament. 
 Little enough, however, was there betrayed. 
 M. de Nangis seemed prepared for all the letter 
 contained ; and the only emotion the perusal of 
 it called forth was, perhaps, a still more profound 
 degree of that commiseration he had all along 
 evinced. He was about to fold the paper and 
 consign it to his pocket ; his hand already held 
 open the envelope, ready to receive the note,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 121 
 
 when something, it must have been instinct, for 
 he had not once looked that way, told him of 
 the General's feverish anxiety. Without a word, 
 he presented the letter to the Marquis's uncon- 
 sciously-advanced hand ; and the fingers, trem- 
 bling from ners^ous agitation, closed upon it as a 
 hawk seizes on its prey. 
 
 If the Abbe could peruse with apparent calm 
 this appeal from his penitent, it was more than 
 M. de Boislambert could do ; and his ill-sup- 
 pressed emotion broke out at every instant, and 
 in a thousand different ways, as he read the 
 following lines : — 
 
 " Where are you, my only friend ? The only 
 efficient protector in such an hour ! Why did 
 you go from me ? Why have you abandoned 
 me ? I was strong when you left me, and now^ 
 I am lost. I have neither courage, strength, 
 nor hope. No courage to attempt resistance, 
 no strength to put it into execution, and yet no 
 hope of pardon, now that I have erred ! 
 To-morrow I shall be spoken of, so that you, 
 and all those who have loved me, shall hide 
 their heads for shame. Oh, Father ! Father ! 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 do not you east me from you. Pray for me, 
 for indeed I have need of your prayers. I can 
 tell you nothing — I can give you no details. 
 A blind fatality, Heaven itself, (forgive me if I 
 dare to utter this). Heaven itself seems to 
 have resolved my perdition, by placing in my 
 path just that one, only one, whose every step, 
 whose every breath was fraught with danger to 
 my peace. I can say no more — it is perhaps 
 useless to have said so much — but nothing of 
 all this could have happened had you not been 
 absent. I should have flown to you ; you 
 could, you must have saved me. Oh! that 
 fatal absence of yours ! For the sake of my 
 father, whose friend you were, of my sainted 
 mother, of my lost innocence, over which you 
 watched so many years ! — for Ms sake whose 
 threshold I can never again cross, and whose 
 honour ought to have been dearer to me than 
 life — do not desert my children — guard them 
 from harm. Marie, above all ! an hour ago I 
 leant over her pillow, and did not dare imprint 
 upon her brow a guilty mother's kiss. As I 
 lingered by her bed a baby voice from her 
 brother's cradle murmured ' Father !' I turned
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 123 
 
 round; my little Octave in his sleep again 
 uttered the same word — Father ! — Heaven ! 
 how did that one word call up before me the 
 phantom host of aU my duties ! How much 
 stronger than the blast of ten thousand trumpets 
 did that infant tone convey to me the sense of 
 trust betrayed and honour lost ! I thought my 
 heart must have broken ! Had he been there, 
 I should have fallen at his feet and told him 
 all .... ; but he too was absent. I was 
 alone ! — ^^alone with my guilt, my remorse and 
 my shame ; olone with the sense of the Irre- 
 parable I 
 
 " Had that not been, I icould not have fled. 
 I would have clung to the foot of my children's 
 cradle, and defied temptation to the death. 
 But I have no strength for deceit — I cannot 
 meet his eye. To-morrow I go forth from 
 hence for ever, and then the punishment, the 
 work of expiation begins. I have no more to 
 say. I commit, under the consent of him I 
 bave most injured, J commit my children to 
 your care. I know you — ^\'ou will watch over 
 them, you will shield them from danger, for 
 their own dear sakes, and for the sake of 
 
 G 2
 
 124 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 their most wretched mother. — Oh ! my once 
 happy home ! Even whilst I write, every object 
 on which my eye reposes recalls to me that 
 which is for ever lost. If those who condemn 
 the guilty knew what the guilty suffer, do you 
 think they could find in their hearts not to 
 pity? Father — I can write no more, my 
 brain reels with anguish. Have mercy on me, 
 and pray for me." 
 
 As he finished this letter, the Marquis, letting 
 it escape from his hand, dropped into the chair 
 nearest to him, with a sigh so deep that it 
 amounted almost to a groan. M. de Nangis 
 picked up the fallen paper, and fitting it into 
 its envelope, placed it leisurely under the folds 
 of his soutane ; a complete silence reigned for 
 several minutes. The Abbe was the first to 
 break it. Turning to M. de Boislambert : — 
 
 " Was that letter the only one she wrote "?" 
 asked he. 
 
 " The only one !" was the reply. Oh no ! 
 it was enclosed in a note addressed to me ;" 
 and so saying, the Marquis took from his 
 watch-chain a small key, with which he opened
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 125 
 
 a leather case lying on the table, and extracting 
 therefrom a paper, so crumpled as scarcely to 
 retain the form of a letter, he tendered it to 
 his visitor. . All this was done with a dejected 
 air, that showed you the springs of energ}' were 
 stopped, even in the most insignificant actions 
 of common life. These few sentences were all 
 the paper contained : 
 
 " When you receive tliis, your most guilty 
 wife will have left her home for ever. I do not 
 invoke your pity, because it is forbidden you 
 henceforward to do anything but reprobate, and 
 condemn me. I will not even ask you to 
 consider me as dead, for it is equally forbidden 
 that you should regret me. But, as I well 
 know, that to your generous heart none ever 
 yet made a vain appeal — I do implore of you 
 not to \dsit, even in thought, upon your inno- 
 cent children the sins of their misguided mother. 
 I recommend them to you, and to the Abbe 
 de Nangis, not from the grave, but from what 
 is far worse, from the threshold of a life of 
 hopeless misery, whither a single moment's 
 guilt has sufficed to lead me. I will not call 
 down blessings on your head, fearful lest from
 
 126 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 lips SO tainted, even such an invocation might 
 turn to bitterness; but will rather cherish, 
 unuttered within my heart, all that may tend 
 to increase my punishment; neither .will I ask 
 that my children may not be taught to curse 
 my memory, for if a just severity inspire you, 
 it can only be that such is most proper for their 
 welfare ; and if you are guided by your natural 
 indulgence, that will be done towards me of 
 which I own myself unworthy. In either case, 
 I will be humbly, deeply, grateful. In ven- 
 geance I know you could not take delight ; and 
 therefore I cannot say to you, ' Rejoice ! for it 
 has commenced.' But from retribution we can 
 none of us escape ; and those are most wretched 
 in whom resignation even cannot be entitled a 
 merit, but who must look upon every infliction 
 as too light. 
 
 " If you judge fitting t6 do so, I would beg 
 of you to give the enclosed letter to the Abbe 
 de Nangis ; and now, God forgive me, for you 
 must not !" 
 
 The Abbe returned the letter to M. de 
 Boislambert, who silently returned it to the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 127 
 
 leather case, and, locking this, replaced the key 
 and watch-chain in his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 *' How are your children, M. le Marquis ?" 
 said the Abbe, as though he wished to engage 
 conversation on the very ground to which led 
 the perusal of the tw^o letters. 
 
 The General started. 
 
 "I know nothing of them," answered he, 
 almost sharply. 
 
 The Cure stared. 
 
 " Nothing !" resumed the Marquis in a more 
 subdued tone. " When I returned here, the 
 first question both of them put to me, was — " 
 his voice faltered sHghtly, " touching their 
 mother ; and — and I coafess I have not, since 
 then, felt equal to the task of seeing them, 
 and replying to their enquiries ; besides, to teU 
 you the truth," — his voice sunk lower still, and 
 grew still more unsteady, — "there are certain 
 likenesses, certain expressions of physiognomy 
 that at certain moments play the devil ^^ith 
 one's resolutions; and that, in spite of one- 
 self." 
 
 M. de Boislambert ceased speaking. The 
 Abbe fixed upon him a look of indescribable
 
 128 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 astonishment. Their eyes met ; and, unable 
 any longer to maintain the reserve he had 
 hitherto affected, the Marquis gave way to 
 feelings he had sought vainly to control. 
 "With a countenance pale from emotion, he 
 seized in his own trembling hands the hands 
 of M. de Nangis, and literally wrung them, 
 as, with a faltering voice he began : 
 
 "M. I'Abbe, the time for concealment is 
 gone by ; if I do not give utterance to what is 
 passing within my breast I shall go mad ; and 
 I know no one to whom I can speak but you. 
 Your character, if it prevents you from sympa- 
 thizing with those whom passion leads astray, 
 keeps you at least from casting ridicule upon 
 them." 
 
 "It is true," interrupted the Cure, mildly, 
 " that I am ignorant of the wild impulses which 
 every day produce such havoc around me, but I 
 do not the less pity the victims; and God 
 forbid that I, that any one, should dare to 
 ridicule those who suffer." 
 
 " Well," resumed the General, " to you 
 I will disclose that which to worldly men I 
 would sooner die than reveal. However much
 
 MILDRED VERNON. ] 29 
 
 you may pity Louise, you have before you a 
 being whose calls upon your compassion are 
 far greater still. Yes ! M. I'Abbe, I loved 
 my wife to madness, — loved her as no man of 
 five-and-twenty can love. I was — I am still in 
 love with Louise, and no conduct of hers can 
 cure me of the disease." 
 
 The Cure pressed M. de Boislambert's hands, 
 and by the expression of deep commiseration — 
 the kind of pity which angels may feel for men 
 — diffused over his whole face, invited him to 
 proceed. 
 
 "At my age, to feel this ardour is deemed ridi- 
 culous ; but to feel it for one's wife would, in our 
 system of society, be pronounced the height 
 of the absurd ; and, therefore, even from Louise 
 • herself, has the excess of my affection been 
 concealed . . . Oh ! had she known how inex- 
 pressibly dear she was to me ! How I doted 
 on her every gesture, word, and look — she 
 never would — she never could have left me!" 
 And M. de Boislambert, for a moment over- 
 come, covered his face with his hands. 
 
 "My son,'' said the Cwre gravely, "ample 
 justice will be done you now. She will but 
 
 G 3
 
 130 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 too well learn to appreciate you. She will but 
 too keenly feel the worth of what she has 
 lost." 
 
 M. de Boislambert looked up, and shook his 
 head with a faint smile, — 
 
 " Ah, I'Abbe !" said he, " you do not know 
 the intricacies of human love when it is true. 
 If there be one thing that harasses me more 
 than all, it is the certainty of the fact to which 
 you allude- — the conviction that her misery 
 will be doubled by the too late regret of all 
 she has lost. You mistake me, if you suppose 
 that any angry feeling can actuate me. I pity 
 her from the very bottom of my soul ; pity her 
 far more than you can do, for I am better 
 aware of what she suffers." 
 
 M. de Nangis could not conceal an expres- 
 sion of surprise, 
 
 " I see you were not prepared to find me thus," 
 continued the General ; "but there are secrets 
 in the human heart of which you must be 
 ignorant, and in which it would be scarce 
 fitting that I should instruct you. You cannot 
 know how little of truth exists in what women 
 and boys daily venture to call love, nor how
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 131 
 
 sublime is the sentiment when it is sincere and 
 true. Believe me, M. I'Abbe, if women could 
 see things as they really are, if they did not, 
 above all in their so-called attachments, pursue 
 far more the gratification of their vanity than of 
 their hearts, they would leave the Lovelaces and 
 Don Juans to their cruel sport, and turn to 
 those men who have passed the first hey-day of 
 life." 
 
 " It is possible," commenced the Cure\ " I 
 can conceive . . . ." 
 
 " No ; pardon my frankness," rejoined the 
 Marquis, " you cannot conceive, you cannot 
 imagine what battles must be fought, what sad 
 triumphs achieved, before this state of good 
 feeling and of kindliness can be made the 
 principal element of love. Love is almost 
 always a noble and a generous passion in 
 women, but it is one of the very worst in young 
 men, and fosters their meanest and most selfish 
 propensities. You do not, nor can you ever, 
 know how much a man must repent of before 
 he is able to forgive. . . . Before Heaven ! 
 my affection for Louise has ever been, and is, 
 totally free from vanity. Were it not so, I
 
 132 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 could not speak of her as I do now ; but I have 
 dearly paid for the right of being able at this 
 hour to say conscientiously, I love her." 
 
 " Rely upon it," said the Abbe with real 
 sympathy, " the recompense will not be wanting 
 for such truly Christian feelings." 
 
 "A moment!" interposed the General. "Do 
 not praise me for what I do not deserve. It is 
 not from a sense of piety that I act, but from a 
 profound knowledge of the world, and from 
 excess of affection ; and, depend upon this, in a 
 real knowledge of the world lies more morality, 
 and, above all, more indulgence than is usually 
 imagined ; as also, believe me, true affection 
 comes nearer to religion than you, M. I'Abbe, 
 may admit. I am a soldier, bred in camps, 
 and, I fear, perhaps, less orthodox than I should 
 like you to perceive. For instance, where I 
 do not love — where I do not pity — do not 
 ask me to forgive. . . I neither can, nor will 
 forgive mine enemy ; and (M. de Boislambert's 
 colour rose) it is to a sentiment of worse than 
 unappeased vengeance^-of vengeance impossible 
 to appease — that I owe half the torments I am 
 enduring."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 133 
 
 " Religion," obsen^ed the Cure, in a mild but 
 firm tone, " requires nothing that is radically 
 unnatural. Thus, it is not enjoined that you 
 shall bend the brow, fresh flushed by insult, in 
 meek humility to the in suiter; but it is en- 
 joined, it is expected of you, that, impressed 
 with a due sense of your own unworthiness, 
 and a due remembrance of your Divine ^Master's 
 humbly supported wrongs, you shall fervently 
 pray that strength may be given you to forgive 
 trespasses towards yourself, which you yourself 
 might have committed ; and forget injuries, 
 which, whatever they may be, must pale in 
 comparison with those borne by Him who was 
 mindful only of mercy." 
 
 " It may be, M. 1' Abbe, and such sentiments 
 may come later ; but as yet, I will confess to 
 you, I do not even desire to forgive ; nor does 
 this thirst for vengeance arise from a selfish 
 passion. I have told you I loved Louise for 
 herself; and if the man for whom she left her 
 home and me, could have made her happy, had 
 he devoted his existence to the task, I do 
 honestly believe I could, in this case, if not 
 actually have forgiven him, at least have
 
 134 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 sincerely wished to do so. But it is because his 
 hand, vile scoundrel as he is, has been the 
 hand to strike her down, that I pant for his 
 very heart's blood as a tiger for its prey I" 
 
 "M. le Marquis!" interrupted the Cure 
 in an accent of severity. The General started 
 to his feet, and with his clenched fist dealing 
 on the table a blow which made the papers fly 
 about the room and the lamp clatter on its 
 stand, 
 
 " Thunder of Heaven !" exclaimed he, his 
 eyes literally flashing fire, " do not drive me mad ! 
 Would you have me be patient under the in- 
 fliction ? Smarting, from not alone the insult, 
 but the injury, can you — dare you ask that every 
 fibre of my frame should not thrill and quiver 
 with the desire for revenge ?" 
 
 The Cure rose, and, standing erect in all the 
 peaceful majesty of his calling, " M. le 
 Marquis," said he, '^you will allow me to take 
 my leave. If to the afilicted I may sometimes 
 bring consolation, to the strong man in his 
 wrath I can have nothing to offer." But, as he 
 was preparing to retire, 
 
 "Remain, M. I'Abbe, and forgive me if
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 135 
 
 I have offended you," replied the General, in 
 an altered and desponding tone. " You should 
 the more forgive me," continued he, with an 
 almost ghastly smile, " as, whatever may be my 
 feelings, I am entirely precluded from all pos- 
 sibilit}^ of acting on them." And seeing that M. 
 de Nangis still appeared to hesitate, " Mon 
 pere" added he, forcing the Abbe to resume 
 his seat, and letting himself at the same time 
 fall dejectedly into his own, " set me the ex- 
 ample of forbearance. If your mission be to 
 comfort the afflicted, stay by me, for, Heavan 
 knows, I am far from possessing the strength 
 to which you w^ould allude." 
 
 " But I fear,'* rejoined the Cure, " that what 
 I may have to propose may be far from condu- 
 cive to a good understanding between us ; for, in 
 order to know how I might be of best avail to 
 all parties, my intention was to question you on 
 the very subject which so incenses you." 
 
 " Even so then let it be, M. TiVbhe ; you 
 shall know all," said M. de Boislambert, im- 
 posing on himself an evident restraint. "At 
 the moment of my arrival," he began, w^ith
 
 136 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 compressed lips, " I explained the whole to 
 Sestrieres, as my oldest compagnon d^armes, 
 and the friend I could best trust. He under- 
 took the whole affair, and here is the result : 
 Chavigny (a nervous reluctance seemed to with- 
 hold the Marquis from mentioning his enemy's 
 name) retrenches himself in a complete system 
 of denial. He denies having any knowledge of 
 his victim, strenuously denies that she is such ; 
 speaks of her in the most respectful terms, and 
 utterly repudiates the idea of her having ad- 
 dressed herself to him on the fatal morning. 
 Nay, more, he says : ' Tell M. de Boislambert, 
 that should any one venture to couple my name 
 in an unseemly manner with that of his wife, I 
 am resolved to exact from them the satisfaction 
 which I cannot admit he has any pretext for 
 demanding from me.' " 
 
 " Then Heaven be praised for that at least," 
 observed the Cure. "Her reputation is in 
 better hands than I thought." 
 
 "Tush !" interrupted the Marquis, " of what 
 use is denial ? Is not the affair known all over 
 Paris? — and yet," he added musingly, and as
 
 MILDRED VERXON. 137 
 
 though reasoning with himself, — " to do him 
 justice, he has always shown himself too brave 
 for one to suppose that this system is adopted 
 with the mere \dew of saving his own life. He 
 must have some idea that the affair mav be 
 hushed up.'' 
 
 *' But I thought I had heard it rumoured," 
 rejoined M. de Nangis, " that M. Chavigny 
 himself had been the first to — " 
 
 " So he was," ejaculated the Marquis, with an 
 expression we will not repeat, " but how to bring 
 that home to him ? He told the whole, not two 
 hours after it happened, to Pelletier, the banker, 
 and to his cousin, the Due d'Jena ; but they 
 are both equally dumb. Sestri^res saw the 
 Duke, who declares it is all a mistake, and that 
 whatever he might have repeated was the mere 
 echo of a vague report, and not of Chavigny 's 
 disclosures. It so happened that Sestrieres' 
 own nephew, Gaston de Montevreux, was the 
 only person to whom it is proved that Jena had 
 spoken ; and Gaston says his first impression 
 was, that the story had come direct from 
 Chavigny ; but that, after Jena's explanations to
 
 138 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 him, he was satisfied he had been mistaken ! 
 (This, I know, arises from a good and kind 
 feeling, for all the Montevreux loved Louise 
 like one of their own family) . But therein lies 
 the worst part of the history ! Every one 
 eludes my grasp ; I am caught, entrapped, 
 imprisoned in a tissue of sophistry and false- 
 hood; enchained by the apparent respect of 
 my wife's reputation, and cheated of my just 
 vengeance by the moral cowardice of him who 
 has despoiled me. Oh ! Louise ! Louise I" 
 exclaimed M. de Boislambert in a tone of 
 indescribable anguish — " that you should have 
 sacrificed yourself for a wretch who could not 
 even appreciate your value, and who, to ensure 
 the priceless treasure of your love, should 
 hesitate to renounce fortune, country, position, 
 life !" 
 
 "Rather thank the Eternal Bounty that 
 things are as they are,'' remarked the CurCy 
 " the lesson is far better," 
 
 "But his was not the tongue that should 
 have taught it her," replied the General. 
 
 " Who knows ?" pursued the Abbe thought-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 139 
 
 fully. " Question not the ways of Pro\ddence, 
 for they are as wise as they are inscrutable. I 
 do not say all is, but all may yet be for the 
 best, as far as she is concerned. In the mean 
 time, what reason is to be assigned for the 
 absence of Madame la Marquise?" 
 
 " Reason 1 " exclaimed the Marquis, with 
 more bitterness than he had yet evinced, — 
 ** Reason ! what other than that which all Paris 
 knows ? — That she has left me ! left her home, 
 her children, — left us all !" 
 
 " But alone ?^^ interposed ^l. de Nangis. 
 
 " Why, ^^'ith Madame de Boislambert's repu- 
 tation," replied the Marquis, proudly, " a choice 
 of lovers would scarcely be afforded her, even in 
 this corrupt town ; and the constant presence of 
 Chavigny (upon whom it appears suspicion was 
 authorized to be fixed, though, Heaven knows, 
 I would not have believed it) warrants the 
 supposition that she has left her home alone. 
 In these days of lionnerie" added M. de 
 Boislambert, with acrimony, " circumstances 
 more extraordinary have happened than that 
 of a wife lea\4ng her husband, and a mother
 
 140 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 her children, for some wild idea of adventure : — 
 some wish to meditate alone on the desert 
 tombs of a by-gone race, or to study what, in 
 the consecrated jargon of the sect, is termed the 
 free development of nature, in the savage sons 
 of the Savannah. But," ended he with a sigh, 
 which showed how quickly despondency got the 
 better of even reproach, " I little thought to 
 have ever seen Louise the heroine of such a 
 story." 
 
 A pause ensued ; the Cure breaking silence. 
 " M. le Marquis," said he, in a tone of sincere 
 and deep compassion, " and yourself, what are 
 your plans? " 
 
 The General looked at M. de Nangis with 
 an expression of despair that needed no com- 
 ment. " Do not mistake me, M. I'Abbe," 
 said he, solemnly, " my earthly career is closed, 
 for my energy is gone ! That which was the 
 light of my life is extinguished, and I am a 
 broken-hearted man. But although I can no 
 longer be of use by my desolate, desecrated 
 hearth, although all household joys are denied 
 me, I can yet lose my life with profit to my
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 141 
 
 country, and die in the service of the King. My 
 plans," pursued he in a firmer tone, " are to 
 solicit a command in Algeria, and there hazard, 
 against the first bullet, an existence that I can 
 no longer support." 
 
 " I would fain not intrude my counsels on 
 you, M. le Marquis," repHed the Abbe, " par- 
 ticularly in an emergency where you must 
 be a better judge than I am ; but I would 
 suggest the propriety of watching over your 
 children." 
 
 " M. I'Abbe," interrupted the Marquis, 
 " each one must act, in circumstances of this 
 kind, as he can, before even acting as he may 
 think right. I could not bear her children 
 constantly about me ; and the awkward cares 
 that at best a father can afford to infants, 
 are not sufficient to repay, from a sense 
 of duty fulfilled, the suffering which the fulfil- 
 ment of them w^ould impose upon me." 
 
 In this, and similar conversation, the time 
 went by, until the stroke of eleven warned the 
 Abbe to depart. M. de Boislambert, taking 
 the lamp in his hand, accompanied his guest
 
 142 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 to the outer door, where he bade him an 
 affectionate farewell, and, returning to his own 
 cheerless room, many hours past midnight 
 found the General still plunged in his sombre 
 and sad meditations.
 
 MILDRED \T:RN0N. 143 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 About a week had elapsed since the ball 
 
 at the Embassy ; but the impression of 
 
 that night had not faded from Sir Edward 
 Vernon's mind. He had seen Aurelie con- 
 stantly since then, and could not resist the 
 fascination she exercised over him, and in 
 which he himself saw no immediate danger. 
 One morning he, how-ever, commenced an 
 attack upon his wife, in order to induce her 
 to know Madame de Cevezes, whom he 
 represented as anxious to make her personal 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ^ This, Lady Vernon pertinaciously, resolutely 
 resisted ; but, as she saw that her resistance 
 was likely to produce a worse effect on her
 
 144 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 husband than she at first contemplated, she 
 felt herself obliged to purchase, by certain other 
 concessions, the right of acting in this one par- 
 ticular as she thought fit. She began by virtu- 
 ous indignation, which only made her husband 
 laugh, and she would have proceeded direct to 
 open remonstrance, if she had not been arrested 
 by the sharp and peremptory way in which 
 Sir Edward made her comprehend that that 
 was what he would not, for a single moment, 
 bear. I am afraid some very rude remark 
 escaped his lips, for, into the tone in which 
 Mildred said: "Oh! for shame, Edward!" 
 there entered a peculiar kind of reproachfulness 
 applicable even more to unseemliness of manner 
 than to ungentleness of feeling. 
 
 " Well then ! why the devil do you provoke 
 me, by your absurd preachings and your puri- 
 tanical cant ?" was Sir Edward's gracious answer 
 to this mild reproof 
 
 "That last word is none of your own 
 finding," retorted Mildred ; " and comes fi-om a 
 disorderly clique, who think it witty to designate 
 thus, all the obstacles which their own conduct 
 would meet with in our sense of propriety."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 145 
 
 " I'll tell you what," rejoined Sir Edward, 
 sharply; "you would lose less than you believe, 
 and might gain a vast deal more than you 
 imagine, if you copied more than a chance 
 expression from those it pleases you to designate 
 as a 'disorderly clique.' " 
 
 Lady Vernon started back in undisguised 
 displeasure. " What !" cried she, " would you 
 have your wife copy such women as Madame 
 de Cevezes ?" 
 
 "That is not the question," rejoined the 
 somewhat abashed Baronet ; " but if ever}' 
 man's wife were as agreeable as Madame de 
 Cevezes, it would be lucky for him — (and 
 perhaps as lucky for her,)" added he, after a 
 moment's consideration. 
 
 " Merely amusing and agreeable qualities are 
 often dearly bought ;" said Lady Vernon, rather 
 sententiously. 
 
 " And God knows, Mildred, so is -virtue I" 
 replied pointedly Sir Edward. " Your thorough- 
 going saints ought to live in a hermitage, 
 and not in the midst of the world, where the 
 least they can do is to render ridiculous those 
 
 VOL. L H
 
 146 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 who belong to them, as you did me the other 
 night, by refusing to waltz with any one but 
 your own husband. Husband, forsooth !" con- 
 tinued he, turning up his eyes with disdainful 
 irony ; " I thought I should never hear the 
 last of it !" 
 
 "There was a time when you would not 
 have found fault with me on that score," 
 remarked Lady Vernon, in a far gentler tone. 
 
 " Because then I knew little more of the world 
 than you did yourself," said Sir Edward. " A 
 month in this town forms a man more than ten 
 seasons in London." 
 
 " I fear so !" rejoined his wife, gravely ; " but 
 rather say," and her voice grew sadder as she 
 spoke, "that you loved me better then than 
 now." 
 
 " Oh ! for heaven's sake, Mildred !" ex- 
 claimed Sir Edward, rising from the breakfast- 
 table in haste, " do not talk any nonsense of 
 that kind. What can your dancing with the 
 men of our mutual acquaintance, like every 
 other rational woman, possibly have to do with 
 my loving you more or less? It is so very
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 147 
 
 absurd ! so ven- like a school-girl !" and the 
 handsome Baronet rectified a fold of his cravat 
 in the looking-glass. 
 
 Poor Mildred felt that it had a great deal 
 to do with it, but she did not know how to 
 express it ; and accordingly determined to try 
 the experiment of tenderness, unmixed with the 
 least reproach. Going up to her husband, and 
 laying one hand on his shoulder : " Edward!" said 
 she, with more coquetry than one would have 
 thought she could command, " shall we make a 
 bargain ?" 
 
 " With all my heart ; — so it be not too hard a 
 one." 
 
 " Well, then," and she nestled her beautiful 
 curls into her husband's bosom, and looked 
 up into his face with her dark blue eyes, " if I 
 promise to waltz henceforward with every one 
 but you," (a smile and a sigh, both, accompanied 
 these words,) " what will you give me for it ?" 
 
 " Why — " Sir Edward looked puzzled ; 
 " what do you wish ?" 
 
 "To be allowed not to know Madame de 
 Cevezes," was the answ^er. " Even if my own 
 feelings were set aside, you know what are 
 
 H 2
 
 148 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 those of Madame de Monte vreux on this sub- 
 ject ; and we could not, being so intimate with 
 her, and knowing Madame de Moreton too, 
 we — that is, I — could not well, you know — " 
 
 " Oh ! I suppose it is all mighty right and 
 proper," interrupted Sir Edward, disengaging 
 himself abruptly from his wife's caress ; " and 
 no doubt, according to your code of morals, 
 obedience to the dictates of prudery passes long 
 before the compliance with one's husband's 
 wishes." 
 
 ** Edward!" said Lady Vernon, tenderly, and 
 again drawing near to her husband ; "do you 
 doubt my affection? my — " 
 
 " God bless my soul, Mildred ! I was not 
 dreaming of any such thing," interposed Sir 
 Edward, with manifest impatience. " One really 
 can say nothing now without your trying to 
 turn it to a scene. You do not choose to know 
 a person whose acquaintance T wish you to 
 make. I have no desire to force you to do 
 that which, for some caprice I cannot fathom, 
 you resist; therefore, I do not see what more 
 need be said on the subject." He turned to 
 consult the pages of a " Hand-book for Paris,'*
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 149 
 
 lying on the chimney-piece, and did not see 
 that Mildred's eyes were filled with tears. 
 Without looking up from the book : "Of 
 course then," continued he, "your saintship 
 does not mean to join our party to-day ?" 
 
 " What party ?" inquired Mildred. 
 
 " Oh ! a partie de campagne, to go to 
 St. Germain and dine at the Pa\411on Henri 
 Quatre." 
 
 " I knew nothing of it," replied she. 
 
 " And would not have gone if you had," 
 muttered he ; " but as to knowing nothing of 
 it, 1 am sure Madame de Brevannes talked of 
 little else last night, at the Princess Schwerzi- 
 koif's." 
 
 " You forget that Madame de Brevannes 
 rarely talks to me, and that when she does 
 not, I as rarely hsten to what she may say to 
 others." 
 
 " You would, with your prating, make me 
 forget that the hour for starting is not far 
 distant. Twenty minutes past twelve," said Sir 
 Edward, pulling out his watch. " We start at 
 one; good bye !" and he was preparing to quit
 
 150 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 the room without further ceremony, when Lady 
 Vernon advanced towards him. 
 
 " Then you will not return to dinner here ?" 
 said she, gently. 
 
 " Why ! without being ubiquitous, I should 
 imagine it would be difficult to dine in two 
 places at once." 
 
 " And I am to dine alone ?" added she. 
 
 " You do not choose to make one of us." 
 
 " It is the first time since we married," pur- 
 sued Lady Vernon, in a timid voice. 
 
 " And will not probably be the last, my dear 
 Mildred," replied her husband. " Married 
 people really cannot be always inseparable." 
 And, with these words, he was again about 
 to take his leave, when his wife, again advan- 
 cing, held out her hand to him : " Good bye 
 then, Edward 1" said she, in a faltering tone ; 
 but as, half relenting, he drew her towards him 
 to imprint on her hps a parting kiss, all Lady 
 Vernon's firmness forsook her, and throwing 
 herself upon her husband's neck, she burst 
 into tears. This was too much for Sir Edward's 
 patience. Shaking her off rather roughly :
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 151 
 
 " Oh ! d— n it, Mildred !" exclaimed he ; " this 
 is too bad. It is all the fault of your absurd 
 countr}^ education. But if you cannot be con- 
 tented with having your own way, I own I 
 am at a loss to know how to please you. I 
 have given you that, so now pray do not 
 torment me \\dth any whims or humours that 
 I can neither comprehend nor prevent." 
 
 Mildred had sunk upon a chair, with her 
 handkerchief to her eyes. The hasty closing 
 of the door informed her Sir Edward was gone ! 
 gone without the least regret, and leaving her 
 for a w^hole day alone. It was, as she had said, 
 the first time since their marriage ! and believe 
 me, those things which happen for the first 
 time are, in many cases, more painful than 
 those that happen for the last. 
 
 Lady Vernon had behaved imprudently, but 
 of that she was utterly unaware. It would have 
 been far wiser of her to consent to receive the 
 Baroness, and, under certain restrictions relative 
 to the maintenance of her intimacy with Ma- 
 dame de Monte vreux, to establish a visiting 
 acquaintance with the fair lionne. Much as 
 Mildred might be shocked by the manners and
 
 152 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 conduct of Madame de Cevezes, she should 
 have avoided depriving herself voluntarily of the 
 means of observing Aurelie's attempts to ensnare 
 Sir Edward. 
 
 In all these defensive arts a Frenchwoman 
 has a marked advantage over the less subtle 
 daughters of Albion. She never retreats before 
 her enemy, never yields her an inch of ground, 
 but fights stoutly to the last ; and, in this combat 
 a armes courtoiseSy above all contrives that 
 her adversary shall never have the advantage of 
 her in amiabihty. Now in England, on the 
 contrary, well-behaved, proper women are so 
 very full of their own dignity, that they are at 
 little or no pains to render themselves agreeable, 
 especially if they have the slightest suspicion 
 that their lords are not quite so immaculate as 
 they should be. A Parisian will play out her 
 game, whatever may be the odds against her, 
 and it is ten to one but she may win it ; whereas 
 an Englishwoman throws up the cards in dis- 
 gust, and thinks it meritorious to seem wholly 
 indifferent as to whether she may lose or gain. 
 Now, surely, surely, domestic happiness is worth 
 fighting for, and it cannot be a moral or a right
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 153 
 
 thing to give up, without a struggle, the man 
 whose name \'ou hear, under the proud pretence 
 that he is not worth reclaiming. Every human 
 being is worth reclaiming ; how much more so 
 then him to whom your life's lot is attached ! 
 And what is more, very few human beings are 
 irreclaimable ; but to withdraw them from eiTor 
 and lead them back to acknowledge the beauty 
 of right, two things are necessary, of which, I 
 grieve to say, too httle is kno\\Ti in England ; — 
 indulgence, and a conviction that the first false 
 step is not irretrievable. 
 
 Lady Vernon had neither of these two 
 requisites. If she had detected in herself any 
 leaning towards indulgence, she would have 
 regarded it as a crime ; and she looked upon, 
 as a condition of her salvation, the stedfast belief 
 in the eternal damnation of those who had ever 
 deviated one inch from the straight line. With 
 these feelings, she did not permit herself as yet 
 to be jealous of her husband ; but she would 
 never have dreamed of doing anything that might 
 prevent her having cause to be so later. She 
 was simply unhappy, because the vague instinct, 
 so prophetic in women, told her some danger 
 
 H 3
 
 154 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 threatened, and because she could not help per- 
 ceiving that Sir Edward's manner was com 
 pletely altered towards her. 
 
 Lady Vernon passed the day drearily enough, 
 unable to occupy herself seriously about any- 
 thing. . She began to read, but her thoughts 
 wandered from the page ; to play, but the 
 pianoforte seemed, like herself, out of tune ; she 
 tried to copy a flower from one of St. Jean's 
 beautiful groups, but she so invariably mis- 
 counted her stitches that she gave up that, too, 
 in despair. In short, Lady Vernon was a 
 decided prey to what we are obliged to call 
 ennuif having no word in our own language to 
 express it. " What does that matter ?" said to 
 me, one day, a lively Frenchwoman to whom I 
 made this observation, — " le nom n'y fait rien 
 puisque vous avez la chose.'" The hours had 
 worn on till half-past four. Mildred opened one 
 of the windows, and, from under the blinds that 
 overshadowed the balcony, took a long vacant 
 look at the sun-lighted Place, and inhaled the 
 fragrant breath of the warm air that came^ 
 charged with soft odours, from the gardens of 
 the Tuileries. As she stood thus she did not
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 155 
 
 hear the door of the apartment open ; nor was 
 it till she turned round to leave the balcony, that 
 she became aware of the presence of a \dsitor. 
 She welcomed the Due de Montevreux, for it 
 was he, with sincere pleasure, but at the same 
 time with an allusion to the events of the day 
 which sufficiently betrayed her irritation. 
 
 " So, Monsieur le Due," said she, extending 
 her hand, " you have not joined the revels of the 
 Pavilion Henri Quatre, and can find time to 
 come and see those whom others desert." 
 
 Unwise Mildred, you ought not to have said 
 that! 
 
 The Duke bowed with all the reserve of a 
 well-bred Frenchman, and, without taking the 
 sHghtest notice of the latter part of Lady 
 Vernon's speech, protested his surprise at find- 
 ing Sir Edward absent, (wherein he diverged 
 from the truth about as much as he well could.) 
 
 Lady Vernon took from a table some crochet 
 work on which she had been engaged, and 
 seated herself by the open window. Gaston 
 established himself on a low chair opposite to 
 her. One little, narrow, sunny ray found its
 
 156 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 way through some chink in the persienne, and 
 came playing the truant on the mosaic-patterned 
 carpet between them. 
 
 " And pray," said Mildred, " who is to be of 
 this exquisite partie de campagne .?" 
 
 " I scarcely know," replied the Duke, " but I 
 think it is just as well that you were not." 
 
 Lady Vernon drew up. " I, M. le Due !" 
 said she, with a something that approached 
 very nearly to a toss of her head, " you know 
 how little my inclinations lead me into that 
 kind of society." 
 
 Gaston smiled. " Why yes, you are on that 
 point more terrible even than my mother ; and 
 you know 1 sometimes even allow myself to 
 differ slightly with you ; hut in this particular 
 instance I cannot but approve, and wish that 
 some others had acted with the same pru- 
 dence." 
 
 *' What do you mean?" asked Lady Vernon. 
 
 " I allude principally to the giddy Madame de 
 
 Brevannes, who is too pretty, too silly, and too 
 
 entirely her own mistress to be always inseparable 
 
 from such a woman as the Baroness. A widow
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 157 
 
 of four-and-twenty should be very careful of her 
 female intimates. One woman may injure her 
 reputation more than fifty men." 
 
 " I confess," rejoined Mildred, " that the 
 Countess is no favourite of mine ; and I have 
 wondered more than once at Madame de Mon- 
 tevreux's intimacy with her." 
 
 " It would be difficult," said Gaston, " that it 
 should be otherwise. Mv father and her mother 
 were first cousins ; and after all, though she is, 
 I think, in great danger now of being led astray, 
 there has not, as yet, been a single breath raised 
 against her." 
 
 "You appear to me to be all cousins in your 
 society," remarked Lady Vernon, smiling. 
 " Since I have been in Paris I scarce remember 
 to have heard any one attacked without hearing 
 it alleged in his defence that he was somebody's 
 cousin." 
 
 " It is in some degree as you say," replied the 
 Duke. " We have families still, and names, 
 which is more than the others can say ; nous 
 tenons a quelqu'un et a quelque chose, and in 
 very self-defence we are true to one another. 
 But I dare sav that what vou mention must
 
 158 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 strike a foreigner, and above all, an English 
 person. In your country you live so much in 
 public, your world is so very nearly synonimous 
 with the crowd, that it must seem wonderful to 
 you to find a set of people who live entirely 
 amongst themselves, and rarely extend their 
 acquaintance beyond the limits of their family 
 connections." 
 
 " I will not only say that I wonder, I will also 
 say that I admire," rejoined Lady Vernon, 
 graciously. "But to return to our subject. 
 Why did you not join the excursion to St. 
 Germain ?" 
 
 " Because I do not particularly like some of 
 those whom I know to be participators in it ; 
 for instance, Madame Ferrieres. That woman 
 is to me perfectly odious ; and I wovld almost 
 rather be exposed to read one of her books 
 than tb talk to her for half an hour !" 
 
 " And she is of the party ?" 
 
 " Of course ! Is it not her office to be 
 there? Whenever la petite Cevezes has 
 planned some more than ordinarily mischievous 
 trick, does she not give herself the countenance 
 of the ex-Ministress ? Madame Ferrieres has.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 159 
 
 I do believe, been hitherto an honest, weU- 
 behaved woman (and she will probably find 
 little temptation to alter her line of conduct 
 now) ; but she is wild for notoriety, and of that 
 the Baroness can give her, at small cost, as 
 much as she may desire. Herself a roturiere, 
 married to an undistinguished officer of the 
 Empire, she is delighted to be in habits of daily 
 intercourse with persons to whom, whatever 
 may be their morals, none can refuse the advan- 
 tage of good blood : and thus, in this aUiance, 
 Madame de Cev^zes affords the sanction of 
 birth, fashion, and chic (a tahs manic word you 
 do not perhaps understand), whilst the other 
 contracting party consents to cover, with the 
 shield of her age and her democratic virtues 
 (assumed a priori), any too violent equipees 
 of her high-born friend. Madame Ferrieres, 
 however, is not the only one of her set who 
 would give up outward decorum to be con- 
 sidered as the friend of such people as the 
 Baroness and Moreton. Apropos to that," re- 
 marked Gaston suddenly, " I verily beUeve this 
 dinner at St. Germain to have been planned in 
 order to fSter the Vicomte's departure."
 
 160 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 "Departure!" exclaimed Mildred, "what, is 
 he gone?" 
 
 " He left Paris last night for Alexandria, on 
 a mission ; and, to tell you the truth, I cannot 
 see my way in the business. Moreton has 
 hitherto been a staunch legitimist, but he is 
 ambitious, and his passion for the Baroness is 
 only equalled by his desire to become a political 
 character. Now latterly, both Madame de 
 Cevezes and her mother have fostered these 
 inclinations to an immense extent; and it is 
 said, old Madame de Vallemer's intrigues are at 
 the bottom of all; but, well as I know her 
 manoeuvring spirit, in this matter I suspect 
 Madame de Cevezes herself." 
 
 " Why," interrupted Lady Vernon, " do you 
 suppose she wanted the Vicomte to leave 
 Paris ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell," replied the Duke evasively ; 
 " but I know that he has left it. A certain 
 influential personage — not now actually in, but 
 very near to, the ministry — who holds to our 
 faubourg by many ties (although he has served 
 under the present government, and probably 
 will do so again), did, it seems, so caress and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 161 
 
 cajole Moreton's vanity, that he persuaded him 
 to undertake a diplomatic mission to the 
 Lebanon ; and thither he is gone, after ha\^ng 
 had a long interview with the Minister. To 
 save le cher Vicomte's consistency, it was sug- 
 gested that none but a member of the old 
 aristocracy, a kind of descendant of la chambre 
 feodale, could bring to a good end the negocia- 
 tions in question — which, I believe, relate to the 
 state of the Syrian Catholics. ^Yell !" resumed 
 the Duke after a pause, " Moreton will talk to 
 the poor wild devils of Druses and Maronites, of 
 Saint Louis, of ' the sons of the Crusaders,' of 
 ' France being the born protectress of the 
 Oriental Catholics,' et cetera, almost as well as 
 Montalambert himself (and I hope less nasally) ; 
 and, after a good deal of chatter, things will 
 remain precisely as they were — that is what 
 will happen la has : as to what may happen 
 here, that is more difficult to predict." 
 
 " But that is neither your affair nor mine," 
 remarked Lady Vernon, gaily. 
 
 Her visitor cast a side glance at her. 
 
 " Perhaps not," said he ; and rising, " I will 
 not," continued the Duke, " detain vou anv
 
 162 MILDRED VERNON, 
 
 longer ; I know that in this fine weather you 
 dine early. But I must not forget the message 
 my mother desired me to deliver, and which 
 consists in an entreaty that you will, as soon as 
 your drive is ended, come and take ice with her 
 (or tea, if you like it better). She has suffered 
 considerably from her migraine these two days, 
 or she would have come herself; but I hope the 
 unworthiness of the messenger will not prevent 
 you from complying with the spirit of the mes- 
 sage." 
 
 " Tell the Duchess I will be with her before 
 nine o'clock," replied Mildred, as she shook 
 hands with M. de Montevreux. 
 
 " Sans toilette, you know," added Gaston, 
 opening the door. "We are alone; only my 
 uncle Sestrieres, and Madame de La Roche 
 Bermont. Come in your bonnet." 
 
 When the Duke was gone, though Lady 
 Vernon felt less ennuy^e than before he came, 
 she felt perhaps more lonely. Hurrying her 
 solitary dinner, and lingering over her toilette, 
 she did not step into her caleche until half-past 
 seven. As she passed slowly up the avenue of 
 the Champs Elysees, the sun was setting over
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 163 
 
 the woods of Neuilly, and his broad red disk, 
 sinking upon a bed of purple and gold, was 
 framed, as it were, by the gigantic arch of the 
 Barriere de I'Etoile. 
 
 As Lady Vernon passed through the broad 
 alleys of the Bois, carpeted with the silver 
 blossoms of the almond-scented acacias, or 
 stole through the smaller paths, but just vdde 
 enough to admit her carriage and where the 
 dark branches of the trees met vault-Hke above 
 her head, she felt that it was excessively agree- 
 able, that the air was verj- mild, and that the 
 drive would probably do her good ; but of 
 the thousand fair dreams that attend on such 
 influences, that lurk in the twittering boughs, in 
 the breath of the flowers, in the evening wind, 
 of these, not one came to her ! She turned 
 away from the darkening wood to re-enter the 
 town, without a regret for all those lovely little 
 spots that the moon was beginning to point out 
 to you as she rose, and that you could just 
 perceive, in the intervals of the thickets and 
 between the stems of the trees. Before nine 
 o'clock had struck. Lady Vernon's carriage rolled 
 into the court- vard of the Hotel Montevreux.
 
 1^4 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the Duchess's salon, Mildred found only 
 four persons assembled : Madame de Mon- 
 tevreux and her son ; her brother, the Comte 
 de Sestrieres; and her sister-in-law, thePrincesse 
 de la Roche Bermont. The latter, for some 
 cause of which Mildred herself was unconscious, 
 always acted on Lady Vernon as a kind of 
 kill-joy ; nor, on the other hand, did the 
 Princess seem to derive any particular gratifi- 
 cation from the young Englishwoman's society. 
 The first greetings exchanged, conversation 
 established itself upon the ordinary topics of the 
 day. Theatres, dress, society, each had its 
 tui'n, — without forgetting politics or scandal, —
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 165 
 
 when, in the midst of a tirade from Madame 
 de la Roche Bermont, who sought to prove that 
 unless the Due de Bordeaux came shortly to the 
 throne, France must be rumed in every respect, 
 but especially in a moral point of ^dew, a 
 servant announced M. le Comte de Maugency. 
 
 "What?" exclaimed, in different modula- 
 tions of surprise, every one of the party, except 
 Mildred. 
 
 "Why, my dear cousin," said the Duchess, 
 extending her hand, which the Count respect- 
 fully kissed, " I thought you were still at 
 Poitiers ! Since when have you been here ? 
 What has made you arrive so suddenly ? " 
 
 The appearance of the new comer was too 
 remarkable for us to avoid giving a slight sketch 
 of him. Colossally tall, stout, and muscular ; 
 the longest legs, the longest arms, the shortest 
 waist, and the braw^niest shoulders imaginable, 
 were surmounted by a small, round head, that 
 appeared stuck on as though by chance, and 
 betw^een which and the body, no neck or throat 
 formed any visible connecting link. The face 
 was not ugly, for the mere features were regular ;
 
 166 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 but a sort of constitutional drowsiness so entirely 
 overhung them, that they might be said to 
 be completely devoid of all expression, good 
 or bad. This heaviness was evidently the 
 marked characteristic of the individual. His 
 voice was heavy, his intonations were drawling. 
 It was evident that his perceptions lagged 
 behind those of the rest of his species, and 
 that he must take at least half an hour longer 
 to seize a point than any one else. At the 
 same time, this laziness of mind and manner 
 was every now and then employed to bring 
 forth some piece of unexpected causticity abso- 
 lutely startling. 
 
 Answering Madame de Montevreux's ques- 
 tion : — 
 
 " I left Poitiers three weeks ago," said he, 
 " I have been staying ten days at Mantes, and 
 capital fun we have had. We had no less a 
 personage in our neighbourhood than la belle 
 Marquise de Montdord." 
 
 " You don't mean to say," exclaimed Gaston, 
 "that Madame de Montdord has actually taken 
 up her quarters in the provinces ? "
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 167 
 
 "Indeed I do," replied M. de Maugency. 
 " She is at Chateau Montdord, and leading the 
 life of a provinciale. Her place is not above 
 fifteen miles from Mantes, and I saw her 
 constantly." 
 
 "Well, and what did you think of her?" 
 asked M. de Sestrieres. 
 
 " Why, that she is infinitely more agreeable 
 than those who pretended she was not good 
 enough for them," answered Victor. "She is, 
 I conclude, too handsome, and too clever, to 
 please what you call la bonne compagnie, and 
 so you have got rid of her ; — but I can teU 
 you she makes her house pleasant enough to 
 lure some of your virtuous hangers-on from 
 their allegiance ; so you had best take care." 
 
 " And pray how does her avarice Hke that ?" 
 demanded Madame de la Roche Bermont. 
 " For she is a very Harpagon in petticoats." 
 
 Before we record M. de Maugency's answer, 
 we win enlighten our reader a little upon the 
 fair subject of this discourse. A lady of 
 European celebrity, Madame de Montdord was 
 a most remarkable, nay, almost an historical 
 person. Beautiful, attractive, clever, delight-
 
 168 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 ful, and more than merely well-informed, — she 
 was, from accidental circumstances, not at all 
 well received in the circles of Paris. The 
 Faubourg St. Germain turned up their noses 
 at her ; the liberal party distrusted her in- 
 defatigable activity of mind ; the prudes abo- 
 minated her. She was, with almost royal birth, 
 a grande dame manquee, and, with talents of a 
 very superior order, a femme politique incom- 
 plete. Her life had been passed in the very 
 hot-bed of political intrigue, with her near 
 relative the famous Due de Vallerand, and, 
 like most of her sex in a similar position, she 
 had taken all that was worst, and neglected all 
 that was best in the science of Machiavel. All 
 the littlenesses, all the intrigues, vanities, petty 
 ambitions, underhand ways, manoeuvres and 
 backslidings of politics were famiUar to her; 
 but the large views, the elevated intentions, the 
 gigantic plans, which raise the art of ruling 
 nations to the height of a philosophical study, 
 and place its practice before that of all other 
 arts, these were to her unknown. Her famed 
 relative, the Due de Vallerand, tried every 
 means of forcing her into popularity, but even
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 169 
 
 his ail-but omnipotence could not succeed. 
 Madame de Montdord was distrusted, looked 
 upon with suspicion, and nothing could wash 
 from her name the fatal stain of being a political 
 intrigante of high life, though without any but 
 political sins to answer for. Finding all her at- 
 tempts useless, she left the capital in disgust, 
 and took to the provinces, where she had 
 more than one estate. Her favourite residence, 
 how^ever, was Chateau Montdord. The place 
 was enchanting, and she contrived to render it 
 doubly so to those (principally foreigners) who 
 visited it. Her table, notwithstanding her 
 avarice, was splendid, and the bonne chere of 
 Chateau Montdord attracted many who would 
 other%vise have been inflexible. 
 
 " I assure you," resumed M. de Maugency, 
 *'that there are few houses in which all the 
 comforts and luxuries of existence are to be 
 found so plentifully as at the Marchioness's 
 chateau. It is a perfect Paradise." 
 
 "After the Fall," murmured M. de Ses. 
 trieres. 
 
 "But, Victor," said the Duchess, "your 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 adoration of Madame de Montdord does not 
 explain your sudden arrival here." 
 
 " Oh !" replied he, lazily, " I have just come 
 from St. Germain, where I had an engagement 
 to dinner with some one whose name I suppose 
 I had best not mention here." 
 
 " How, in Heaven's name, came you to make 
 one of that party ?" exclaimed the Princess — 
 "for I suppose you allude to the pic-nic of 
 which Madame La Ferriere was to be the 
 heroine." 
 
 " Pardon, Princesse," droned forth M. de 
 Maugency. " Madame Ferrieres, whom you 
 choose to call La Ferriere — though I cannot 
 imagine why, (that being the name of a very 
 handsome actor at the Vaudeville, into which 
 low theatre you have doubtless never put your 
 aristocratic feet), Madame Ferrieres was not 
 the heroine of the party ; that post was occupied 
 by a person whom you dislike even more than 
 you do her." 
 
 " Madame de Cev^zes !" cried the Princess, 
 in the heat of the moment. 
 
 " I knew I was not mistaken," said the 
 Count.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 171 
 
 M. de Sestrieres and his nephew exchanged 
 glances. If the Princess had one foible more 
 developed than another, it was that of pro- 
 fessing, in her boundless arrogance and utter 
 disdain for aU those out of her own immediate 
 set, an absolute incapacity for hatred. She 
 considered her dislike as an honour, equalizing 
 her with the object disliked : and had, perhaps, 
 in her life never been entrapped before into 
 avowing such a sentiment. 
 
 The Princess grew scarlet, as M. de 
 Maugency, nothing heeding, went on : " As to 
 the manner in which I found my way to the 
 Pavilion Henri Quatre, it is easily explained. 
 Hauteroche came down on Sunday to his 
 father's place, near Mantes, where I was 
 staying, and asked me to join the pic-nic, of 
 which he was one of the prime movers." 
 
 *' Was General Ferrieres with you ?'* in- 
 quired M. de Sestrieres, as though to turn the 
 conversation. 
 
 " No 1" was the reply. " There was no 
 husband amongst us, that I am aware of — 
 except those whose wives might be else- 
 where." 
 
 I 2
 
 172 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " You must have broken up very early," 
 interposed Gaston, anxious in turn to divert 
 the current of his ponderous cousin's narra- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ma foi! I do not know what should 
 have detained us ; the best of such parties 
 ought to be the dinner, and that was 
 execrable." 
 
 " Indeed !" remarked M. de Sestrieres, " I 
 thought that the chef there was tolerably 
 good." 
 
 " I dare say he may be," rejoined the Count ; 
 " but he is not the only one on whom the 
 dinner depends; those who order it go for 
 something ; and the man who would be inca- 
 pable of managing the affairs of the state, is not 
 fit to order a dinner." 
 
 " For shame, Victof !" said the Duchess : 
 " what an incorrigible gourmand you are !" 
 
 "I do not pretend to so much, chere cousine, 
 I merely endeavour to eat with discernment ; — 
 but it was hopeless to have dreamed of a good 
 dinner to-day: all those who ordered it were 
 millionnaires.'^ 
 
 *' Well," remarked M. de Sestrieres, " it is
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 173 
 
 the very first time I ever heard a long purse 
 assigned as a motive for a bad dinner." 
 
 " Believe me/' said M. de Maugency dogma- 
 tically, " if you want to dine cheaply, dine with 
 rich men ; if you want to dine well, dine with 
 those who have not a sou. — Make a pic-nic 
 with your Croesus, and, whether you will or not, 
 he will force you to spare your purse, for fear of 
 the recoil upon his own ; — but agree to share 
 expenses with a ruined man, and you shall see 
 your napoleons follow his out of the window. 
 It was not, however, entirely the indifferent 
 dinner which made us leave St. Germain so 
 early ; — it was also that Madame Ferrieres, 
 with the playful giddiness attendant upon her 
 years, had chosen to forget that to-day was 
 Thiu-sday and that it is her receiving night. I 
 dare say she might have thought it piquant, for 
 that identical reason, to pass the whole night in 
 the forest, and let her anxious guests knock 
 vainly at her door ; — but she expects an attrac* 
 tion at home that Madame de Cevezes, for one, 
 would not have missed for worlds." The 
 speaker stopped, and looked up at the ceiling,
 
 174 MILDHED VERNON. 
 
 as though he waited to be questioned further. 
 His expectation did not last long. 
 
 "And pray, what might this attraction 
 consist of?" demanded Gaston. 
 
 " Oh ! simply a man who would not be run 
 away with/' rejoined the drowsy Victor. 
 "M. Chavigny, who is to appear for the first 
 time since his accident, at Madame Ferri^res to 
 night." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, my dear Victor," cried 
 the Duchess, " take care that, with your usual 
 esprit d'apropos, you do not utter that name 
 later within these walls, for my brother, just 
 before you arrived, had announced to me the 
 farewell visit of the General, who starts to- 
 morrow for Algeria." 
 
 " Well ! but I don't understand — I really 
 don't see — " 
 
 " You know very well, Victor, that you 
 never will see or understand any thing till it is 
 too late," interrupted the Princess, anxious to 
 revenge herself on her kinsman for the 
 annoyance he had inflicted on her. "With 
 what your fair friend the Baroness, to whom
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 175 
 
 you have sworn such devotion, calls your 
 * etourderie d'elephant en goguette,^ you 
 would set the saints in Paradise by the ears." 
 
 " My friend the Baroness 1" ejaculated Victor. 
 " She is no great friend of mine, by your 
 showing, Princesse ; and as to my devotion to 
 her — I am a moral man," (he cast up his eyes 
 hypocritically) '* and a poor man, and therefore 
 cannot venture to devote myself to ladies of 
 the world; but as to what we were saying, 
 I repeat that I cannot see" — Before he could 
 finish his sentence the door opened, to give 
 entrance to the Marquis de Boislambert. 
 
 " Hold your tongue !" whispered the Duchess, 
 in a half peremptory, half supplicating tone. 
 
 The reception given to the General by the 
 Duchess's circle, was such as only the most 
 exquisite taste could have inspired. There 
 was none of that officious empressement by 
 which merely good -hearted, silly people, mark 
 the first meeting after a great misfortune ; and 
 yet enough of effusion to make the object of 
 it feel he was in the midst of those who 
 sincerely loved him. Even Madame de la
 
 176 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Roche Bermont relaxed, in M. de Boislambert's 
 favour, from her usual disdainful stiffness. 
 
 " Then really you leave us to-morrow ?" 
 asked Madame de Montevreux. 
 
 " At five in the morning." 
 
 '^ And you go — to Algiers ?" 
 
 The General smiled. " That would scarcely 
 be worth while," said he, " my destination lies 
 beyond the towns you can have heard mentioned; 
 I have the happiness of commanding an expe- 
 dition against the Kabyles." 
 
 *' Happiness !" echoed the Duchess, with a kind 
 of shudder. 
 
 "Yes," repeated M. de Boislambert, "I 
 assure you, that when a man, brought up in an 
 active life, and who for some few years has led 
 an idle one, finds himself suddenly recalled into 
 activity, there is a feeling of excitement about 
 the return to action, that approaches nearer 
 to happiness than anything else one can conceive 
 in this life. Is it not so, Sestri^res?" added 
 the General, appealing to his old friend. 
 
 " I am inclined to believe it," answered M. 
 de Sestri^res, with a sigh ; " for I almost begin
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 177 
 
 to think the part you played in 1830 was the 
 right one." 
 
 " For shame ! M. le Comte !" cried the 
 Princess. 
 
 " Do not let us talk politics," said Madame de 
 Monte^Tcux. 
 
 During this time, M. de Maugency had 
 been plunged in ^Yhat appeared a profound state 
 of meditation ; when all at once, tapping his 
 forehead with his knuckles, " Well ! now I do 
 see !" said he, half aloud ; and then, aware that, 
 by this sudden announcement of his tardy 
 perceptions, he had very nearly committed a 
 monstrous blunder, he recommenced engaging 
 everyone's attention to the continued recital of 
 the events of the day. 
 
 " And so Moreton is dismissed ?" said he. 
 
 " He is gone to pacify the Lebanon,'' 
 replied Gaston, ironically ; " but as to being 
 dismissed, why" — 
 
 " I fancied he was dismissed, merely because 
 he is supplanted," answered Victor ; " but I 
 suppose that does not follow." Gaston looked 
 agonized with fear at what might come next ; 
 yet what could be done ? no help was at hand ; 
 
 I 3
 
 178 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 on the contrary, the Princess, with her harsh 
 voice exclaimed, 
 
 " And pray who is the idiot who has taken 
 his place ?'* It was too late ! M. de Montevreux 
 darted to the side of Mildred, who had been 
 engaged in conversation with his mother nearly 
 all the evening ; and, awkward as a man always 
 is in these circumstances, and the more awk- 
 ward, the more kindly he feels, 
 
 " Lady Vernon," said he, hurriedly, " before I 
 again forget it, do come and see the pictiire I 
 spoke of to you the other day, of my great- 
 great-grandmother, the friend of Madame de la 
 Valli^re ; you will see that I am right about the 
 likeness to my co\isin Clementine." 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Gaston ?" 
 demanded the Princess, parenthetically, " friend 
 of La Valli^re indeed ! a Montevreux !" 
 
 " Do go," said the Duchess, who foresaw the 
 danger ; " it is in the boudoir." 
 
 Mildred rose, and as Gaston held on one side 
 the silken portiere which hung the open door- 
 way between the drawing-room and the little 
 boudoir, to allow Lady Vernon to pass, these 
 words, uttered by Victor, met their ear : — " He 
 is handsome, this Englishman, handsomer far,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 179 
 
 than Moreton ; very elegant and distingue — and 
 as for being in love, he is perfectly absurd ; he 
 not only does adore the ground on which she 
 walks, but he shows it." 
 
 M. de Montevreux drew Mildred into the 
 boudoir, and, snatching a lamp from a console, 
 he hastened to show her a portrait to which 
 neither of them paid the least attention. He 
 had scarcely said : " Is it not ver)^ hke, allowing 
 for the difference of head-dress ?" when, out of 
 the way as they were — and they would have 
 been more so, if the Duke, by wishing, could 
 have made the walls open before them — the 
 name of *' Sir Edward Vernon" distinctly reached 
 their ears, borne on the dull, ding-dong tones 
 of M. de Maugency. This was followed by a 
 profound silence, and then a low whispering; 
 but of the latter Mildred heard nothing ; her 
 head reeled, her eyes swam, and the blood tingled 
 in her ears. 
 
 M. de Montevreux replaced the lamp on a 
 table ; it was no time for ceremony, or even for 
 discretion. " Courage ! dear Lady Vernon," 
 said he, with much feehng, as Mildred sunk 
 upon a sofa before him ; " do not heed my
 
 180 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 cousin Victor; he is the greatest fool in 
 Christendom, and never knows what he is 
 saying." 
 
 ** He knows it now," said Mildred solemnly ; 
 for the truth had burst upon her, and she knew 
 and felt it to be the truth. 
 
 Gaston took both her hands in his, and 
 pressing them earnestly, " At all events," 
 repeated he, " whatever may, or may not be, 
 courage, dear Lady Vernon 1 at this moment, for 
 Heaven's sake, for your own sake, courage !" 
 
 " I have plenty," rephed Mildred, as, with 
 a coUectedness w^hich confounded Gaston, she 
 rose and led the way back into the salon, where 
 her deadly paleness was scarcely remarked, from 
 the dim light shed around by the carefully-shaded 
 lamps. 
 
 The party was augmented by the presence of 
 Madame de Moreton, who had come, before 
 returning home from her evening's drive, to 
 inquire after her cousin the Duchess's health. 
 Her greeting to Mildred was particularly 
 affectionate and kind. M. de Maugency was 
 sitting at a table, looking at some albums, but 
 apparently much more taken up with some
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 181 
 
 knotty problem that was working in his own 
 brain. The Princess addressed Lady Vernon, 
 " Did you think the portrait of the Duchess 
 (who by-the-by, then was only Marquise) 
 de Montevreux, like Clementine ?" 
 
 Mildred, whose courage was simply heroism, 
 — the sort of courage that a martyr would bring 
 to the stake — and not that given by a knowledge 
 of the world, by savoir vivre, could not lie. 
 " I did not observe it sufficiently to judge," 
 replied she, calmly. !M. de Boislambert, who 
 was deep in earnest talk with the Comte de 
 Sestrieres, looked up at these words, and you 
 w^ould have said there was a deep sympathy 
 in his glance ; but it was momentary, and the 
 next instant he resumed liis conversation. 
 
 His visit was not a long one : when he rose 
 to say farewell, the bow by which he took 
 leave of Lady Vernon, had something more 
 in it than would be usual to a mere stranger ; 
 it was a shade — quite imperceptible ; but she felt 
 it, and a kindly feeling sprung up in her 
 heart towards the General, as towards some 
 one she had long known, and who pitied and 
 understood her.
 
 182 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 When M. de Boislambert was gone ; "He is 
 altered," said the Duchess. "He is thinner, 
 and very pale." 
 
 " Ah, bah /" rejoined M. de Sestri^res, " he 
 is delighted to get back to what Lady 
 Vernon's illustrious countryman, Shakespeare, 
 calls * Othello's occupation.' I wish I were 
 going too, to have a touch at those devils of 
 Kabyles I" 
 
 " Do you think, then," demanded Madame de 
 Moreton, " that the loss of Louise inspires him 
 with no regret?" 
 
 " Ma foi ! If it were any other woman I 
 would certainly say no ; but, to be sure, Louise ! 
 I would have put my hand in the fire for her. 
 No ! the worst of the case is, that that rascal, 
 Chavigny, has placed himself in such a position 
 that Boislambert cannot revenge himself on 
 him, and that I myself was forced to be the 
 very first to forbid his doing so. That is a 
 bore, and must confoundedly bother my poor 
 friend ; but as for all the rest, c^est un vrai 
 coBur de soldat, and I am sure, with a cam- 
 paign in prospect, he regrets nothing." 
 
 " And his children ?" enquired the Duchess.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 183 
 
 " Oh, they remain with us for the present ; 
 but he does not appear at all grieved at lea\ing 
 them, they are so young. But that very cir- 
 cumstance makes me feel sure he does not 
 regret his wife, as one might have thought 
 natural, and even excusable." 
 
 One by one the Duchess's guests dropped 
 off; and as Gaston conducted Mildred to her 
 carriage, while closing the door of the salon, he 
 heard a muffled exclamation from his sapient 
 cousin, announcing that the light had again 
 broke in upon him, for the second time that 
 evening.
 
 184 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The lionne tribe in Paris is divided into a 
 vast number of different varieties, and you have 
 as little described any particular sort of lionnerie, 
 when you have said lionne, as you have desig- 
 nated a Turk's cap or an amaryllis, by speaking 
 of a liliaceous plant. There are the pugnacious 
 lionnes — the real, bond fide, scratch-and-claw 
 genus; and the languishing, ultra-feminine 
 ones, who, instead of seizing on notoriety by 
 the forelock, make away with, it as it were, by 
 stealth. There are the singing lionnes, and 
 the dancing lionnes : those who rival Madame 
 Stolz, and those who are jealous of Dolores, or 
 Lola Montes; — for, remark, that the lionne 
 never does anything in a pure or really artist-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 185 
 
 like style, but always takes for her model some 
 prodigious combination of boldness and bad 
 taste. Then come the literary lionnes, whose 
 dreams are haunted by the mawkishly impure 
 creations of those most abject of the race of 
 female writers, who, having no real beauty where- 
 with to attract attention, find a last resource in 
 scandal, and become moral tableaux vivants. 
 
 To exemplify tw^o of the different varieties, 
 we will select Madame de Brevannes and 
 Aurelie. The former was doubly a lionne, in 
 virtue of her musical talents and in virtue of 
 her pretended ill-health. The fair Irene was a 
 lionne souffrante. She had all kinds of curious 
 maladies, for which she employed all kinds of 
 curious remedies and extraordinary doctors. 
 The origin of the w^hole — so you were led to 
 believe — lay, however, in the over-excitability of 
 the nervous system, which produced at all 
 moments the strangest phenomena. Nervous 
 paroxysms, fainting fits, magnetic slumbers, 
 were among the slightest of the disorders which 
 caused the gentle Countess rarely to move un- 
 attended by a mesmeriser or an homoeopath.
 
 186 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Her voice, though really charming, and her 
 method, though really good, were probably not 
 sufficient alone to ensure her fitting leonine 
 rank ; whereas, combined with ruined health, 
 nothing could be more successful. A cavatina 
 that might end in catalepsy, a ballad that might 
 leave the singer at death's door, were sure to be 
 breathlessly listened to. It was not ' dancing,' 
 but singing, * on a volcano,' and that is a sort 
 of excitement against which Parisians of a 
 certain species will never be entirely proof. 
 Unfledged poets got into the habit of talking 
 to the Countess herself, when she had sung, of 
 the ** song of the swan," at which she smiled 
 faintly, sighed, or swooned, as the case might 
 require. Besides this, when her health per- 
 mitted, she gave other more lively tokens of 
 belonging to the sisterhood, — such as riding on 
 horseback, betting high at all the races, and 
 paying a hundred francs to secure the withering 
 in her hair of one particular prize camelia. 
 
 Madame de Cev^zes, as we well know, was, 
 on the contrary, of the most approved and 
 genuine species of devil-may-care lionnes, and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 187 
 
 belonged to what one of the wittiest of modem 
 French wTiters has called 'Tecole tapageuse."* 
 She might, indeed, be considered as in some 
 sort, and for the moment, the sovereign of this 
 school ; for what she did, few dared to imitate, 
 and she was almost always left without a fol- 
 lower in her more desperate enterprises. But 
 those who dared not copy, only wondered and 
 adored the more ; and the name of Madame de 
 Cevezes became a watchword, not only in the 
 mere leonine set, but in the circles usually 
 designated by the term 'fashionable/ 
 
 Madame Ferrieres, who had many preten- 
 sions, and many ambitious desires, had one 
 which predominated over all the rest, — that of 
 being at the head of a salon a la mode. Her 
 husband's position, combined with the particular 
 bent of her own mind and faculties, had drawn 
 around her that portion of the literary world, 
 whose peculiar wish it also is to be, in general 
 society, distinguished (in some degree) as lions. 
 Nothing is much easier than in Paris to guess 
 at once at the habitual tone and opinions of a 
 house, from the literary stars most accustomed 
 
 * Madame Emile de Girardin. (Delphine Gay).
 
 188 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 to shine there. But the two great distinctions 
 are these : the men who write for writing's 
 sake, and those who write to support an idea, 
 or attain an end, wholly unconnected with 
 literary vanity. The former (or ornamental 
 portion of litterateurs, the mere gens de lettres) 
 include, w^e may say, all the novel-writers and 
 some of the inferior poets; the latter (whom 
 we would style the useful portion) consist of 
 men who, having an office to fill in the state, 
 being either deputies, diplomates, or in some 
 other way attached to public functions, have 
 recourse to their pen either to defend the 
 acts of the Government, or, through the 
 medium of some grave science — whether his- 
 torical, philosophical, or political, deeply studied 
 — to elucidate its principles and lead the public 
 mind to the habitual consideration of serious 
 topics. These are never met but in houses either 
 exquisitely comme il faut, or where the heads of 
 the family are actively employed in the conduct 
 of public affairs ; the others, the useless members 
 of the literary corporation, frequent chiefly those 
 places where refinement is sacrificed to pleasure, 
 and where graver thoughts and occupations
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 189 
 
 t 
 
 never interfere with the light and not always 
 innocent diversions of the hour. 
 
 Such a place was the house of Madame 
 Ferrieres; and although herself what, in the 
 main, might be termed a vii'tuous woman, her 
 intimate society was entirely composed of the 
 frivolous votaries of amusement quand meme. 
 There was no restraint in her salons, whence 
 ceremony and etiquette were utterly banished. 
 Riches there were, which, profusely spent, bought 
 for the spenders notoriety, and in turn secured, 
 from time to time, to those who profited, that 
 meed of praise of which even the most famous 
 stand in need. The good dinners of the General 
 attracted the most obdurate of the critic tribe ; 
 and once softened in favour of Madame Ferrieres' 
 own books, it was no yery difficult matter to 
 obtain the like indulgence for some worthier 
 object, who might happen to be in momentary 
 disgrace, and who, in turn, helped by his presence 
 to give eclat to the reunions of the ex- 
 ministress. 
 
 The perpetual interchange of infinitely small 
 good offices, established between this celebrity- 
 dispensing genus and the book-making lady.
 
 190 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 occupied more of her time than ever the ministry 
 of war had absorbed of her husband's. But, as 
 a recompense, Madame Ferrieres' salon became 
 an acknowledged resort for all the spoilt children 
 of mere fashion. More than that, it was a 
 place where people were said to amuse them- 
 selves, and to sup well — two things in Paris 
 much rarer than is supposed. At Madame 
 Ferri^res' concerts all the finest singers sang 
 their finest morceaux, and amongst the listeners 
 you might be sure of seeing those whose names 
 you had read in the morning at the end of the 
 most dramatic feuilletons of the Constitutionnel 
 or the Presse. 
 
 One only thing was wanting to Madame 
 Ferrieres' happiness ; it was to secure a few of 
 those who, instead of being sanctioned, sanction ; 
 a few of those who read instead of writing, and 
 whom those who write aspire to behold in order 
 to describe. Nor was this so difficult as one 
 would imagine. There is in Paris (perhaps 
 more than anywhere else) a vast desire on the 
 part of almost every one, to step out of his own 
 immediate circle in order to obtain a glimpse of 
 the world with which he is unfamiliar, be it above
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 191 
 
 or below him, peu importer so long as it be 
 something new. The lion of the literary uni- 
 verse, and the lionne of good society (as it is 
 conventionally termed) feel more especially this 
 kind of mutual attraction. For the one, he sees 
 in every fernme du monde a fresh type, a source 
 wherein to recruit his half-exhausted imagina- 
 tion whereas the other is simply curious to dis- 
 cover the mover of the thousand intrigues which 
 have kept her for days and weeks in suspense, 
 and thirsts like a child to find out what is hidden 
 within its play-thing. With so many curiosities 
 to act upon, Madame Ferrieres found it no very 
 impracticable undertaking to form a salon^ where 
 enough of talent should be assembled to render 
 it attractive, and enough of rank and social pre- 
 tensions to make it fashionable. But the utmost 
 end of her ambition was attained the day that 
 Madame de Cevezes consented to become one 
 of her habituees. 
 
 With the Baroness came M. de Moreton, 
 and some few of the most dissolute and not 
 least renowned dandies of the day. Then, also, 
 (but to be just, upon rare occasions,) Madame 
 de Brevannes was persuaded to join the group,
 
 192 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 by Aurelie, who, however she might set every 
 convenance at defiance, was not sorry to have 
 one of her own natural companions, and a 
 person belonging to her own habitual set, 
 with whom to exchange ideas, and if the truth 
 must be told, sarcasms, on the very people 
 she was thus admitting to her intimacy. 
 
 On the day in question, that of the dinner 
 at St. Germain, it must be avowed that the 
 Countess's curiosity had been considerably ex- 
 cited by the prospect of meeting M. Chavigny, 
 whom she had never seen, except at a distance, 
 and she was easily persuaded to accompany Au- 
 relie to Madame Ferrieres'. Accordingly, substi- 
 tuting for their own carriages, by which they 
 had come, the more expeditious conveyance 
 of the rail-road, the whole party returned sud- 
 denly to Paris, and, the necessary change of 
 costume effected, re-assembled at a compara- 
 tively early hour in the salons of General 
 Ferri^res' hotel in the Rue Chauchat. 
 
 M. Ferri^res' importance as a minister had 
 been very slight, and his wife's propensities 
 were so much the reverse of what are styled 
 serieux, that he had not created for himself
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 193 
 
 any political connections, and Madame Ferrieres' 
 drawing-room i^mained strictly a salon sans 
 consequence. Some few deputies there were, 
 but instead of those whose talents had raised 
 them to a really high political position, they 
 were principally those whose wives were known 
 to be handsome and reputed to be gay. 
 Bankers, agents de change, and even notaries ; 
 dignitaries of a certain rank (not the highest) 
 in the administration and public offices ; these 
 were the sort of men whose \A'ives and daughters 
 generally formed the female ornament of Ma- 
 dame Ferrieres' soirees. Some foreigners, too, 
 there were, but neither English nor Russians ; 
 and some few remnants of Imperialist families, 
 whose titles or military distinction made up 
 for their comparative want of wealth. In short, 
 it was a gaudy, heterogeneous mass, forming 
 what the French themselves call, beaucoup de 
 monde et pas de societe. 
 
 In this eminently commercial and bureau- 
 cratique set, riches seemed the sine qua non. 
 None could be received there, as the intimate 
 of the house, unless he had the power of 
 spending plenty of money, and this entire de- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 ficiency of people, poor as to mere wealth, 
 raised involuntary doubts as to the existence 
 of that merit, which, in really good society, 
 makes up for the loss of it. Madame Ferrieres' 
 pet authors and journalists were certainly not 
 millionnalreSy but then it was clearly seen that 
 they were " had" for other reasons, and did 
 not, whatever they themselves might think, 
 belong to the genuine intimates. The total 
 want, too, of all but young women showed 
 clearly upon what conditions they held their 
 position in such society ; and that, youth, beauty 
 and fashion once past, no ties of blood, no 
 family traditions w^ere there to impose the 
 presence of the aged. There is no surer mark 
 of rdture than this absence from a salon of 
 elders and dependents. 
 
 Sir Edward Vernon amused himself at first, 
 in his quality of a foreigner, by examining the 
 different celebrities with whose principal works 
 he was tolerably acquainted. In one corner sat 
 the author of Eugenie Grandei, astride upon a 
 chair, devouring ices voraciously, and, with the 
 bold daring glance of his Rabelaisian eye, 
 scaring away with actual fright any modest
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 195 
 
 woman who might happen to encounter it. 
 Further on, upon a sofa, close to a remarkably 
 pretty banker's wife, sat, or rather lounged, a tall, 
 clumsily built man, whose pre-occupation with 
 the effort to appear gentlemanlike and well 
 dressed was so undisguised, that it alone led you 
 to remark how far he was from attaining his 
 end. Mathilde and the Mysteres de Paris had 
 raised him, in the world of which we speak, to 
 as positively unsafe a moral height as would 
 have been, physically speaking, the pinnacle of 
 the spire of the Strasburgh Cathedral. 
 
 In one of the adjoining rooms you might see 
 a herculean half-cast, a colossus, on whose face 
 three generations had not sufficed to obliterate 
 the negro stamp, and from the forge of whose 
 Cyclops' brain Monte Cristo had not yet 
 sprung. Then there was the rough, water-dog- 
 like looking Karr, the dreaded author of the 
 Guepes ; the goggle-eyed and (in dress) worse 
 than imtidy giant, Soulie, and the Israelitish, 
 humoristical dwarf, Gozlan ; with a host of the 
 lesser tribe, mere journalists, such as Janin, and 
 others, whose names even are unknown beyond 
 the harrieres of Paris. 
 
 K 2
 
 196 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 When our party entered, Duprez had just 
 ended a cavatina at which the enthusiasm of the 
 assembly knew no bounds ; for Madame 
 Ferrieres' monde was particularly devoted to the 
 Grand Opera, and professed to know every 
 change of inflexion adopted by different singers 
 in different famous passages of Halevy and 
 Meyerbeer. As the mistress of the house came 
 round to collect the praises due to the virtuose 
 — " Yes ! that is very well," remarked Madame 
 de Cev^zes, to whom she particularly addressed 
 herself, " but I do not see M. Chavigny here. 
 I hope he does not mean to fail you, for 1 
 came on purpose to see him ;" added she, with 
 the cool impertinence of her peculiar species. 
 Madame Ferrieres was about as much embar- 
 rassed as a manager who has promised some 
 extraordinary " attraction," and who, when the 
 curtain draws up, finds himself obliged to make 
 a speech. Putting a good face upon the 
 matter, " Do not be alarmed," replied she, " he 
 is certain to come ; we are such old friends !" 
 
 " I have not the least doubt of that," mur- 
 mured Aurelie in an under tone, as, taking Sir 
 Edward's arm, she drew him into the largest
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 197 
 
 and most crowded salon ; " but I have always 
 seen old friends of that kind treated mighty 
 cavalierly." 
 
 Sir Edward looked annoyed. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, to-night?" 
 asked Aurelie, sharply ; adding, before he could 
 answer : " I know what it is — and it is vastly 
 absurd." 
 
 " And pray," interrupted he, as they seated 
 themselves in a corner of the room, alone, 
 screened by a huge china tub, filled with a 
 gigantic rhododendron in full bloom ; '* and 
 pray, may T ask what you have discovered?" 
 
 " You are jealous," replied she. 
 
 '* Of Chavigny ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Sir Edward smiled. " M. de Moreton," 
 replied he, " might have a right to be so ; 
 but I—" 
 
 ''Bah!" answered boldly the Baroness. 
 " Every man arrogates to himself the right 
 to be jealous of the woman he is in love with." 
 
 Sir Edward was piqued, and he wished to 
 show it. " I do not think," said he, " that I 
 was ever mad enough to tell you that I — "
 
 198 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " Then tell me you are not'^ rejoined she, 
 " and I will believe you." 
 
 These words were accompanied by a look 
 than which that of the rattlesnake could scarce be 
 more deadly. 
 
 Sir Edward bent his eyes upon the ground, 
 and as the crimson flush of consciousness 
 mounted to the very roots of his hair, "By 
 — !" muttered he, " you are the devil !" 
 
 " It is true, then ?" rejoined Aurelie, with an 
 expression of feline delight, as the very tips of 
 her tiny fingers seemed to shape themselves 
 into claws. 
 
 '^ True !" echoed Sir Edward ; and even 
 then he scarcely dared lift his eyes to those 
 glittering orbs that were shining over him in all 
 the baleful brilliancy of triumphant spite,-^^ 
 **True! — why you know that you have fas- 
 tened upon my inmost soul, and that since the 
 moment I first met you — " 
 
 " You have been insupportable to your 
 wife !" interrupted the Baroness with her 
 wicked laugh. — "Well, now! Mesdames lea 
 prudes, here is another lesson for you !" 
 
 ** I tell you there is no poetry in Shak-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 199 
 
 speare," said the harsh tones of M. de Balzac, 
 close by them. 
 
 The Baroness turned round. 
 
 " Shakspeare is a philosopher, but no poet," 
 repeated the same tones ; '' besides, he is not 
 original." 
 
 " He is well enough when he is arranged 
 by Ducis," observed a ConseiUer d'Etat of the 
 time of the Empire ; " but othenrsise he is not 
 to be borne." 
 
 " Ah ! you were talking of the loan," ex- 
 claimed a stone-deaf deputy of the opposition, 
 who had caught the words, " Xot to be borne." 
 It is a crying shame, but entirely owing to the 
 disastrous influence of those Jews, the Roths- 
 childs." 
 
 The discussion now turned into another 
 channel, and the merits and demerits of the 
 Baron de Rothschild were canvassed. 
 
 " Do you reaUy think him a clever, a superior 
 man?" asked one gentleman. 
 
 "Umph!" answered a second. ''He is as 
 clever as you and I would be if we had the gold 
 mines of Peru at our disposal." 
 
 " // a V intelligence qu'il lui faut, Vintelli-
 
 200 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 gence de sa mine'-^^ said, sneeringly, a 
 third. 
 
 " En ce cas/' rejoined Balzac, " il n^a pas la 
 mine de son intelligence,'' and, as the words 
 came hissing through the aperture left by 
 nature between his two front teeth, the caustic 
 romancier walked away. 
 
 Sir Edward was preparing to recommence 
 the conversation with the Baroness, when she 
 interrupted him. 
 
 " I see by your manner you are going to say 
 something I shall not like, so you had better say 
 nothing at all." 
 
 " I was merely going to ask you what can be 
 the cause of your overweening desire to see 
 this M. Chavigny?" 
 
 **Why, curiosity; — a bourgeois who would 
 not be run away with by a Marquise ! That is 
 worth looking at." 
 
 " But it is everywhere affirmed that he had 
 nothing at all to do with Madame de Bois- 
 lambert's disappearance." 
 
 '* Misericorde ! and you believe that !" ex- 
 claimed Aurelie, disdainfully. "What is the 
 use of being well-born, if your own people are
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 201 
 
 not to get you out of scrapes, and swear, through 
 thick and thin, that you never were in them ? 
 but we, who are of them, know their tricks, 
 and are not to be done in that way." 
 
 "Then you think that the Marquise posi- 
 tively did go to Chavigny's on the morning of 
 her flight?" 
 
 " Think 1" cried Aurelie. '' Ohl tenez, mon 
 cher, your naivete overcomes me. I am not 
 used to it ; — come with me. I must go and 
 ask M. Sue when he means to make this ad- 
 venture the subject of a novel." 
 
 As they approached the celebrated novelist, 
 they heard the following words. A lady was 
 complimenting him on the character of Fleur de 
 Marie : — 
 
 " Ah ! Madame," objected he, admiring all the 
 time the monstrous red cameHa at his button- 
 hole, "you are too indulgent. I am quite 
 aware that I cannot paint virtue. Je ne I'eussis 
 Men que dans le vice." 
 
 " Quelle fatuite r exclaimed Madame de 
 Cevezes. " What can one say to a man after 
 that:" and she turned back and sought out a 
 seat at the remote end of one of the salons, but 
 
 K 3
 
 202 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 from whence she could command a vieW of the 
 first porte d^ entree. 
 
 After what had passed, and the ice being 
 once broken, Sir Edward wished to recur to 
 their late subject of discourse, and lead con- 
 versation back into a tender strain ; but this 
 appeared not to suit the Baroness, for, after 
 trying for some minutes vainly to divert the 
 current of her companion's thoughts, she turned 
 abruptly round upon him, and, looking him 
 full in the face, — 
 
 " Pray," said she, " will you have the good- 
 ness to explain to me why it is that your 
 countrymen, when they cease to behave per- 
 fectly well to their wives, always behave so 
 perfectly ill to them?" Sir Edward looked 
 puzzled, if not ashamed. The Baroness con- 
 tinued, — " I remember last year at Baden- 
 Baden, the Princess F — had an adorateur, 
 an English peer, who had married for love, and 
 who, as soon as he became quite devoted to 
 the Princess, led his wife the life of a dog." 
 
 Sir Edward looked as though he were rack- 
 ing his brains in search of an excuse. 
 
 " Oh ! mind, I do not complain of this,"
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 203 
 
 resumed Aurelie ; " on the contrary, I rather 
 think it is one of the best things about you, and 
 it is what I have vainly tried to teach Moreton. 
 I never could bring him to show any thing but 
 the profoundest respect for that little, affected, 
 prudish goose, the Vicomtesse. I do not com- 
 plain, but I want, as a matter of psycological 
 curiosity, to know why, whilst our men con- 
 ceive it necessary in being faithless to their 
 wives, to compensate to them for their infidehty 
 by ever}- means in their power ; yours, on the 
 contrary, seem to think that, what the world 
 conventionally styles an injury, is not sufficient 
 unless accompanied also by ill-treatment." 
 
 " Why/' objected Sir Edward, " it is difficult, 
 when ever}^ feeling and every thought is given 
 to another, not to hate the fatal tie which 
 binds " 
 
 " Ah ! there it is !" cried the Baroness, 
 laughing, " you Englishmen are really the most 
 naive polygamists in the w^orld. If the laws 
 were not there to bind you, you would make 
 wives of all your mistresses. But that is not 
 the question ; we never confound the one with 
 the other, but look upon them as things, by
 
 204 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 nature, incompatible as fire and water. Les 
 amours are made for one's youth ; but if I were 
 a man, I should always try to secure for my old 
 age the undisturbed, enjoyment of a comfortable 
 pair of slippers by my own fireside. However, 
 I suppose you are differently constituted ; and, 
 as I said before, I do not complain of it." 
 
 "And then," interrupted her companion 
 vehemently, " do you count for nothing the 
 uncontrollable violence of one's feelings, the 
 entrainement — the impossibility of . . ." 
 
 " Halte la ! my good friend," interposed 
 Aurehe, " vou have said the word — the en- 
 trainement :" and with an expression of in- 
 effable disdain, " you are the slaves of your own 
 passions," added she, " and may be led to the 
 commission of any sin when they are excited. 
 We, in France, are your masters in that respect, 
 for we do nothing unknowingly, whereas you 
 seem to me to do nothing de parti pr is. ^^ 
 
 The contemptuous tone of Madame de 
 Cevezes had struck Sir Edw^ard more than the 
 import of her words. He was about to reply, 
 when he clearly perceived that she was no longer 
 listening to him. Her whole attention was en-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 205 
 
 grossed by a person who, at the end of the 
 three salons, was making his way slowly from 
 the entrance towards the spot where the mistress 
 of the house was to be found. Addressing one 
 of her most cunning smiles to her companion, 
 
 " What need have we to lose our time in 
 such discussion ?" resumed she. " As you may 
 imagine, I can have no reason for wishing you 
 to be more tender to your fair moitie ; only I 
 hope, for your own sake (and the smile merged 
 into a sneer few men would have had the 
 courage to brave), that you are not jealous. . ." 
 
 " Not of Lady Vernon !" whispered Sir 
 Edward hastily, casting on the Baroness, as 
 she rose from her seat, a glance at which she 
 could scarcely avoid being flattered. 
 
 Here was the mischief now complete ! Sir 
 Edward Vernon was not only over head and 
 ears in love with Aurelie, but he had avowed 
 his passion to himself and to its object ! 
 
 The indi^ddual who had attracted the atten- 
 tion of Madame de Cevezes, was a man 
 seemingly of about one or two and thirty, but 
 he might have been five and forty ; for his was 
 one of those faces which seemed to have been a
 
 206 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 stranger to the emotions of youth, and on whose 
 smooth outlines age appeared to leave no mark. 
 His two greatest characteristics were reserve 
 and precision. Although every feature was 
 good, the countenance was so unpleasing that 
 he could scarcely be termed handsome ; and 
 although every part of his attire, and every step 
 he took, were irreproachable, there was some- 
 thing wanting to stamp him at once as a 
 gentleman, in the most exalted sense of the 
 word; a something that a/emme comme ilfaut 
 must have felt instantaneously, but that she would 
 have been sorely at a loss to define. 
 
 As he advanced towards Madame Ferri^res, 
 the curiosity of those around was scarcely so 
 sufficiently restrained as not to become annoy- 
 ing ; and had the physiognomy of this new lion 
 of the night not been impenetrable, we suspect 
 it would have betrayed something nearly akin to 
 disgust, at the indiscreet attention to which he 
 was exposed. 
 
 *' Chavigny," said Madame Ferrieres (who, 
 amongst other leonine habits, had that of calling 
 her male intimates by their surnames), " you 
 must allow me to present you to one of
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 207 
 
 my friends — the sweetest, loveliest creature — 
 Madame la Comtesse de Brevannes — une grande 
 dame du Fauhourg St. Germain '" and the 
 latter quality being one which the habitants of 
 the Chaussee d'Antin deem perfectly irresistible, 
 the ex-ministress had introduced M. Cha\igny, 
 before he could find time to answer her, to the 
 nonchalante Irene, who, half buried in a 
 bergere, was, as usual, biting the flowers of her 
 bouquet, for want of something better to do. 
 
 The two had not been many moments 
 engaged in conversation, when Aurelie found 
 her way towards them. She was alone. Flut- 
 tering in all the sylph-like freshness of her 
 girlish toilette, she lent on the back of her 
 friend's chair, and every now and then ad- 
 dressed whispered remarks to Irene, which, 
 however, failed to interrupt the conversation 
 between the Countess and Chavigny, or to 
 attract the attention of the latter. 
 
 Madame Ferrieres rejoined the group, and, as 
 her chief occupation seemed to be that of 
 showing off her guests one to the other, she, 
 with the good taste that generally distinguishes
 
 208 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 the society to which she belonged, vaunted the 
 musical talents of Madame de Brevannes, as 
 she might have done those of a professional 
 performer. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed she, turning to Chavigny, 
 and as a further specimen of the good breeding 
 to which we allude, " she too rarely sings at our 
 request; but perhaps, if you were to ask her, she 
 would not refuse." 
 
 Madame de Brevannes looked almost terri- 
 fied ; M. Chavigny bowed in a way that was 
 intended to quiet her apprehensions, and, look- 
 ing for the first time straight in the face of her 
 friend ; 
 
 " I think," said he, " that I should stand a 
 better chance with Madame la Baronne de 
 Cev^zes." 
 
 Aurelie answered the glance by one as reso- 
 lute; but Chavigny's tone was so modest, his 
 whole attitude so far from presuming, that, 
 satisfied by the scrutiny of a single instant ; — 
 
 " I would not have you try," replied she, 
 smiling ; " for if you did succeed, you too 
 would find that ' one more such victory,' and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 209 
 
 you would be lost. A love-sick cat or a hungry 
 owl is a somewhat more tuneful animal than 
 myself !" 
 
 " Now," said Irene, laughing, " had you 
 asked her to dance the polka on her famous 
 pony, Fathme, or to shoot out the ace of 
 diamonds at fifty yards' distance, you would not 
 have got such an answer." 
 
 Chavigny slightly raised his shoulders, and, 
 with considerable superciliousness, evinced his 
 utter incapacity for judging of such feats. 
 Aurelie bit her lips. 
 
 *' Those are not always the most unmanage- 
 able who seem the most unruly," rejoined she 
 significantly. " M. Cha\dgny, I should have 
 thought, might have found, in his own expe- 
 rience, sufficient to warn him against the 
 treacherous depths of still water." 
 
 " Upon my word," answered he, with Tartuffe- 
 like humility, " my experience has been so 
 limited that I have no right to judge of any 
 one from appearances." 
 
 " Prenez garde" said Madame de Brevannes 
 with a smile, " cela pourra vous mener loin.''
 
 210 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " No fear of that, ma chere /" interrupted 
 the Baroness, with a sneer. "M. Chavigny 
 will not allow himself to be led beyond the 
 door of his ante-room ; we all know that now." 
 
 The laugh that accompanied these words was 
 so coolly insulting, that Chavigny could not 
 avoid noticing it. Fixing on Aurelie a look 
 that made even her lower her eyes to the 
 ground, "Madame la Baronne de Cev^zes," 
 replied he, " has been so long habituated to play 
 the part of a lionne, that she has forgotten that 
 one cannot ask satisfaction of a woman, but only 
 of her husband." 
 
 If there was one thing Aurelie hated worse 
 than another, it was any allusion to M. de 
 Cevezes. Carrying it off bravely, however, she 
 turned round to her adversary, *' And to ask it 
 of mine," said she, laughing, " you must go to 
 Mexico." 
 
 " Mille pardons/' observed Chavigny, with 
 the same imperturbably cold politeness, " M. le 
 Baron de Cevezes is at Monte Video at this 
 moment. He has just distinguished himself 
 considerably by the manner in which he has
 
 MILDRED A^RNON. 211 
 
 conducted a conference with Rosas. You do 
 not read the papers, Madame la Baronne ?" 
 
 Aurelie felt uneasy, and saw no resource but 
 flight. Without deigning to give an answer to 
 Chavigny's question, she turned on her heel, 
 announcing her intention of trying her luck at 
 the lansquenet table. A moment after, she 
 returned. " I really cannot penetrate alone 
 through the crowd," said she. " May I request 
 your arm, M. Chavigny ?" 
 
 " You may command it," answered he with 
 the same eternal coldness that characterized 
 everything he said. 
 
 Sir Edward Vernon had watched the Baroness 
 all this time from a corner of the room, and an 
 undefined sentiment of jealousy was gradually 
 springing up in his breast. 
 
 During the whole time that supper lasted, 
 Madame de Cevezes was engaged with Cha^dgny 
 in a war of words, in which he always appeared 
 to leave the advantage to her wit, but in which, 
 in reality, she was the greater loser of the two. 
 She evidently wished to make an impression on 
 him, and went beyond her depth because she 
 could not be sure of having succeeded in the
 
 212 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 attempt ; whilst he, from under the cover of his 
 seemingly unruffled placidity, studied her, and 
 in a few hours found out the most hidden 
 springs and secrets of her being. 
 
 The greater portion of Madame Ferri^res' 
 guests left her immediately after they had 
 supped, and amongst these Madame de Bre- 
 vannes effected her retreat. Wine, cigars, and 
 causerie, for the chosen few who remained, 
 prolonged the repast until the dawn of day was 
 long past. As Aurelie descended into the 
 vestibule, and felt upon her shoulders the caress 
 of the morning sun, which poured its flood of 
 pale gold through the windows, she turned round 
 to her train of followers : 
 
 " Who will be of my party ?" asked she. 
 " I propose to drive off to the Bois de Boulogne, 
 and breakfast at Madrid." 
 
 " I,"—" and I,"—" and I !" eagerly exclaimed 
 half-a-dozen voices around her. 
 
 " And you, M. Chavigny ?" added Aurelie, 
 with what most of the bystanders thought great 
 indifference. 
 
 "Oh ! as for me, Madame la Baronne," replied 
 he, (with a view to whom solely, the proposition
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 213 
 
 had been made), " this is my hour of retiring 
 to rest," and, bowing profoundly, he passed on- 
 ward to the perron and entered his brougham. 
 
 " Come, Sir Edward,'^ exclaimed the Baroness, 
 with her sweetest smile, and as though she felt 
 her right to dispose of his services, " hand me to 
 my carriage, and follow me with these gentle- 
 men. We shall have a dehcious diive !" 
 
 Sir Edward did as he was bid, and found 
 himself soon after clattering down the boulevards, 
 with the nose of his handsome English horse 
 almost touching the foot-board of the Baroness's 
 carriage. He lowered the front glass, in order 
 that the morning air might cool his heated 
 brow ; and, half drawing down the bHnd, his 
 eyes rivetted themselves upon one only object : — 
 on the oval-shaped glass at the back of Aiuehe's 
 brougham, through which he could discern the 
 crimson damask of the hning which covered it. 
 Somewhere -near that spot must be resting the 
 silken tresses of that fairy-like head, the sight of 
 which had sufficed to fright his senses from their 
 propriety, and make him confound right with 
 wrong, or rather, care no longer to distinguish 
 one from the other.
 
 214 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Sir Edward fell into a train of musing 
 thought, where every object was unconsciously 
 coloured by a feeling of unacknowledged jealousy. 
 Suddenly the words uttered by M. de Moreton 
 at the Odeon recurred to his memory. '* Moi 
 ou un autre" murmured Sir Edward to himself 
 " If such he the case, why need I despair ? If 
 it must be some one, why not me ?" And in 
 this diabolical creed, in this doctrine, submersive 
 of every principle of honour or morality, did Sir 
 Edward find, not merely a relief from present 
 disquietude, but a pledge of future success, a 
 reasonable motive for the pleasant anticipation 
 of future triumphs.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 215 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 On the morning following Madame Ferrieres' 
 party, Lady Vernon was sitting in her own room, 
 submitting patiently to the operations of her 
 maid, and evidently thinking of anything but 
 the plaits and curls the latter was arranging, 
 when the abigail, summoned to the door by a 
 knock, at which poor Mildred's cheek turned red 
 and pale within the same moment, returned lo 
 her mistress, carrjdng a visiting-card, and saying 
 that the lady whose name it bore requested to 
 see Lady Vernon without an instant's delay. 
 The card was Madame de Moreton's. 
 
 At any other time Mildred would have been 
 surprised, and have stood upon Heaven knows 
 what senseless rules of ceremony, but now she
 
 216 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 hailed the presence of the Viscountess with in- 
 stinctive delight, and desiring her maid to leave 
 her till she should ring the bell, she, notwith- 
 standing the disorder of her dress, sent a message 
 to desire that Madame de Moreton might be 
 admitted to her forthwith. 
 
 When Clementine entered. Lady Vernon held 
 out both her hands to her. Poor Mildred ! 
 she looked very wretched, and the traces of 
 anxious watching were visible on every feature ; 
 and yet perhaps, never was her beauty more 
 striking. Her long dark hair, half held up by 
 the comb behind, escaped in heavy tresses over 
 her shoulders, whilst the front curls, on one side 
 brushed off from her forehead, on the other hung 
 down over her pale cheek. There was a sor- 
 rowful expression, too, in her eyes, which, whilst 
 it perhaps dimmed their brilliancy, lent to them 
 an unusual softness. Over her whole counte- 
 nance was diffused a certain sentiment of help- 
 lessness which is never unlovely in a w^oman, 
 and which in Mildred was peculiarly charming. 
 Her care-worn face and disordered dress pre- 
 sented a strong contrast with the scrupulously 
 neat and fresh attire, and the serene, Madonna-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 217 
 
 like beauty of the Viscountess. The latter, as 
 she entered, not content with taking Mildred*s 
 offered hand, held out her arms to her, as, with 
 a look and in a tone which could not be mis- 
 taken, she exclaimed, 
 
 " My dear Lady Vernon !" 
 
 There is something irresistible in real sym- 
 pathy, and Clementine had not time to re- 
 peat, " My dear Lady Vernon, you excuse my 
 intrusion — do you not?" before Mildred was 
 folded in her embrace. Few words were 
 necessar}\ 
 
 ^^ Pauvre femme V^ said the Viscountess, in 
 a voice trembling with unfeigned emotion ; 
 " you are very unhappy !" 
 
 Had this not been true — had Mildred really 
 not been very unhappy — she would have been very 
 much astonished, perhaps even, (who knows?) 
 rather offended than otherwise, at the idea of 
 any one intruding thus on her privacy, — on her 
 confidence. It was such a very un-English 
 mode of proceeding ! She w^ould have con- 
 sidered whether or not Madame de Moreton 
 had arrived at the degree of intimacy with her, 
 which renders it proper for one person to mani- 
 
 VOL. I. L -
 
 218 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 fest an interest in another, or, as it is vulgarly 
 termed, " to meddle with what does not concern 
 them." But Mildred felt thoroughly miserable, 
 and more than that, thoroughly lonely; and 
 when she saw Clementine's mild eyes beaming 
 on her through the tears that suffused them, 
 and when she heard Clementine's gentle voice 
 reveal a perfect knowledge of her grief, she 
 neither thought of etiquette, nor of the exact 
 number of cards exchanged between them, but 
 gave herself up to the feeling that she had 
 found a friend : and, clasping her arms round 
 Madame de Moreton's neck, found relief in a fit 
 of unrestrained weeping. 
 
 " Poor thing !" murmured the Viscountess, 
 as, with her own handkerchief, she alternately 
 wiped the tears from Mildred's eyes and from 
 her own. " Poor thing ! I know it all so well !" 
 And she pressed Lady Vernon's hands, and 
 kissed her repeatedly. 
 
 The first burst of sorrow over, they prepared 
 to talk more calmly. Madame de Moreton 
 seated herself on a low causeuse, and Lady 
 Vernon on a stool at her feet, but so as still to 
 keep one arm wound round Clementine's waist.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 219 
 
 and her head on Clementine's shoulder; for, 
 the barriers of habitual reserve and constitu- 
 tional shyness overthrown, Mildred felt an 
 almost childish joy in the friendship thus sud- 
 denly offered to her acceptance, and chnging, 
 child-like, to the object of it, became affectionate, 
 and almost tender, to a person with whom, 
 twenty-four hours before, she had been upon 
 terms of ceremony, but whose reputation (a cir- 
 cumstance she never lost sight of) stood, she 
 well knew, above all suspicion. Looking up at 
 her new friend : 
 
 " How could you guess," said she, " that I 
 stood so much in want of your kindness ?" 
 
 " Guess !" replied the Viscountess, " alas, 
 ma chere enfant, I knew^, beyond guessing, 
 what had already happened, and what is to 
 happen yet." Lady Vernon shuddered. " In 
 the first place, I was in my cousin's drawing- 
 room last night, whilst that aw^kw^ard brute, 
 Victor de Maugency, was talking of Sir Edward ; 
 and, although I saw that the Duchess was try- 
 ing might and main to stop him from speaking, 
 I was not aware, until I heard her hterally 
 
 L 2
 
 220 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 whisper it to him, that you were with Gaston 
 in the boudoir. When you came back to the 
 salon^ I would willingly have flown to you, and 
 embraced you — I felt so well what you must be 
 suffering ! But when I learnt (for I could not 
 rest, and I had begged an old friend of mine to 
 tell me, early this morning, all that should have 
 occurred last night at Madame Ferri^res') when 
 I learnt that Sir Edward had not returned 
 home all night, and was gone off to the Bois de 
 Boulogne this morning with the Baroness, I 
 hesitated no longer : I sent for a fiacre, and, 
 without saying a word to any one — without 
 even allowing my femme de chambre to accom- 
 pany me — I came to you, to see whether I 
 could not be of some use. I did not know — 
 I was half afraid, too, lest you might think me 
 indiscreet — ^but the knowledge of what you 
 must be undergoing encouraged me. I felt 
 that what you and I know to-day, to-morrow^ 
 must be known to the whole town ; and that, 
 therefore, there could be no room for affecting 
 ignorance. I felt too, above all, that we were 
 sisters in misfortune; and that I, more than
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 221 
 
 any one, had a right to assist, and, if possible, 
 to console you. Those were my reasons for 
 coming — have I done wrong?" 
 
 A warm embrace was the only answer. 
 
 " I must say what I feel upon this occasion," 
 exclaimed she ; " I am bound to do so — I came 
 for that purpose. In you, I thought I dis- 
 cerned a certain raideur de caractere — a kind 
 of uncompromising severity, that would be of 
 the greatest assistance to Madame de Cevezes, 
 and mainly contribute to the ruin of your hap- 
 piness." Lady Vernon stared. "Yes," con- 
 tinued Clementine, " it is for that I came to 
 you. It is — (do not be angry) — it is to advise 
 you, to prevent you from wantonly sacrificing 
 your own and your husband's welfare." 
 
 " But, dearest Madame de Moreton, " inter- 
 posed Mildred, " if Sir Edward can be capable 
 of betraying his wife, for the sake of any woman, 
 — but above all, for the sake of such a one as 
 Madame de Cevezes, — surely you would not 
 have me forgive what I must regard as . . . ." 
 
 " I would have you do more than forgive," 
 said the Viscountess, putting her hand upon 
 Lady Vernon's mouth ; "I would have you
 
 222 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 forget — aye ! and more even than that : I 
 would have you be blind, — or, if not actually 
 so, at least persuade your husband that you are 
 so." 
 
 Mildred looked the picture of surprise. Had 
 she been less unhappy she would have looked 
 offended. 
 
 "But my self-respect — my dignity," began 
 she. 
 
 Madame de Moreton stopped her; and, 
 taking Mildred's hand in both her own, 
 
 " Do not talk of your dignity," replied she, 
 earnestly, "or I shall think you do not love 
 your husband well enough to wish to reclaim him. 
 Believe me, my dear Lady Vernon." she 
 continued, with great gravity, " our self-respect, 
 our dignity depends, in nothing, on our 
 husbands' reputation ; it is the reverse with 
 them ; their honour hangs upon our conduct, 
 our happiness alone hangs upon theirs." 
 
 " But womanly delicacy," objected Mildred. 
 
 Clementine smiled. " Oh ! do not mistake 
 terms," rejoined she ; " it is pride alone, pride, 
 and even worse — wounded vanity — that speaks 
 from behind such masks. A wife's duties are
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 223 
 
 sacrod," pursued she, with animation, " and she 
 can only have an opportunity of performing 
 them to their fall extent if her trials are severe. 
 Where would be the merit of a wife who 
 should be constantly loved ? Suppose she lost 
 fortune, health, position ; in short, suppose 
 that, what the world terms misfortunes, fell 
 thick upon her ; where would be her merit in 
 supporting all these courageously, if she retained 
 unimpaired the affection of the being w^ho shared 
 them with her ? No ! it is when robbed of 
 that affection, that she has an opportunity of 
 pro\dng whether she be really worthy of it. It is a 
 hard trial, I know; but so much happiness depends 
 on it; and surely, when all is over, and the 
 victory is gained, the recompense is sufficient to 
 compensate for every sacrifice." 
 
 Lady Vernon had Hstened to the Viscountess 
 in a musing attitude : at these last words, she 
 raised her head, and, looking her full in the 
 face, " And do you," said she, with a marked 
 emphasis, " do you think that the victory is 
 always certain? Do you expect the recom- 
 pense ?" added she after a moment's pause, and 
 in a lower tone.
 
 224 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Madame de Moreton lifted her eyes to 
 heaven, and, with a mingled look of hope and 
 angelic resignation. " I wait His pleasure, who 
 best knows what is fitting for us erring 
 mortals," answered she. "I suffer, but I do 
 not despair, and I even sometimes think that 
 the day may not be far distant, when I may 
 reap the reward of all my labours, of all my 
 prayers !" 
 
 "And when that day comes," continued 
 Mildred, without perceiving that, at the bare 
 idea, Clementine's heart bounded beneath the 
 folds of her shawl ; " when he, who has so 
 shamefully deserted you, returns to his duties, 
 how will you receive him ?" 
 
 "As a mother would a child she has been 
 in danger of losing," replied the Viscountess, 
 her face beaming with pleasure at the thoughts 
 of such an event. 
 
 " What ! and no reproach ?" persisted 
 Mildred. 
 
 "Reproach!" interrupted Madame de Moreton. 
 " Oh, dear Lady Vernon ! in the joy of such a 
 moment, who could think of reproaching ? 
 Besides, remember this well : that in the case
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 225 
 
 of husband and wife, ever}- reproach on her 
 part, only serv^es to diminish the force of those 
 he makes to himself. Oh ! no ! if that day 
 should ever come ; if Armand should ever 
 return to me, my sole study will be to make 
 him forget that he ever gave me cause to 
 complain ; and I am so certain, so convinced, 
 that this is the only way to ensure happiness 
 hereafter, that for that reason, I do intreat 
 and implore of you not to tlirow away the 
 chances of — " 
 
 A \nolent ring at the door of the apartment 
 interrupted her. Mildred started to her feet. 
 *' It is he !" exclaimed she, and the first 
 expression of her face was one of joy ; but the 
 next was one of anger. Madame de Moreton 
 marked the change. Rising from her seat, 
 " Dear Lady Vernon," repeated she, in her 
 softest tones, " before I leave you, promise me 
 to be careful ; watch well over your own 
 happiness ; it is a flower so delicate, so easily 
 blighted !" 
 
 " I do promise you," answered MUdred, 
 kissing her affectionately. " For your sake I 
 will be calm, and try to hide w^hat I feel." 
 
 L 3
 
 226 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " And no reproaches !" reiterated Clementine, 
 as, at the outer door she prepared to take her 
 leave of Lady Vernon. 
 
 " I will meet him without one," replied 
 Mildred: and this was the most difficult of 
 all. 
 
 When Madame de Moreton was gone. 
 Lady Vernon reflected profoundly on all she had 
 heard that morning ; and resolved, more out of 
 deference to the Viscountess than from any 
 conviction of her own, to try what the effects of 
 gentleness might be on Sir Edward. But, as 
 the idea was not her own, as she was acting 
 upon a principle which had not originated in 
 her own brain, and to the working of which she 
 was an utter stranger, she over-acted her part, 
 and from fear of not doing enough, did too 
 much. 
 
 When Mildred entered the drawing-room, she 
 found her husband reading the paper. Her 
 heart beat high, and she looked deadly pale. 
 Sir Edward was out of humour with every one, 
 because he was so with himself; and accord- 
 ingly, he began by wondering why the breakfast 
 was still on the table, when the water in the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 227 
 
 um had evidently boiled itself away. To his 
 
 wife's answer that she had not yet breakfasted. 
 
 " And what the de\il," replied he, " makes you 
 
 get up so late ?'' 
 
 " I did not go to bed," said Mildred. 
 Sir Edward stared: — "And pray why not? 
 Were you at a ball ?" 
 
 Lady Vernon's colour, and her anger too, 
 were rising. 
 
 " I was waiting for you, Edward," said she ; 
 " and fearful lest some accident might have 
 happened." She thought there could be no 
 harm in saving this, and therein she was 
 mistaken. Sir Edward had been so completely 
 prepared for his wife's resentment, for a scene, 
 in short, that he had determined, before-hand, 
 to take the offensive side himself, and prevent 
 the possibility of being forced into accepting the 
 defensive one. 
 
 At Mildred's apparently very innocent words, 
 therefore, he broke forth. Dashing the news- 
 paper on the ground : " this is more than I 
 will submit to," exclaimed he. " So you intend 
 to transform yourself into a spy, and be in con- 
 stant observation on my actions ! I tell you
 
 228 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 what, 1 will have no waiting and watching for 
 me ; but will come and go as I choose, with the 
 independence and liberty that belongs to every 
 man, who is not hen-pecked by his wife — which 
 I will never be. Waiting for me, indeed !" 
 added he, sneeringly. " I suppose next you will 
 be coming to fetch me." 
 
 " Do not fear that," replied Mildred, with a 
 most irritatingly contemptuous air. " In the 
 places where you go, I could not and would not 
 set my foot." 
 
 " The less we go anywhere together, the 
 better;" rejoined Sir Edward, losing all com- 
 mand over his temper. 
 
 " As you please," added Mildred, " I shall 
 see no reason to complain of that." And, 
 proudly rising from her seat, she left the room, 
 and retired to her own, where, for some short 
 time still, pride supported her against grief. 
 
 From this moment, matters went on worse 
 and worse between Mildred and her husband. 
 Madly in love with Aurelie, Sir Edward grew 
 positively to hate his wife as the most evident 
 obstacle to his pleasures. She, on the other 
 hand, did nothing now to prevent him from
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 229 
 
 feeling her presence (whenever he happened to 
 be exposed to it) insupportable ; and thus, this 
 young couple, who, not two years before, had 
 made what the world caUs a love-match, were, 
 at the distance of so very short a period, almost 
 irrevocably disunited. 
 
 Towards the end of the month of June, 
 Lady Vernon was made acquainted with her 
 husband's wish that she should leave Paris, and, 
 during the rest of the summer, inhabit a \'illa 
 he had hired in the environs of Montmorency. 
 Sir Edward himself was called to England upon 
 business, but spoke of his intended absence as 
 not likely to be prolonged beyond a fortnight, 
 or three weeks, at most. 
 
 For some days previous to his departiu-e. Sir 
 Edward's behaviour to his wife had considerably 
 improved ; but was met, on her part, by nothing 
 but the coldest and most disdainful reserve. 
 Appearances were, nevertheless, better kept up 
 between them in this way, and quarrels more 
 frequently avoided. Before starting. Sir Edward 
 talked to Mildred about money matters ; she 
 listened very complacently, and it was settled 
 that he would probably have to write to her
 
 230 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 on business, which communications she pro- 
 fessed herself perfectly ready to answer. This 
 was what the world calls acting like sensible 
 people — which, when the last echo of the noise 
 made by the wheels of Sir Edward's carriage 
 was lost in the din of the streets, and Lady 
 Vernon felt herself entirely, utterly alone, did 
 not prevent her falling on her knees by the 
 side of her bed, and giving vent to her feelings 
 in a flood of tears. 
 
 They were the last tears she shed for Sir 
 Edward Vernon.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 231 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The fortnight fixed by Sir Edward as the 
 term of his absence had elapsed, and Mildred, 
 for the last ten days, had been established at 
 her campagne. The place was certainly very 
 lovely, and, for any one who really loved the 
 country, would have been a spot to live and 
 die in. The house itself was arranged and 
 furnished a FAnglaise, in every respect but as 
 to carpets ; of these, there were none ; but 
 then the exterior heat of the season rendered 
 coolness in-doors a decided requisite, and the 
 miiTor-Hke smoothness of the inlaid and po- 
 lished parquets amply compensated for the want 
 of any woollen covering. The windows of the 
 drawing-room, and of a boudoir annexed to it,
 
 232 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 opened upon a vast lawn, fringed at the oppo- 
 site side by a small clustering wood, through 
 which countless little mazy, violet-scented paths 
 went capriciously meandering. In the middle 
 of this tapis vert was a stone basin, without 
 a, jet d^eaUy in the clear water of which might 
 be perceived the Iris-tinted scales of a few 
 half-forgotten trout. Scattered here and there 
 about the green expanse, were a few isolated 
 trees, such as the rose-blossomed acacia, the 
 catalpa, and, close by the pond, a magnificent 
 weeping willow. 
 
 To the left of the house, a superb avenue 
 of secular lime-trees led to the spot where 
 the entrance-gate had originally been, and 
 where it still remained ; although no longer of 
 any use, since the house had been (some sixty 
 years before) rebuilt, and disposed so as to 
 have its perron and vestibule on the opposite, 
 or court side, instead of being approached 
 from the garden. Still, there remained the 
 lime avenue, opening at one end upon no- 
 thing but the broad gravel walk that skirted 
 the dwelling, and on the other, terminating 
 in the great iron grille which heretofore ad-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 233 
 
 mitted the equipage of the owner of the 
 domain. 
 
 This grille opened upon a sort of lane — 
 if a lane could be said to exist any where but 
 in England — the left extremity of w^hich 
 merged into a principal road through the 
 forest ; in fact, the grande route of the \allage 
 to Paris. On the right hand, the lane, skirting 
 along the outer wall of the premises, plunged 
 into the very depths of the forest, and led into 
 thickets and copses but little visited by the 
 rusticating population of the neighbouring me- 
 tropolis. 
 
 There were so many smaller gates leading 
 from the park into the forest, that the grande 
 grille, as it was called, had not been put into 
 requisition for years ; the lock and hinges were 
 rusted, and it was much if any of the successive 
 proprietors of the mansion ever lingered behind 
 its green painted bars to watch the reapers, 
 upon harvest evenings, returning home through 
 the lane. 
 
 There was about the lawn something very 
 beautiful m these first brilliant days of July. 
 When, from the intense blue of the noon-day
 
 234 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 sky, the sun shone out in his burning glory, the 
 broad expanse seemed to glow beneath his rays ; 
 and, as you lay on the grass, you saw the air 
 around literally quivering with the teeming of 
 hot vapour, and the hum of the insects droned 
 in your ears like the distant sound of bells in a 
 dream. 
 
 Seen from behind the Italian blinds of the 
 drawing-room windows, this lawn at mid-day 
 was no unpleasant sight. But still more lovely 
 w^as it at night, when the moon threw her white 
 floating veil over the whole, and the few trees, 
 dotted here and there, stood forth on the 
 silvered surface, with the trembling shadows of 
 their leafy boughs shaking hke phantom 
 draperies. Then, as you sat round the table by 
 the lamp, you felt, through the widely-opened 
 casement, the night air come, wafting on its 
 cool breath the luscious scent of the limes ; and 
 from the woods, after the nightingale was 
 hushed, you might hear the low, wailing note of 
 the eve-jar, or the more cheerful sound of the 
 little tinkling bells, as the waggoners drove their 
 teams through the forest. 
 
 It would perhaps have been better for Lady
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 235 
 
 Veraon had she never learned to love the sweet 
 harmonies of nature, — had she never found out 
 the thousand secrets borne upon the sighs of 
 the evening wind, and on the rays of the rising 
 moon as it played with the shadow of the 
 willow branches in the water. But Lady 
 Vernon did learn all this, and she grew to find 
 solace and delight in things which had hitherto 
 seemed to her irksome. She would, for long 
 hours together, wander through the forest 
 glades, sometimes sitting on the brown moss at 
 the foot of the trees, and musingly uprooting 
 the tiny herbs and flowers ; sometimes inhahng 
 with mute rapture the aromatic peifumes of the 
 woods, as, indolently reclining on the cushions of 
 her caleche, she allowed herself to be borne 
 onward, little caring whither. Her solitude was 
 now enlivened. 
 
 In all these excursions, was Mildred always 
 alone ? No ! she had companions. There 
 would be small harm in that ; — but she had a 
 companion — one who scarcely ever left her side, 
 and in whose society she unconsciously learned 
 to comprehend that of which she had been
 
 236 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 ignorant, and to love that, the sole charm of 
 which, to her, was, in fact, derived from his 
 presence. 
 
 Gaston de Montevreux, if he had been 
 divested of some of the prejudices belonging to 
 his country and his caste, would have been 
 about as perfect a preux chevalier as one could 
 well meet. His faults came so entirely from his 
 opinions, and these were so inherent to his very 
 nature, that one might almost have called his 
 defects constitutional; but his good qualities 
 outweighed them even in a greater degree than 
 he himself was aware of. 
 
 Like all Frenchmen of his age, and notwith- 
 standing his good breeding and good taste, he 
 had a decided wish to be thought, morally, a 
 vast deal worse than he really was, and he 
 ended by being himself pretty well convinced of 
 that of which he sought to persuade others. 
 One of the prime articles of faith of the set 
 amongst which, notwithstanding his mother and 
 the Abbe, Gaston lived, was that of the frailty 
 of woman-kind ; and although he had, now and 
 then, some vague presentiment that there might
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 237 
 
 exist a woman who practised virtue for its own 
 sake, he wanted courage sufficient to advance or 
 maintain such an extraor dinar}- opinion. 
 
 M. de Monte\Teux, wdth remarkable talents, 
 and capacity for almost anything, felt himself 
 shut out from the adoption of every career, by 
 his political opinions. His activity, therefore, 
 was almost entirely concentrated upon the pur- 
 suit of pleasures of that kind into which men 
 of a superior stamp often throw as great a sum 
 of intelligence as would be necessar\^ to govern 
 the affairs of a nation. 
 
 Lady Vernon had arrested Gaston's attention 
 at first-sight. It was not so much her beauty — 
 although that struck him as remarkable — as 
 a certain air of purity and freshness, that, 
 without his avowing it to himself, brought to 
 his mind a promise of something hitherto 
 unknown and unsuspected. 
 
 He clearly perceived that, in her, he had 
 found, en fait de corruption^ about as near an 
 approach to Leibnitz's tabula rasa as it would 
 ever be given him to contemplate in this nether 
 world ; and he consequently determined to 
 watch what would be the impression gradually
 
 238 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 and imperceptibly produced on her mind by all 
 that was happening around her. 
 
 As soon as Mildred was settled at Mont- 
 morency, each succeeding day brought with it 
 the Due de Montevreux. Scarcely a day passed, 
 it is true, without the Duchesses also coming ; 
 besides Madame de Moreton, and one or two 
 other intimates; but Gaston had always some 
 pretext which rendered his presence necessary 
 at the very times when the rest of Lady Ver- 
 non's friends were either gone, or not yet come. 
 
 The consequence was, that, at the end of a 
 fortnight, Gaston seemed to her about as indis- 
 pensable a part of the camp ague as the lime 
 avenue or the house itself; and she was herself 
 unconsciously aiding and abetting his plans, by 
 eternally employing him upon all sorts of com- 
 missions, which necessitated his passing a vast 
 deal more than half his time at the chateau. 
 
 So she went on, from day to day, accustom- 
 ing herself more and more to Gaston's society, 
 and as far from adverting to any harm that 
 might accrue to her from it, as she was the first 
 moment she met M. de Montevreux in his 
 mother's salon.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 239 
 
 At the end of the third week in July, Sir 
 Edward was not yet returned, but iSIildred had 
 received a letter from him, dated Dieppe, in 
 which he informed her that, having been de- 
 tained in London by rather a serious indis- 
 position, the doctors had ordered for him the 
 sea air for some weeks, and, towards the 
 middle of the ensuing month, sea bathing ; 
 consequently Sir Edward did not expect to 
 rejoin Lady Vernon before the end of August, 
 or the beginning of September. She resigned 
 herself with ease, not only to the continuance of 
 the separation, but to the prolongation of what 
 she would pre\4ously have termed her soH- 
 tude. 
 
 Lady Vernon was perfectly happy; much 
 happier than she should have been, consistently 
 with her own safety, and considering what had 
 occurred. She passed the greater part of her 
 time in the society of the Due de Montevreux, or 
 in unconsciously speculating, during his absence, 
 on the period of his retiirn. And yet, ^Mildred 
 was not the least in the world interested in 
 Gaston, otherwise than as a kind and agreeable 
 companion, who had mainly contributed to
 
 240 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 render her sejour de campagne pleasant, and 
 had taught her to find delight in solitude ! 
 
 One day that the heat was not insupportable, 
 Mildred had strolled out before dinner, alone, 
 with her tapisserie in her hand. After having 
 sat for some time on a bench, in the little wood 
 at the end of the lawn, she rose, and leaving 
 her work on the seat, strolled onwards towards 
 the grande grille. When she arrived there, the 
 glimpse of the forest beyond was so inviting 
 that Lady Vernon determined to prolong her 
 excursion ; and, opening one of the small park- 
 gates, she stepped out into the lane. At the 
 right hand, a group of peasants were assembled 
 laughing and chattering, and Mildred, to avoid 
 them, turned to the left. A few minutes 
 brought her to the grande route we have 
 mentioned, and she decided to cross it, and 
 gain the depths of the wood beyond. 
 
 Before crossing, however, she walked forward 
 a few steps to reconnoitre, and be sure that she 
 did not lose her way in returning. The 
 road, which ascended slowly towards this spot, 
 was bordered on both sides by the forest ; only, 
 at Milderd's side, this was little more than
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 241 
 
 a mere shrubbery, through which, at the distance 
 of some yards, you saw the park wall of her 
 temporary domain. 
 
 At the moment when Mildred was about to 
 cross, a carriage was driving up the road. The 
 horses slackened their pace imperceptibly, as 
 they felt the gentle accli\ity swelling beneath 
 their feet, so that Lady Vernon had time to 
 examine the equipage. It was a dark brown 
 caleche, with servants in handsome liveries, and 
 everything extremely well appointed. Inside 
 was only a middle-aged female, apparently a 
 governess, and two beautifully dressed children, 
 a boy and girl. They looked about the ages of 
 five and six, and were, seemingly, in their infan- 
 tine turbulence, a cause of great trepidation to 
 their companion, who appeared alarmed at every 
 step, lest they should fall from the carriage. 
 
 Mildred could not forbear gi\ing a good- 
 natured smile to the yoimg cherubs as they 
 passed, but, as the coachman whipped his horses, 
 and forced them up the hiU at a trot, she 
 thought she heard, close by her, a low cry — a 
 suppressed groan. Her first feehng was one of 
 fear, and, turning back, she began to retrace her 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 steps towards the lane, but she had not ad- 
 vanced more than the distance of a yard, when 
 the cause of what she had heard was revealed to 
 her. 
 
 At the foot of a tree, almost close to the 
 edge of the road, lay a female, clothed in deep 
 mourning. Lady Vernon flew to her, and, 
 kneeling down 'by her side, proceeded to ex- 
 amine whether she were alive or dead. Life 
 was not extinct, but she was perfectly insensible. 
 She had. probably fainted, and what Mildred 
 had heard was an inarticulate demand for help. 
 Lady Vernon looked around; not a soul was 
 near, and she was dependent entirely on her own 
 efforts for restoring consciousness to the stranger. 
 She had no means at hand of doing so effectually 
 or promptly ; noflacon, nothing that could assist 
 her in any way. 
 
 She first untied the bonnet, and applied her- 
 self resolutely to chafing the hands and temples 
 of her patient — it was all she could do; but, 
 while doing so, she could not avoid noticing the 
 remarkable appearance of the person with whom 
 she had so singularly been brought into contact. 
 
 The stranger was a young woman, exceedingly
 
 MILDRED VERNON 243 
 
 fall, much above the middle height, slight to 
 positive thinness, but bearing about her whole 
 person signs of aristocratic origin, so marked as 
 to be almost curious. She was not, perhaps, 
 exactly handsome, but much too distinguished 
 to have passed any where unnoticed. Her 
 features were almost those of an Arab, so peculiar 
 was the eastern fineness of each of them. 
 Her head, small to a fault, was covered by a mass 
 of long, thick, soft hair, the raven hue of which 
 never coloured the tresses of a daughter of our 
 northern climes ; and the severe and somewhat 
 sharp outline of the delicate aquiline nose, and 
 the long, almond shape of the closed eyes, toge- 
 ther with the narrowness of the high forehead, 
 and the tenuity of the exquisitely-chiselled lips, 
 all seemed to indicate the presence of the desert 
 blood. 
 
 Notwithstanding, too, the pallor which mo- 
 mentarily overspread her skin, it could be per- 
 ceived that it also was of a colour rarely, if ever, 
 visible in a European. Her dress was of a 
 plainness that at once arrests a woman's eye, 
 and, from the rich simplicity of every article of 
 her attire, Mildred was convinced she held in 
 
 M 2
 
 244 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 her arms not only a gentlewoman, (the face and 
 figure witnessed that), but a person in an ele- 
 vated position as to fortune. 
 
 At the end of about half an hour, the sufferer 
 evinced signs of returning consciousness. Before 
 life had well come back, a few indistinct sounds 
 escaped her lips, amongst which, all that Lady 
 Vernon seized was the name of ' Marie.' When 
 she became perfectly reanimated, the sight of a 
 stranger by her side appeared to alarm her, but 
 Mildred's first words of explanation dispelled 
 her apprehension, and she listened with grateful 
 attention to Lady Vernon's account of what had 
 occurred. 
 
 When Mildred mentioned the circumstance 
 of a carriage having passed at the moment, 
 which had perhaps prevented her from hearing 
 the first cry for assistance, the stranger buried 
 her face in her handkerchief, and then, uncover- 
 ing her eyes streaming with tears : 
 
 " Have you any children ?" asked she, sud- 
 denly seizing Lady Vernon's hand. To the 
 latter's negative answer : " Ah ! then you cannot 
 understand me," said she, turning aside, and 
 wiping the traces of weeping from her face.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 245 
 
 " I think I oan, notwithstanding," urged 
 Mildred, gently. " A mother's grief is compre- 
 hensible to all. And you — are a mother ?" 
 added she, hesitatingly. 
 
 " I was one," replied the stranger, pointing 
 to her sable dress ; " but I have lost all ; and 
 the sight of those children — so like my own !" — 
 She stopped. '' You know all," resumed she, 
 and, with a violent effort, re-adjusting her 
 toilette, and replacing her bonnet and veil, 
 " Do not let us speak any more on this subject," 
 pursued she. " It would drive me mad !" 
 
 If Mildred had been struck by the aspect of 
 the stranger as she lay senseless in her arms, 
 how much more so was she as she gazed upon 
 her now ! There was about her a graceful 
 dignity, a commanding elegance, such as she 
 had never before beheld. Her height, and regal 
 features, would have given her almost too 
 majestic an air, had it not been for the sur- 
 passing softness of her large black eyes, afleur 
 de tete. Their angelic expression drew you 
 irresistibly towards her, and in that mild, caress- 
 ing glance, partaking of the fondly intelligent 
 and trustful look of the greyhound and the deer,
 
 246 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 you read a promise of tenderness and truth, and 
 an assurance of honesty that could not deceive. 
 Lady Vernon wa§ absolutely fascinated by her 
 new, and so singularly-formed acquaintance, and 
 could not be prevailed upon to quit her until she 
 had seen her safely to the door of her own abode, 
 and obtained permission to call on her the next 
 day. 
 
 The stranger rejoiced in the very plebeian 
 name of Madame Fournier, and inhabited a 
 small cottage orne^ lost fimidst the trees at the 
 very extremity of Lady Vernon's park. One 
 elderly female servant seemed to constitute her 
 whole establishment ; and, however all this 
 might be at variance with her aristocratical 
 appearance and elegant attire, Mildred was too 
 completely subjugated (and that for the first 
 time in her life) by her neighbour's winning 
 looks and high-bred manners, to think of anything 
 but of her determination to prosecute the ac- 
 quaintance.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 24 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At the end of the month of August, Sir 
 Edward had not returned. He was still at 
 Dieppe, but Lady Vernon was not aware that 
 Madame de Cev^zes was there also ; and that 
 her liaison with the rich young Englishman, 
 was a subject for common scandal. Nor did 
 she know that her husband's sole reason for 
 taking a country-house near Montmorency was, 
 that, between Enghien and St. Leu, Aurelie 
 had a chateau, where she generally spent some 
 months in the year, surrounded by her fashion- 
 able Paris satellites. Mildred lived only in the 
 society of a few intimates, who were too really 
 well-disposed towards her to fill, on such an 
 occasion, the office usually accepted by good- 
 natured friends, and she, therefore, remained in
 
 248 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 ignorance of at least some portion of her 
 husband's misdemeanours. 
 
 She had contrived to establish a close inti- 
 macy with her neighbour, Madame Fournier, 
 and this, one might almost say, whether the 
 latter would or not ; for at first she had received 
 Lady Vernon's advances with a degree of cold 
 dignity that would have chilled almost any 
 one ; but which, by some inexplicable caprice, 
 only increased Mildred's desire to know more of 
 her. Invitation after invitation to dine, to 
 drive out, to spend the day at the chateau, 
 did Madame Fournier refuse ; at last, she 
 ended by telling Lady Vernon that, during her 
 period of mourning, she had resolved never to 
 leave her own home, or enter any stranger's 
 dwelling, and then, little by little, allowing 
 herself to be touched by her fair neighbour's 
 constant kindness, she let herself be drawn into 
 habits of intimacy, in which she soon, evidently, 
 took an excessive delight. Morning after 
 morning would Mildred spend at the cottage 
 of her interesting friend, and each day she 
 discovered in her some fresh charm, some quality 
 more admirable than the rest; and she went
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 249 
 
 on, admiring and loving, without, in reality, 
 knowing any more of her friend's true 
 position, than she did the first day she saw 
 her. 
 
 On one of her early visits to her neighbour, 
 she had met the Abbe de Nangis, who had 
 accompanied her home, and, on their road, had 
 told her Madame Fournier was a penitent of 
 his, and one of those whom he loved and 
 respected most. ** She has lost both husband 
 and children recently," continued he, " and 
 many misfortunes have fallen on her, — it is 
 that which makes her so timid, and induces her 
 to shun society." And, w^hen he had con- 
 ducted Mildred to her own door, "Lady 
 Vernon," added he, impressively, " pray be kind 
 to her, and force her to accept your kindness. 
 You will not repent of it." And this w^as one 
 of the reasons for which Mildred had perse- 
 vered in her attempt to conciliate the recluse. 
 
 She had a strong instinctive respect for the 
 Abbe de Nangis, and she felt quite secure that 
 any one in whom he took so lively an interest 
 must be in every point a recommendable person. 
 
 Madame Fom-nier was also but a recent 
 
 M 3
 
 250 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 inhabitant of the valley, and had not become a 
 tenant of the cottage more than ten days or 
 a fortnight before Lady Vernon had arrived at 
 the chateau. 
 
 During two months, however, that had now 
 elapsed since they both fixed themselves in the 
 environs of Montmorency, Madame Fournier 
 had already become celebrated amongst the 
 poor peasantry, into whose miserable abodes 
 she brought hope, comfort, and often restored 
 health. Early and late, at day-break and at 
 night-fall, was this active and courageous 
 creature to be met, either in the lonely paths of 
 the forest, on her road to some poor man's 
 hut, or by the miserable bed-side of some 
 humble patient, for whose benefit she had 
 transformed herself into a lay sister of charity. 
 
 The doctor of the village, a certain M. Ber- 
 trand, whose talent far exceeded his position, 
 had become one of her great allies ; and, when- 
 ever a case appeared to him to require either 
 particular attention, or the outlay of more 
 money than his lowly invalid could command, he 
 addressed himself, without scruple, to Madame 
 Fournier. Her reputation filled the canton, and
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 251 
 
 she never passed along the roads, and through 
 the adjacent villages, without the very children 
 invoking a blessing on her. 
 
 The Due de Montevreux was, if possible, 
 DQore constant than ever in his visits to Lady 
 Vernon ; and she, not any less blind than 
 heretofore, felt his society more and more in- 
 dispensable to her comfort. 
 
 Every time Lady Vernon walked by the gate 
 of the cottage (the lower w^indow^s of which 
 were just discernible from the road) with either 
 the Duchess, Madame de Moreton, or Gaston, 
 the jalousies were hermetically closed, and a 
 perfect silence reigned about the place. She 
 had vrainly tried to inspire Madame Fournier 
 with a desire to be acquainted with the 
 Duchess and Madame de Moreton, but par- 
 ticularly with the latter, by a description of 
 her gentleness and charitable disposition. 
 
 If Mildred could have been aw^akened to a 
 sense of her position, with regard to Gaston de 
 Montevreux, circumstances were not w^anting 
 that ought to have opened her eyes. One day, 
 in particular, she was very near obtaining an 
 insight into the dangers which surrounded her.
 
 252 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 yet the opportunity went by, and left her no 
 wiser than before. The Duchess and Madame 
 de Moreton had come down to breakfast with 
 Lady Vernon, and were loitering over some 
 embroidery in the^ boudoir, when they were 
 joined by M. de Montevreux 
 
 *' And pray, mon beau cousin^" said the 
 Viscountess, " where may you have been since 
 the night before last ? For, as I think, that was 
 the latest period of your appearance in the 
 centre of our civilization." (It was a fact, that, 
 on the preceding day, par extraordinaire^ 
 Gaston, absent from Paris, had not gone to 
 Montmorency.) 
 
 " I started yesterday morning for Versailles, 
 where I slept, and whence I am arrived at this 
 moment," replied he, after the due salutations 
 were exchanged with the mistress of the 
 house. 
 
 " From Versailles !'' exclaimed the Duchess ; 
 " and, if I may ask, w^hat were you doing in 
 that mournful monument of by-gone glories ?" 
 
 " Why, little enough, to say the truth," 
 answered the Duke, smiling ; " at least nothing 
 that I should not have done better to leave
 
 MILDRED VEtlNON. 253 
 
 alone. I was losing 18,000 francs, at the 
 races." 
 
 " Well, I hope it amuses you," rejoined his 
 mother. " I have sometimes heard that in 
 gambling of all kinds, the first emotion is that 
 of losing, second to which only, is to be ranked 
 that of gaining. I hope this may be true ; 
 for, if you are amused by it, I have nothing to 
 say — only," and she gave him a look full of 
 mixed intelligence and archness, " if you are not 
 so, it is too dear." 
 
 Gaston shrugged his shoulders. *' Amused !" 
 repeated he, almost disdainfully, " qu^est-ce 
 qui amuse ?" 
 
 " There they all are !" exclaimed Madame de 
 Montevreux, " all the same ! Now you know, 
 dear Lady Vernon, before you, I can't abuse 
 horse-racing and many things which are your 
 national sports ; but I can attack the con- 
 temptuous way in which the young men of 
 our age treat the things of this fair world. To 
 listen to them, there is nothing worth living 
 for. Look at Gaston, who ought to know 
 better ; there he is, turning up his nose at
 
 254 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 the bare suspicion of being amusable, and he is 
 not yet eight-and- twenty !" 
 
 " I wonder what Olympe will say to all this," 
 interposed the Viscountess, " when you are once 
 married." 
 
 " Poor Olympe !" added the Duchess, " a 
 pretty present, indeed, to make to a bride, is 
 that of a husband who professes that nothing 
 on earth is worthy to please him or attract his 
 attention." 
 
 Gaston was on the rack. His colour went 
 and came, and he turned over book after book 
 on the tables and consoles, to hide his vexa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Who is Olympe ? " asked, somewhat 
 timidly. Lady Vernon. 
 
 " What ! don't you know ?" replied the 
 Duchess, *' why, my niece, or rather, my 
 husband's niece, Mademoiselle de la Roche 
 Bermont ; did you not know that she is to be 
 Gaston's wife?" 
 
 "Not the least in the world," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Yes !" continued Madame de Moreton,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 255 
 
 playfully, " my gay cousin, such as you behold 
 him, le beau et brillant Graston, will, this time 
 next year, be a married man. It is this time 
 next year, is it not ?" said she, appeahng to the 
 Duke. 
 
 " I really do not precisely know — I cannot 
 inform you on the subject; it will be as it 
 pleases Heaven," repHed M. de Montevreux, 
 who did not know what to say. The answer 
 which would have been the natural one for 
 a Frenchman, he felt he could not make; he 
 dared not, before Mildred, appear to regard 
 matrimony as a chain, or to look forward to 
 the period of his marriage with disgust. He 
 was therefore obliged to reply evasively, and 
 with great reserve. 
 
 " As it pleases Heaven !" echoed Madame de 
 Montevreux, " I hope so, in truth ; but methinks 
 you show small desire to hasten the event ; 
 and yet, let me tell you," and she turned to 
 Mildred, " that Olympe is remarkably beautiful, 
 and will be seventeen when she leaves the Sacre 
 Coeur next spring." 
 
 Shortly after this, the Duchess rose to depart, 
 accompanied by Clementine, and carrying with
 
 256 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 her the reluctant and annoyed Gaston; the 
 more annoyed, because he could not venture 
 to betray the vexation, which, pent up within 
 him, had grown into positive anger. 
 
 Had Mildred been less utterly inexperienced 
 than she was, she would have understood her 
 state of mind when she found herself alone. 
 But, as it was, the kind of vague disquietude 
 to which she became a prey, taught her nothing, 
 nor did she even associate with it in any way 
 the idea of Gaston's marriage. She was not 
 surprised at the constant recurrence of her 
 thoughts to that one subject ; nor did she avow 
 to herself that she was unusually uneasy and 
 unable to support solitude. She took a bonnet 
 and parasol, and, without any work in her 
 hand, strolled forth, in the burning heat, to 
 her neighbour's cottage; and Lady Vernon 
 did not remark that it was the first time she 
 had sought Madame Fournier, not for the 
 pleasure of enjoying her society, but because she 
 could not bear to be alone. 
 
 Arrived at her friend's. Lady Vernon found 
 there the Abbe de Nangis. A feeling, of 
 which she was unconscious, and to which she
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 257 
 
 yielded, drove her, imperiously, to speak of the 
 Due de MontevTeux ; while Madame Fournier, 
 absorbed by the manufacture of some clothes 
 she was making for poor children, appeared 
 not to listen to their discourse. Mildred 
 learned from the Abbe, every particular of 
 Gaston's engagement to his cousin, and derived 
 therefrom a stronger degree of instinctive (and 
 still unconscious) dislike, towards the Princesse 
 de la Roche Bermont, than that with which 
 she had been already disposed to gratify that 
 lady. 
 
 *' Madame de Moreton, then, accompanied 
 the Duchess in her visit to you this morning ?'' 
 remarked the Cure. 
 
 " What a very amiable person she must be," 
 observed Madame Fournier, upon Lady Vernon's 
 affirmative answer ; " and, from all I have 
 heard, I fear she suffers considerably." 
 
 " She is always cheerful," rejoined Mildred, 
 " and yet I know that she harbours in her 
 heart a degree of affection for her husband, 
 that is, to me, quite inexpHcable after his 
 infamous conduct." 
 
 " Monsieur de Moreton has much to answer
 
 258 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 for,'* said Madame Fournier, gravely. " In 
 married life each party is responsible for the 
 happiness of the other, and nothing can excuse 
 either for the betrayal of so sacred a trust." 
 
 "And yet," interrupted M. de Nangis, 
 "I am certain that the Vicomtesse is only 
 waiting for an opportunity of exercising her 
 indulgence ; and that, whenever her erring 
 husband returns to her, (of which I confess I 
 almost despair, though she literally derives her 
 existence from this hope) she will as completely 
 forget his past conduct, as though it had never 
 been." 
 
 " That only proves her goodness and amia- 
 bility," rejoined Madame Fournier ; " but it 
 does not in any degree, however slight, excuse 
 M. de Moreton's faults." 
 
 " Well, at last !" cried Lady Vernon, " I have 
 found in France some one who is of my opinion 
 on these matters. I have always reproached 
 Madame de Moreton with her too great indul- 
 gence of character; but I am sure you will 
 agree with me, that if that indulgence may be 
 permitted when shown towards her own hus- 
 band, it is perfectly inexcusable — it is culpable,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 259 
 
 when extended towards a woman whose conduct 
 has sunk her below the level of society, and 
 whose guilt has rendered her a subject for 
 public scandal." 
 
 " They must be very confident in their 
 own strength," interposed M. de Nangis 
 solemnly, " who venture thus to condemn 
 others." 
 
 *' Oh ! you know, Monsieur le Cure," repHed 
 Mildred, " that on this point I do not agree 
 much better with you than with the Viscoimtess, 
 but I am convinced Madame Fournier will 
 agree with me. What do you think," pur- 
 sued she, turning to the latter, " of Madame 
 de Moreton's defending, on all occasions, and 
 preaching indulgence, as a duty, towards such 
 creatures as that dreadful Madame de Bois- 
 lambert?" 
 
 " I cannot judge," answered Madame 
 Fournier. " What has Madame de Boislambert 
 done?" 
 
 "What! have you not heard of that?" 
 exclaimed Lady Vernon. "Why, I thought 
 the very loungers in the streets and the labouTr
 
 260 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 iers in the fields had heard of her history. She 
 ran away from her husband, and had the 
 effrontery to fly to the abode of her lover, who 
 entertained, himself, such an opinion of her, 
 that he would not even become the partner of 
 her flight." 
 
 "Permit me," said the Abbe. "This has 
 been so strenuously denied by M. Chavigny 
 himself, and by all his friends, that no one 
 has now the right to assume or propagate such 
 a report as true." 
 
 " Well, never mind that," resumed Mildred ; 
 "you will not deny, I suppose, that Madame 
 de Boislambert has run away? And if you 
 knew," and she again addressed Madame 
 Fournier, who was by this time more intent 
 than ever upon her work, " if you knew what 
 a husband she has deserted !" 
 
 Madame Fournier raised her head, and with 
 unusual solemnity. " Her punishment will not 
 fail," said she to Mildred. " She will be 
 humbled and punished in this world, before 
 even meeting the dread punishments that await 
 her hereafter."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 261 
 
 " And her sufferings in this world will be 
 sufficient to expiate her sins," added M. de 
 Nangis. 
 
 "Do not say that, Monsieur I'Abbe," 
 answered she ; " nothing can ever be sufficient 
 to efface such a deadly sin as hers." 
 
 " There !" said Mildred, " that is, indeed, a 
 proper and a moral sentiment. Such crea- 
 tures ought to be put forth on the world, and 
 branded like Cain, for the satisfaction of the 
 virtuous." 
 
 " The virtuous !" exclaimed the Abbe, in a 
 tone of almost terrible severity. " The vir- 
 tuous, Lady Vernon ! — they never condemn. 
 Did you ever read the Gospel?" And, on 
 Mildred's sign of assent : " Then, allow me to 
 say, it has been with small profit ; for you have 
 forgotten one of the most beautiful passages it 
 contains. Our Divine Master contented him- 
 self with saying to the woman taken in adul- 
 tery, ' Go thou, and sin no more — I cannot 
 condemn thee.' But what w^ere his words to 
 those around? — * He that is without sin among 
 you, let him first cast a stone at her.' This 
 was the judgment of the Saviour of all man-
 
 ^6*2 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 kind. And you, Lady Vernon," continued he, 
 fixing on her his eagle eye, with a searching, 
 reproving glance, before which the stoutest 
 might have quailed ; " are you so immaculate, 
 are you so devoid of all sin, as to dare to cast 
 the first stone ? Examine yourself — dare you do 
 that?" 
 
 " Certainly I dare do so," replied Mildred, 
 proudly. 
 
 M. de Nangis looked at her with an expres- 
 sion that, from indignation, changed into com- 
 passion. " I am sorry to hear it," replied he, 
 impressively, " and I pity you profoundly." 
 
 " Why, if I did not dare do that," continued 
 Mildred, " what should I be myself?" 
 
 " Perhaps, a better woman," answered the 
 Abbe, emphatically. 
 
 " Better !" cried Mildred. " In truth, Mon- 
 sieur le Cure, we do not understand one 
 another." 
 
 " We do not, indeed," replied he ; " for you 
 utterly misunderstand the spirit of the Divine 
 Word which it is my office to teach." 
 
 " But," pursued Lady Vernon, " I do not 
 even see that there is any merit in avoiding the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. ^63 
 
 peculiar sin to which we have alluded. Do 
 you?" and she turned to Madame Fournier. 
 " That sort of virtue appears to me so very 
 easy !" 
 
 " No !" answered her friend, " I cannot 
 venture to say that. ** I dare not call any 
 virtue easy." 
 
 " And to those who do," added M. de Nangis, 
 " one can only say, take care, for they are in the 
 greatest danger." 
 
 Mildred smiled more ironically than was con- 
 sistent with good taste, as she said : 
 
 " I confess I am but little alarmed at the 
 perils which surround me." And, as M. de 
 Nangis rose to take his leave, " We part sans 
 rancune, I hope, M. TAbbe," said she, " although 
 I do not yet believe in the dangers which sur- 
 round me." 
 
 " My mission is never to recollect the harm 
 people say of themselves," replied the Abbe, 
 mildly, " and to pray that Heaven, in its mercy, 
 may avert from them the evils they call down 
 on their own heads." 
 
 " Pray for me, my father," rejoined Madame 
 Fournier, humbly and earnestly, " for my sins
 
 264 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 and my troubles demand the intervention of 
 your prayers." 
 
 " My child," answered the Cure, with deep 
 feeling, " the expiation has been so heavy that 
 the sin must be effaced ; and, for your troubles, 
 Heaven will give you courage, and, who knows ? 
 — consolation." 
 
 " Courage," said she, despondingly; " perhaps ; 
 consolation — never !" 
 
 Mildred was so habituated to regard Madame 
 Fournier as a species of Trappistine in regard 
 to rigorism, that she was never astonished to 
 hear her talk of her sins, but merely wondered 
 what the sins of such an angel could ever have 
 been. 
 
 Lady Vernon returned home, dined, drove 
 out through the woods, and thought the country 
 less beautiful, and even the sunset less gorgeous 
 than usual. She supposed she was tired of 
 living alone at Montmorency ; wondered when 
 it would "please Sir Edward to rejoin her, and 
 whither they should go next ; and yet, the 
 thought of leaving Paris and its environs 
 brought her no comfort, but the contrary. 
 
 Evening had become night, and Mildred was
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 265 
 
 sitting in the large drawing-room, turning over, 
 by the light of the lamp, the leaves of a book 
 full of views, just come out, of Naples and 
 Sicily. One after another they passed beneath 
 her fingers, arresting only her eye, until at last 
 she closed the volume impatiently, and moved 
 towards the piano. It was open ;. and, seating 
 herself before it, she struck a few uncon- 
 nected chords. Following gradually the caprices 
 of he/ memory, Mildred sang, in a low voice, 
 snatches of different compositions, and at last 
 ended by singing, from beginning to end, with 
 more sentiment than she usually evinced, 
 Schubert's exquisite and melancholy ballad 
 " L' Adieu." 
 
 She had scarcely finished it, when a voice 
 from behind her exclaimed : " Dieu, que c'est 
 beau ! et quelle voix /" These words were 
 uttered almost as though the speaker were talk- 
 ing to himself, and not intending them to be 
 overheard. Mildred started, sprung from her 
 seat, and, going straight to the spot whence the 
 voice proceeded, stood face to face, at the open 
 window, with M. le Due de Montevreux. Gaston 
 was leaning against the window-frame, in the 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 attitude of an enraptured listener — but what 
 brought him there at that hour? He felt 
 that Mildred was annoyed at the morning's 
 conversation — (these things, alas ! are so quickly 
 felt.) He was enchanted, at the same time, that 
 she was grieved ; enchanted that Mildred, how- 
 ever unconsciously (and he pefectly w^ell knew 
 that it was so) should be annoyed at the an- 
 nouncement of his engagement to his cousin, 
 and grieved that she should suffer a single 
 moment's pain, even when that pain gave him 
 pleasure. 
 
 He had put up his horse at the village 
 inn, and, walking round the premises, had 
 penetrated, by one of the little park gates, into 
 the garden, and was preparing to arrive at the 
 house from the back entrance, when his steps 
 were arrested on the lawn by the sound of 
 Mildred's voice. 
 
 When Lady Vernon perceived the Duke, her 
 agitation, though slight, was distinctly visible. 
 The moon-light shone full upon her as she came 
 to where Gaston stood, and she could not hide 
 from him that she grew pale, and then blushed, 
 and that her heart fluttered. But then, she
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 267 
 
 thought she was frightened at having been 
 caught in the act of singing ; and perhaps she 
 was. M. de ^lonte^TCUX thought her loveher 
 than anything he had ever seen, and dared not 
 look in her eyes for fear she should see in his 
 the too clear expression of his admiration and 
 his love. 
 
 They walked out in the still moonlight, to- 
 gether ; and in the darker paths of the little wood 
 Mildred accepted Gaston's arm, and even drew 
 closer to him — (for she was very timid and had a 
 great fear of robbers) than she would have done 
 if she could have guessed what he felt. StiQ 
 she never asked him why he was there ; but 
 Gaston, who was a man of the world, and feared 
 lest, after he was gone, she might recollect his 
 omission, carelessly recounted to her a pretended 
 loss ; and they made, upon their return to the 
 house, a minute search for a missing porte- 
 feuille, which the Duke supposed he might have 
 left in the morning at the chateau. 
 
 After M. de Monte^Teux had, at Mildred's 
 invitation, drank tea with her, he petitioned to 
 be allowed to hear her sing again. And Mildred 
 had no objection, for she was (still uncon- 
 
 N 2
 
 268 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 sciously) more delighted than she could compre- 
 hend at M. de Montevreux's admiration ; yet, 
 when she did again seat herself at the piano, 
 her voice, during the first ten minutes, trembled 
 in a manner that annoyed her immeasurably, 
 and to Gaston seemed divine. 
 
 Between music and conversation, hour after 
 hour fled by, and half-past twelve o'clock struck 
 before M. de Montevreux prepared to depart. 
 When he did so, at length, it was only in obedi- 
 ence to the dictates of his prudence, for he 
 would have stayed where he was for ever. His 
 horse had been, by Lady Vernon's orders, sent 
 for from the village ; and when he mounted it 
 to return, he, for the first time, took leave of 
 Mildred without off*ering her his hand. He 
 hurried down the steps of the perron^ on which 
 Lady Vernon stood, admiring the beauty of his 
 steed; and, once in the saddle, with a rapid 
 adieu, dashed through the gates and up the 
 stony road. 
 
 Mildred did not move. She was looking at 
 one little white cloud that was at this moment 
 drifting across the face of the moon ; and the 
 gallop of Gaston's horse had died away in the 
 distance before she retired from the door.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 269 
 
 Mildred was so happy ! She thought the 
 country so lovely, the moon so remarkably 
 bright! M. de Montevreux's \dsit had de- 
 cidedly done her good. She was too lonely 
 in her great chateau, and evidently wanted 
 amusement. 
 
 Ennui ! Distraction ! — Nine out of ten begin 
 thus!
 
 270 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 About a week after the Duke's nocturnal 
 visit, Mildred, who had for some days suffered 
 from a cold, came in from her drive, com- 
 plaining of a sensation of unusual chilliness. 
 In her hurry to reach home she had got down 
 at one of the park gates, and crossed the lawn 
 on foot, regardless of the violent rain that had 
 fallen some hours before. The grass was very 
 wet, and the damp had penetrated to her feet. 
 She thought no more of so slight a mishap, 
 and retired to rest at her habitual hour, sensible 
 only of a rather dull pain in her head. 
 
 About one o'clock in the morning, Lady 
 Vernon's maid, who inhabited a little cabinet 
 adjoining Mildred's apartment, was aroused by 
 something like a groan proceeding from her
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 271 
 
 mistress's room. She hastened to Mildred's 
 bed-side, and found her in a really alarming 
 state. Her whole face was crimson with the 
 flush of fever ; her pulse, hard and full, beat so 
 rapidly that it could scarcely be counted ; and 
 she complained of an oppression that prevented 
 her from drawing her breath, and seemed to 
 threaten suffocation. The frightened abigail 
 called up the other servants, and, at the same 
 time that it was decided to send for Dr. 
 Bertrand, it was judged right instantaneously 
 to apprise Madame Foumier as the only female 
 friend of Lady Vernon's who was on, or near, 
 the spot. 
 
 The night was dark, and the rain, swept by 
 the wind, fell in torrents ; but wind, rain, nor 
 darkness stayed Madame Fournier's progress ; 
 and, drenched to the skin, she entered the 
 invalid's room, and prepared to stay there and 
 devote to her aU her time and care. 
 
 When Mildred perceived the figure of her 
 friend, a look of pleasure hghted up her face, in 
 spite of her suffering. *' So you have come at 
 last," said she, in a faint, thick voice, extending 
 her hot hand.
 
 272 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 " Now that you really want me, yes !" was 
 the reply, — acknowledged in turn by a renewed 
 pressure of the hand. 
 
 When Dr. Bertrand arrived, he gave his 
 opinion almost directly, — not to the patient, or 
 her maid, — but to Madame Fournier, declaring 
 the malady to be an attack of measles, rendered 
 very serious by having been checked by cold 
 while yet in an incipient state, and adding, 
 " I know it is of no use in me to represent to 
 you the exceeding danger to yourself of your 
 attendance on this lady. I can only hope and 
 pray that you may escape unscathed." 
 
 At daybreak, a man was despatched to Paris, 
 to Madame de Montevreux and Madame de 
 Moreton, to entreat them to use every influence 
 to induce some one of the Parisian medical 
 illustrations to accompany them, as early as 
 possible, to Montmorency. Before noon, all the 
 party had arrived, and the two greatest pro- 
 fessors of the healing art in France entirely 
 concurred in all Dr. Bertrand's opinions; 
 expressing, in the most flattering terms, their 
 complete approval of his projected mode of 
 treatment. As it was useless for either of
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 273 
 
 Mildred's friends to attempt gaining admittance 
 to her apartment, they returned to Paris, accom- 
 panied by Gaston. But the latter stayed with 
 them only till they arrived at the Hotel Monte- 
 \Teux, and then he forthwith, and in secret, 
 returned to Montmorency. 
 
 The malady proceeded with increased vio- 
 lence, and became more dangerous than even 
 Dr. Bertrand had at first apprehended. 
 Brain fever ensued, and for four days and 
 nights Mildred passed from a kind of wander- 
 ing, trance-like stupefaction to the absolute 
 ravings of delirium. Never, for one hour, did 
 Madame Fournier leave her friend. Never, 
 during the fortnight that Mildred lay in danger 
 of death, did she once close her eyes or rest her 
 limbs on a couch. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, Mildred, thanks to 
 her youth and constitution, was out of danger, 
 but still requiring the most minute and constant 
 care. Madame de Montevreux and the Vis- 
 countess were now allowed to visit her, and 
 they could not repress an involuntary feeling of 
 curiosity at the idea of at last beholding the 
 mysterious friend, of whose devotion they had, 
 
 N 3
 
 274 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 at each of their daily calls, received the most 
 exalted picture from the servants. But they 
 were fated to be disappointed. Madame Four- 
 nier had again fled at their approach, and they 
 found Lady Vernon alone. 
 
 How Gaston envied them the privilege of their 
 sex, as he saw them mounting the stairs, at 
 whose foot he was condemned to stay ! His 
 sufferings had been most acute during Lady 
 Vernon's illness, and the traces of them were 
 amply visible upon his countenance. Not alone 
 were his days spent in the environs of the 
 chateau, but at night, when the Duchess 
 thought him either asleep, or spending his 
 hours at some place of amusement, he was 
 wandering, like a troubled spirit, about the 
 precincts of Mildred's abode. 
 
 One or two desperate attempts he did make 
 to see Madame Fournier, but with the same 
 success that attended the efforts of his mother 
 and cousin; he even addressed to her a note, 
 which was answered verbally; and, whilst his 
 whole heart was filled with thankfulness to the 
 being who thus watched over the woman he 
 loved, it was denied him to express to her,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 275 
 
 personally, even the merest word of common 
 gratitude. More than once, however, as 
 Madame Fournier, in the dead of night, ap- 
 proached the window of her patient's room, did 
 she perceive a shadow upon the lawn, which 
 shadow she knew and felt was no other than 
 Gaston's. 
 
 One morning, before Lady Vernon was yet 
 able to leave her bed, she missed Madame 
 Fournier ; and, on enquiring for her, was told 
 that she had been suddenly called away the 
 night before, while her patient was sleeping, to 
 meet some relations who were passing through 
 Paris, and who had sent an express to require 
 her immediate attendance on them. When 
 Dr. Bertrand came, Mildred's first word was 
 of Madame Fournier, and she received from 
 him intelligence similar to that which she had 
 already received from her maid. 
 
 Her gratitude to that lady was inexhaustible ; 
 it overflowed in her every look and word. She 
 could talk of nothing else to the Viscountess and 
 to Madame de Montevreux. 
 
 But the truth, well concealed at first, could not 
 always be hidden from Mildred; and she had
 
 276 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 scarcely been able to descend to the saloriy and 
 take the air on a couch placed for her on the 
 lawn, before she discovered that Madame Four- 
 nier herself was but just rescued from the jaws 
 of dpath. She had caught the disease whilst 
 attending on Lady Vernon, and her illness had 
 been even more alarming tlian her friend's, 
 from the circumstance of the malady having 
 fallen on a more nervous subject, and on a frame 
 exhausted by upwards of fifteen sleepless nights. 
 When Mildred first heard this, she prepared 
 to go instantaneously and visit her too devoted 
 friend, but she was prevented by the positive 
 and rigorous orders of the doctor, who treated 
 as madness the bare notion that she could yet 
 be conveyed so far as the cottage gate. The 
 consequence of this opposition was a violent 
 attaque de nerfs, and a fainting fit ; but Mil- 
 dred, like children and invalids, had now re- 
 solved to arrive at her ends by cunning, since it 
 was forbidden her to do so by force. Accordingly, 
 on the day following, as soon as Dr. Bertrand 
 had paid his visit, she desired that the moment 
 M. de Montevreux arrived (his coming was a 
 matter of course), he might be shown into the
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 277 
 
 boudoir to her, and any other visitors who 
 might happen to come at the same moment, 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 On his arrival, she lost no time in requesting 
 him to take her to Madame Fournier's in 
 defiance of doctor, friends, and domestics. The 
 Duke hesitated — but ^Mildred's entreaties were 
 so vehement : " I counted upon you" said she 
 reproachfully, "and you will do no more for 
 me than the rest :" and, as she uttered these 
 words, her eyes ovei-fiowed with tears. 
 
 This M. de Montevreux could not bear, 
 shaw^ls, bonnets, and parasols were at hand ; Gas- 
 ton procured the garden chair, and, taking their 
 way by the lime avenue, which hid them from 
 all eyes, they escaped, to Lady Vernon's infinite 
 joy. When they reached the cottage, the same 
 elderly female whom Mildred had so often seen, 
 opened the door; but neither prayers nor 
 entreaties could induce her to admit Lady 
 Vernon inside the house. 
 
 As they were returning home, they were met, 
 in the middle of the lime avenue, by Mildred's 
 maid, who came running towards them, ex-
 
 278 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 claiming, at the top of her voice : " My lady ! 
 my lady ! Sir Edward is just arrived !" 
 
 M. de Montevreux turned literally scarlet, 
 and bit his lip involuntarily. Mildred felt 
 ready to faint. She was not quite satisfied 
 with herself at feeling so excessively displeased 
 at her husband's arrival. But then, she ar- 
 gued that he could not have come on her 
 account, or he would have come sooner ; as he 
 was quite aware, from the first, of her illness, 
 and she supposed her peculiar displeasure at his 
 coming held entirely to what she termed her 
 just resentment at his conduct. Gaston, on 
 the contrary, chose to think Sir Edward had 
 come to take care of his wife, and was par- 
 ticularly incensed at his showing her any mark 
 of kindness ; he would rather he had shown, 
 evidently, that he did not care whether she lived 
 or died. 
 
 When Mildred was once more re-established 
 on her chaise longue in the boudoir, she en- 
 quired (because she thought it her duty to do 
 so) for Sir Edward. The answer was, that he 
 was dressing after his journey. M. de Mon-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 279 
 
 tevreux rose, somewhat abruptly, and, pretextinir 
 business, took leave of Lady Vernon without 
 waiting to see her husband, to whom he re- 
 quested his compliments might be presented.
 
 280 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It will easily be believed that the double 
 illness of Lady Vernon and Madame Fournier, 
 had considerably increased the attachment which 
 already bound them together. As soon as her 
 neighbour would consent to receive her, Mil- 
 dred spent a great portion of her time at the 
 cottage, rendering to Madame Fournier, in 
 spite of her resistance, a thousand of those 
 Uttle delicate services of which she had scarcely 
 ceased to stand in need herself. The rest of 
 the day, or nearly so, was devoted to M. de 
 Montevreux. 
 
 As to Sir Edward, his presence at the 
 chateau brought little or no change to Mildred's 
 habitual way of living. He remained but rarely
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 281 
 
 at home, stayed whole days and even nights 
 absent, and, six days out of the week, did not 
 appear at dinner. This sort of conduct secretly 
 enchanted Gaston, who was now thoroughly 
 convinced that Sir Edward's return had no 
 connection with his wife's illness, and that he 
 had simply established himself in his chateau, 
 because Aui'elie had, at the same period, re- 
 turned to hers. Still, the fact of Sir Edward 
 Vernon having his nominal abode under the 
 same roof with Mildred, lent a certain sanction 
 to M. de Monte vreux's frequent visits, and 
 enabled him to be far more constantly than 
 heretofore in the society of Lady Vernon. 
 
 Innocently imprudent, Mildred went on, 
 defying fate, and laying the foundation of 
 her own misery, if not of her own ruin. Her 
 feelings with respect to Sir Edward were 
 now perfectly defined to herself She despised 
 more than she disliked him, and the only 
 disguise she consented to impose on her con- 
 tempt was one of inflexible stiffness and re- 
 serve. 
 
 Lady Vernon and the Duke were just in that 
 peculiarly delicate position of sentiment one with
 
 282 MILDRED VERNON. ^ 
 
 the other, to which the most trifling occurrence 
 may be sufficient to put an end. Their situa- 
 tion resembled those unstable tenements built in 
 certain rocky places — you may live in them for 
 years, so long as all continues tranquil, and as 
 the one vibration remains silent that is destined 
 to shake your shelter to its base; but that 
 chord in Nature's harmony once touched, and 
 your frail abode is shattered — a word jarring 
 on that mighty granite nerve, will suffice to 
 bring the whole edifice to the ground. 
 
 The idea of vengeance never entered into 
 Mildred's brain. Setting aside any notion of 
 guilt, she never even adverted to the possible 
 expediency of making her husband jealous 
 without cost of her honour. On the one hand, 
 she did not deem him worth the trouble, and on 
 the other, it seemed to her a mode of retaliation 
 in which her own dignity was likely to be the 
 greatest sufl^erer. 
 
 Sir Edward, when at his home, showed no 
 displeasure whatever at M. de Montevreux's 
 almost constant presence there. On the con- 
 trary, he probably hailed it as the means 
 through which he was enabled to enjoy com-
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 283 
 
 parative peace. The two men were together 
 upon " very good terms " as the world styles 
 it, and Gaston repaid with detestation, cloaked 
 by civility, the politeness of Sir Edw^ard, which 
 only marked indifference. 
 
 The earlier part of the day was usually 
 passed by Lady Vernon at Madame Fournier's, 
 and Gaston, arriving generally for lunch at 
 three o'clock, remained, nine times out of ten, 
 to dinner, either en tete-a-tete, or ^vith the 
 Duchess, Madame de Moreton, and a few other 
 chosen friends. Rarely, under any circumstances 
 now, was Mildred's evening drive under- 
 taken without the Duke's occupying the seat 
 opposite to her in the caleche, and midnight 
 was often past before he left the chateau. How 
 many long rambles were taken through the 
 woods ! How many hours were passed to- 
 gether in silence ! For words seemed to have 
 lost their utility, or only to embarrass ; and it 
 was a curious fact, which, however, passed un- 
 heeded by Lady Vernon, that, when she found 
 herself alone with Gaston, by far the greater 
 portion of their time was spent without either of 
 them unclosing their lips.
 
 284 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 One day, they had walked to the two old 
 towers that still remain of the edifice known 
 in feudal times as the Castle of St. Leu. The 
 walk had rather fatigued Lady Vernon, and, 
 on the road home, they had seated themselves 
 on a little knoll in the forest, shaded, on one 
 side, by large overhanging trees, and on the 
 other, commanding, through the opening of 
 an alley, a beautiful view of Paris in the distance. 
 As usual, they sat for some time without 
 speaking. The heat of the day, and the 
 drowsy hum of the insects, lulled them into 
 a dangerously-delicious dreaminess, that bound 
 them, as in magnetic chains, and from which 
 neither made any effort to escape. The earth 
 was so fair around them, the sky so serene 
 above, on every passing wind there came such 
 fragrant whispers, on every leaf and flower 
 there shone such radiant beauty, that in the 
 midst of this wondrous hymn to the Fountain 
 of Universal Love, it was scarcely possible for the 
 hearts of the two human habitants of the desert 
 alone to be unmoved and mute. At length, 
 the position grew to be insupportable, and 
 even Mildred felt that to say anything would 
 be preferable to this silence.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 285 
 
 She was seated at the foot of a small 
 oak tree, and leaned against its stem. Her 
 bonnet lay on the grass beside her, and to 
 screen her from the chance rays of the sun, 
 she held over her head a grey parasol Hned 
 with a deep rose colour, the reflection of which 
 gave to her face a peculiarly warm and beautiful 
 tint. M. de Monte^Teux sat at a few paces 
 distant, and rather below her. A handsomer 
 couple could scarcely be portrayed by poet's 
 rhyme or painter's pencil. Mildred, v^ith a 
 languid motion of her hand, put back from 
 her forehead the mass of curls that clustered 
 there, and seemed to oppress her by their 
 weight. Her eyes encountered those of Gaston, 
 and the look she gave him said plainly and 
 imploringly " speak l" 
 
 M. de Monte^Tcux obeyed. " I was just 
 thinking," remarked he, in a tone that clearly 
 showed he was thinking of something totally 
 different, " how extraordinary are the weaknesses 
 of the great men of this earth. ^Mlo could 
 imagine that Louis XIV, in his youth, in 
 the pride of his glor}' and power, should have 
 preferred laying out millions upon the creation 
 of an artificial wonder, on the flat, barren soil
 
 286 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 of Versailles, to profiting by the natural 
 advantages of the Cote de Champigny, merely 
 because, from the latter, he discerned the spire 
 of St. Denis !" 
 
 " To say the truth," said Lady Vernon, " I 
 can better comprehend this aversion in the 
 midst of the glories you mention, than I could 
 when those glories were on the wane. I can 
 conceive that there might be a time when the 
 Grand Roi would not have cared that anything 
 should remind him of his mortality. In his 
 case, I can understand what, in the case of any 
 ordinary individual, I should be at a loss to 
 comprehend. I should hke to know," continued 
 Mildred, in a half bitter, half desponding tone, 
 " what matter it would be to me if I saw every 
 day, from my sitting-room window, the gates of 
 the churchyard where I am to be buried — I care 
 not how soon !" 
 
 " You, Lady Vernon !" exclaimed Gaston. 
 
 " Why, what have I to regret ?" pursued 
 she. 
 
 This was not very complimentary. 
 
 " I can easily conceive," resumed the Duke, 
 " that you would leave behind little worth your
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 287 
 
 regretting; but have you no consideration for 
 those who would regret you ?" 
 
 " And who is there would regret me ?" asked 
 Mildred, sadly, but frankly. 
 
 Here would have been an opportunity, with 
 any other w^oman than Lady Vernon ; but the 
 Duke was taken aback. He saw that Mildred 
 did not expect the answer he was on the point 
 of making, and therefore he wisely kept it to 
 himself; and, \\ith some internal vexation: 
 
 " Many more than you think for, perhaps," 
 he contented himself with replying. " My 
 mother, my cousin Clementine, your friend 
 Madame Foumier, and, in your own country, 
 without a doubt, countless numbers." 
 
 Lovers, when not permitted to be tender, are 
 the rudest beings in creation. Gaston would 
 have included the whole world in his list before 
 he would have added his own name to it. Lady 
 Vernon probably, did not notice his inci\ility. 
 She shook her head, and smiled with polite dis- 
 trust. M. de Montevreux changed the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 ** So you think, then," said he, " that Louis 
 XIV. must have found enouofh in life to make
 
 288 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 him desirous of forgetting that it must one day 
 end r 
 
 *' If such vain presumption could ever be 
 excusable in mortal man," answered she, "I 
 do certainly think it might be more so in his 
 case than in most others." 
 
 " It has always been a question in my mind," 
 resumed the Duke, " whether Louis XIV., during 
 his whole life of grandeur and glory, ever tasted 
 one single instant of real enjoyment, or whether 
 he was not, from the first hour to the last, the 
 most miserable man in his dominions — morally 
 speaking, a very Wandering Jew." 
 
 " He was the cause of so much unhappiness 
 to others," rejoined Mildred, " that any misery 
 he might suffer was but justice." 
 
 " In my supposition," continued Gaston, '' the 
 unhappiness he inflicted upon others, was but a 
 species of vengeance, a proof of the envy excited 
 in him by the aspect of what, spite of all his 
 greatness, was denied him." 
 
 " But his behaviour to his wife ?" objected 
 Mildred. 
 
 " Ma foi r replied the Duke, " I was not 
 exactly thinking of her; but I suppose that,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 289 
 
 notwithstanding the respect and veneration 
 lavished upon her, her existence was tolerably 
 wretched under the reigns of Madame la Mar- 
 quise de Montespan, and the \^idow Scarron. 
 But then, to be sure, that was her own fault." 
 
 " How so ?" asked Mildred, ingenuously. 
 
 We have said that Gaston had been con- 
 siderably annoyed by an expression of Lady 
 Vernon's. He had been induced to doubt 
 w^hether, after all, he had made any progress in 
 her affections, and whether he was not about as 
 far advanced at the present hoiu-, as at the first 
 moment he met her. Under the influence of 
 this pique, M. de Montevreux was savagely de- 
 sirous of rendering to Mildred some portion of 
 the pain she had caused him, and he accordingly 
 adopted a tone of thought he knew she particu- 
 larly abhorred, and became thoroughly French 
 in all the ideas he emitted. To Lady Vernon's 
 question he repHed by an ironical laugh. 
 
 " Why," said he, " the remedy was so easy 
 for all this unhappiness. If his Majesty, King 
 Phebus, threw his god-like glances upon too 
 many La Valli^res and Fontanges, surely there 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 were enough Grands Seigneurs at his court, who 
 would have been proud to play a similar part 
 about Marie-Ther^se of Spain, and console her 
 for the humiliation of the royal neglect. Her 
 aunt, Anne of Austria, was wiser than she, and 
 Buckingham — " 
 
 " Oh ! for shame !" interrupted Mildred. 
 ''Marie-Therese, atleast,was above all suspicion." 
 
 " Yes," rejoined he, "I know Bossuet has 
 said so, and has written that her greatest joy, 
 and the greatest proof of her merit was, that, 
 whilst she was agreeable to Heaven, she was so 
 also to the sublimest monarch upon earth, 
 (which only proves that the * Eagle of Meaux* 
 carried his courtiership to impiety, but does not 
 convince me.) I cannot believe any woman in 
 her position would be so mad as not to profit 
 by the consolation that — " 
 
 Mildred interrupted him, " But surely, M. le 
 Due," exclaimed she vehemently, " you do not 
 think, that every married woman whose hus- 
 band ill-treats and abandons her, is to become, 
 for that reason, a reproach to her whole sex ?" 
 And Lady Vernon branched off into a tirade 
 that plainly showed she was intent upon her
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 291 
 
 own grievances, whilst speaking of those of 
 Louis the Fourteenth's Queen. 
 
 The Duke, after drawing the picture of a 
 young wife deserted by her husband, proceeded 
 to paint, \s'ith the warmest colours of his fancy 
 and his heart, the happiness she might taste in 
 a liaison with a being who loved her " disinter- 
 estedly and for herself," (as if such a love 
 existed !) " Left by that one, who, in ninety- 
 nine cases out of a hundred, is bound only by 
 the law to cherish her," continued Gaston, " she 
 would find in him whose heart had chosen her 
 for his own — " 
 
 " Stop, M. le Due," cried Lady Vernon, 
 with an unusually harsh and decisive tone ; " she 
 would sacrifice all to recognise, in a short time, 
 that the being for whom she did so, far from 
 beheving in the truth of the sacrifice, spoke of 
 her affection as of a thing to be necessarily 
 given to another if not to him. Moi ou un 
 autre I — there is your creed, but it is a creed as 
 false as it is infamous !" And in uttering these 
 last words, Mildred's eyes darted fire, and her 
 cheeks burnt with the flame of genuine indig- 
 
 o 2
 
 292 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 nation. Gaston gazed upon her, surprised, but 
 not offended. Whence came this change. Lady 
 Vernon? Why did M. de Moreton's words, 
 which had lain perdus in your memory till now, 
 flash for the first time across your brain ? And 
 why did you, for the^r^^ time too, direct your 
 ire not against the existence of the sin itself, 
 but against the base and ignorant ingratitude 
 with which it might chance to be repaid ? 
 
 As M. de Monte vreux rose to accompany 
 Lady Vernon home, he felt that he was farther 
 advanced than when he first met her. 
 
 On their way to the chateau, they spoke not 
 one syllable. The Duke walked close to Lady 
 Vernon, but without offering her his arm. As 
 they entered a narrow lane about a quarter of a 
 mile from the park, they heard behind them the 
 tramp of horses. This lane was one of the 
 most disagreeable portions of the whole forest. 
 From being arched over by the branches that 
 met overhead, and formed a perfect vault, it 
 was constantly damp when every other path was 
 parched, and one night's rain filled its deep ruts 
 with water that remained there until it turned 
 injto mud, which mud never dried. It formed,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 293 
 
 however, the shortest road home, and for that 
 reason Lady Vernon had chosen it. 
 
 Wlien they arrived near the middle, a lady 
 and gentleman, trotting theii* horses furiously, 
 and talking and laughing loudly, were close upon 
 them. ^Mildred drew up to the extreme edge 
 of the path ; but almost before she could recog- 
 nise, in the equestrians who dashed by her, 
 Madame de Cevezes and Sir Edward Vernon, 
 she felt the consequences of their speed. Her 
 white dress was covered ^^ith mud, a particle of 
 which had flown upon her cheek. The spot 
 was soon wiped out ; but the insult remained, 
 and Mildred grew pale at the thought. M. 
 de Montevreux, on the contrar}', who had 
 instantly flown to her side, was flushed and 
 quivering \siih rage. He grasped her unresist- 
 ing arm, and drew it within his own. Their 
 eyes met. 
 
 " Have you forgiven me ?" asked Gaston in 
 a low tone, and hurriedly seizing her hand. 
 
 "And you?" rejoined Mildred, not knowing 
 what she said. He pressed her hand passion- 
 ately to his lips. Mildred burst into tears.
 
 294 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 and, leaning upon M. de Montevreux for sup- 
 port, much credit was due to the latter, that, 
 instead of taking any undue advantage of his 
 position, he contented himself with comforting 
 her as a tender brother would comfort a 
 favourite sister. 
 
 But for what did Gaston beseech Lady Ver- 
 non's pardon ? And for what did she conceive 
 she stood in need of his ? These are some few 
 of the mysteries that, with people who have no 
 habit of self-examination, often lead to so many 
 dangerous errors, and to such irretrievable folly.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 After the occurrence 1 have related, Lady 
 Vernon virtually separated herself entirely from 
 her husband. She never again addressed a 
 word to him if she happened to meet him by 
 chance; and uniformly left any apartment he 
 might enter, the instant he appeared. To say 
 the truth. Sir Edward had felt considerably 
 ashamed of his involuntary rudeness to Mildred. 
 He had not recognised her till the harm was 
 done, although as much cannot be said for 
 Aurelie. The latter had not only committed, 
 and forced her companion to commit, with 
 premeditation, the insult we have mentioned ;
 
 296 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 but, when she perceived the regret with which 
 the act inspired Sir Edward, she tried to defend 
 herself by calumniating Mildred, and throwing 
 ridicule upon her husband. 
 
 " Laissez done" said she maliciously. " They 
 perceived you much less than you perceived 
 them ; and you were far from being the person 
 by whom they would have best liked to be 
 surprised." 
 
 But, notwithstanding the influence Aurelie 
 exercised over him, Sir Edward could not be 
 induced to credit anything derogatory to Mil- 
 dred's reputation. He knew his wife too well, 
 not to be thoroughly aware that any attempt 
 upon his part to appear even as though he 
 believed in such a monstrous invention, would 
 cover him, in the eyes of Lady Vernon's friends 
 and his own, not only with ridicule, but with 
 infamy. He did, however, upon this occasion 
 reflect that M. de Montevreux's visits were 
 certainly rather frequent, and that some colour 
 might perhaps be given to scandal by that 
 circumstance ; but his previsions went no 
 further.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 297 
 
 On his return from Dieppe, Sir Edward had 
 acquainted Mildred with his plans for the 
 ensuing winter. He had let his family place 
 in Buckinghamshire, and had already engaged 
 a furnished house in the Champs Elysees, for 
 six months from the following October term. 
 At the time he informed her of these arrange 
 ments, he graciously added : 
 
 "If you dislike being so long absent from 
 England, you can, if you choose, go down to 
 Westmoreland and stay with your aunt Egerton, 
 at the Larches, for, as to having two separate 
 estabhshments, or a house in London, it is 
 impossible ; we have no means for such ruinous 
 expenses." 
 
 One thing rather astonished Mildred in this 
 speech ; it was the qualification of any expense 
 as " ruinous ;" for she had hitherto seen Sir 
 Edward foremost in all questions of lavish 
 expenditure; and she was also not a little surprised 
 to find that there was a limit to the resources 
 of his fortune. Mildred knew so little of the 
 practical portion of affairs : she was so poor a 
 woman of business, that she had believed her 
 
 o 3
 
 298 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 husband's income to be capable of resisting 
 every inroad on it, and was utterly ignorant 
 of the late extravagant demands upon his 
 purse, which had forced him to go over to 
 England. 
 
 She knew nothing of the thousands engulphed 
 by the treacherous tapis vert of the lansquenet 
 table, or of those, still more madly swallowed 
 up, in the satisfaction of the countless caprices 
 of a lionne. Because the Baroness was herself 
 rich, that was no reason for excusing her 
 adorers from being so. A genuine femme du 
 monde in Paris, often absorbs more surely the 
 substance of her lover, than those mercenary 
 beauties whose charms belong ostensibly to 
 the highest bidder. Between a femme du 
 monde and d. femme entretenue, there is exactly 
 the same difference that exists between a man 
 for whose services you have agreed to pay so 
 much, and one who leaves his reward " to your 
 generosity." 
 
 " Dans ces soi^tes de choses le prix fixe est 
 ce qui vaut le mieux et coute le moins,*' used 
 to say the late Prince T — .
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 299 
 
 ** But women of the world have no price," 
 argued one day, in our hearing, a youth from 
 the Provinces, who had taken upon himself their 
 defence. 
 
 " And for that reason, I have always found 
 them much too dear for me !" replied a witty 
 personage we will not name. 
 
 Of these rapacious propensities. Sir Edward 
 had no notion when he attached himself to 
 Aurelie's triumphal car ; nor, if he had, would 
 that have deterred him from it in the slightest 
 degree. He was foolishly, enthusiastically, in 
 love, as our dear countrymen sometimes will 
 be ; and if he had been told that the object 
 of this passion would swallow up his whole 
 fortune in mere absurdities, productive to himself 
 of neither honour nor credit, that would assuredly 
 have been of no avail. 
 
 When Mildred heard her husband's proposition 
 of allowing her to visit her relations in the 
 north of England, she, for an instant, discussed 
 it in her own mind, but quickly decided in the 
 negative, and resigned herself to the furnished 
 house in the Champs Elysees, and to another
 
 300 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 winter in Paris. Lady Vernon thought herself 
 influenced by an austere sense of duty, and by the 
 double desire to conceal from the world her domes- 
 tic dissensions, and at the same time to spare her 
 husband, unworthy as he was, any unnecessary 
 expense. Thus, while she was unconsciously 
 making the first concession to an unacknowledged, 
 illicit affection, Mildred was rising in her 
 own estimation to the majestic height of a 
 Roman matron. 
 
 Nevertheless, since the day of the adventure 
 in the lane, Lady Vernon had felt a strange 
 species of agitation in the presence of M. de 
 Montevreux. She instinctively avoided being 
 alone with him; or, when she was so, she 
 contrived that some active employment should 
 distract the attention of each from the other. 
 Music (a sorry expedient, generally, in such 
 cases,) reading aloud, and billiards, were a few 
 of the remedies to which she resorted, to 
 guard against la solitude a deux ; and, when 
 the efficacity of these was a little blunted, 
 she forced Gaston to teach her to play 
 chess.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 301 
 
 In ordinary cases, few things are more 
 dangerous than these lessons, given and 
 received ; and the Duke, who weU knew that, 
 was highly elate at the thoughts of his 
 delightful professorship. But Mildred e^'idently 
 wished to learn the game, and put her whole 
 intelligence so ardently into the comprehension 
 of its intricacies, that her master became 
 inwardly furious, and for ver\- vexation let 
 her win battle after battle ; whereat she seemed 
 enraptured ; whilst he, every now and then, 
 would sweep the chess-men sulkily off the 
 board, and beg to be dispensed from playing 
 any more. Mildred thought this betrayed 
 an indifferent temper, but she did not say so. 
 
 The end of September was now approaching, 
 and the autumn had just begun to put on its 
 rich mantle of russet gold. One morning, 
 immediately after breakfast, as Lady Vernon 
 was arranging some dahlias in a newly-invented 
 flower-basket, she was agreeably surprised by 
 the appearance of Gaston and his mother, v>'ho, 
 for the last two or thee days, had not visited 
 the Valley.
 
 302 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 Sir Edward had been absent since the previous 
 morning, and his absence was probably destined 
 to last somewhat longer still, for, just before 
 night-fall on the preceding day, his valet had 
 been sent for to the chateau, and had gone 
 off, laden with divers boxes and dressing-cases, 
 to rejoin his master. 
 
 " And the Vicomtesse ?" asked Lady Vernon, 
 as soon as they were seated ; " has she then 
 quite forgotten me ?" 
 
 "Poor Clementine!" replied Madame de 
 Montevreux; "she is, at this moment, too 
 much enslaved by one ruling idea, to think 
 of you, or me, or any other living being — save 
 one. The Viscount arrived from the Levant 
 three days ago." 
 
 As Mildred looked at Gaston and the 
 Duchess, she thought she had never seen so 
 interesting a mother and son. The Duchess, 
 in her youth a celebrated beauty, might well, 
 had she chosen, have retained her rank even 
 now. Few women had a more noble presence 
 or a more graceful air ; and when, with her 
 magnificent fair hair arranged in a thousand
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 303 
 
 feathery curls, her unfaded complexion, her 
 magnificent bust and Juno-like arms, Madame 
 de Monte vreux entered a salon, few of those 
 around remembered aught but the fact, that the 
 number was infinitely small of more youthful 
 beauties who could stand the competition with 
 the Duchesse de Montevreux. 
 
 Her guests did not stay over long with 
 Mildred, for the Duchess, not having visited her 
 estates this year, but preferring the sejour of 
 Paris to that of her son's chateau in the 
 Mayenne, had constantly written communi- 
 cations to attend to, from farmers and tenants, 
 and passed half her days at her notary's or 
 solicitor's. She now took leave of Lady 
 Vernon, in order not to miss an appoint- 
 ment with a man of law; but added as she 
 rose : 
 
 " I need not carry away Gaston, for he is of 
 no use to me in the affair of to-day. I do not 
 want even his signature." 
 
 The Duke, notwithstanding this, insisted 
 upon accompanying his mother along some 
 portion of the road; after which, he begged
 
 304 MrLDRED VERNON. 
 
 Mildred's permission to return : and, the one in 
 her coupe, the other on his horse, away went 
 mother and son. 
 
 They had been gone about an hour, and 
 Lady Vernon was still intent upon reflecting 
 how beautiful it was to witness Gaston's affec- 
 tion for the Duchess, and thinking it would be 
 very pleasant to be his mother or his sister 
 (she had quite forgotten the news given her by 
 Madame de Montevreux of the Viscount's 
 return), when suddenly a strange noise arrested 
 her attention. It was indistinct, and yet filled 
 her with undefined dread. It came nearer and 
 nearer. What could it be? A tramping of 
 feet, a murmur of voices, a subdued confusion ; — 
 and then a word, a whisper ; — then phrases of 
 horrid import : " It will be over before that. . ." 
 " Carry him up-stairs." — *' No ! the drawing- 
 room is best." — " But then, the blood ..." 
 
 " Good Heaven !" screamed Lady Vernon, 
 flying to the door ; " What has happened ? Who 
 is hurt ?" 
 
 She had no time to utter more, for on open- 
 ing the door, the fearful truth was revealed
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 305 
 
 to her. Stretched on a rude kind of palliasse, and 
 borne on the arms of rough-clad, uncouth men, 
 lay the apparently lifeless figure of Sir Edward 
 Vernon. His colourless lips were half unclosed ; 
 on his brow seemed to stand the damps of 
 death ; round the sealed eyes were drawn wide 
 circles of livid blue ; and animation appeared 
 for ever to have fled from that limp form and 
 from those pendent arms. 
 
 With a shriek of deadly fear, Mildred darted 
 towards the group, unheeding the strange faces 
 that surrounded her; but as she sprung for- 
 ward, her foot slipped — in blood ! Turning 
 faint at this sight, Mildred would have fallen 
 to the ground had it not been for a stout 
 peasant in a blue blouse, who caught her in 
 his arms, and supported her, whilst her 
 maid, frightened for ten, and useful to none, 
 stood by, stupidly staring, and wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 " Pauvre petite dame /" said the man, com- 
 passionately. " It is a cruel sight to be sure ! 
 And such an elegant, handsome gentleman 1 
 I'll bet something they're only just married —
 
 306 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 they look like it ;" continued he, whispering to 
 another labourer who stood near him ; " Well ! 
 it's pretty to see two young things like 
 them, so fond of one another — c'est joli tout 
 d'meme !" 
 
 " Umph !" replied the other, with a glance 
 at Mildred, " no great merit in being fond of 
 her ! Those that go to the wrong side of the 
 post don't leave such mignonnes as that at 
 home for thieves to come and steal." 
 
 When Lady Vernon recovered herself, she 
 scarcely dared open her eyes ; " Is he dead ?" 
 asked she with horror. 
 
 " No, no, Madame ! neither dead nor 
 likely to die," answered, good-naturedly, one 
 of the youngest of the men. " If he was, 
 the doctor wouldn't have sent tis here without 
 him." 
 
 "Doctor!" cried Mildred with a start. 
 " What, is there no doctor here ?" 
 
 "Oh, no! Madame," added the same man 
 who had spoken last. " He is with the other 
 gentleman, who required his attendance much 
 more."
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 307 
 
 " And may - be he'll be back here 
 again, directly," muttered another peasant ; 
 "for I don't think the other will want him 
 long." 
 
 " What other ?" asked Mildred faintly. 
 
 " M. de Moreton, Miladi" said Sir Edward's 
 French valet, in a tone so low as to be only 
 audible to Lady Vernon. 
 
 Mildred saw now, and understood the 
 whole. 
 
 " How did it happen ? " murmured she, 
 shuddering. 
 
 The men gave her the details of the duel, 
 which they had observed from a distance. 
 Lady Vernon cast a terrified look towards her 
 husband, and then saw that, from a wound in 
 his right side, the blood oozed out incessantly, 
 and, soaking through the mattress, sent a slow 
 crimson stream upon the pavement of the 
 hall. 
 
 " But, Doctor Bertrand !" cried she ; " where 
 is he?" 
 
 " Colonel Mowbray went to fetch him, 
 Miladi,'' said the valet; "and the other gen-
 
 308 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 tleman, whose name I don't know, who was 
 Sir Edward's second temoin, went to Annecy to 
 fetch a surgeon who lives there." 
 
 The words were scarcely out of the man's 
 mouth, when Doctor Bertrand rushed in, in 
 breathless haste, followed by Madame Four- 
 nier, who, forgetting all her reserve, had, the 
 instant she heard of the affair, flown to 
 oifer her services, her devotion, to Lady 
 Vernon. 
 
 She knew Mildred's position with regard to 
 her husband ; but still, she felt that, in the face 
 of such danger — perhaps even of death — resent- 
 ment, however strong, and however just, must 
 give way to horror and anxiety, if not to actual 
 grief; and that was just Mildi'ed's situation. 
 She was so terror-struck, that she might almost 
 herself have mistaken her apprehension for a 
 warmer sentiment. 
 
 When Madame Fournier appeared, Mildred 
 threw^ herself on her neck, and wept violently. 
 In the meanwhile. Doctor Bertrand had Sir 
 Edward conveyed into the salouy and there 
 placed upon a divan. The wound was probed,
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 309 
 
 and the bullet, imbedded at no great depth in 
 the flesh, extracted. 
 
 Doctor Bertrand, after having secured the 
 first bandages, had sought out the kitchen, in 
 order that he might in person superintend the 
 making of some preparation he had ordered. 
 Mildred and Madame Fournier were alone with 
 the wounded man, who, if no longer insensible, 
 was in a state of unconsciousness. Lady Ver- 
 non was kneeling by the side of the divan, 
 gazing intently on her husband's paUid features ; 
 Madame Fournier was supporting Sir Edward's 
 head upon her hands. 
 
 The gallop of a horse was heard in the court, 
 and, before either of them had time to collect 
 their thoughts, the Due de Montevreux had 
 burst into the apartment, and, flying to Mil- 
 dred's side — 
 
 " What is all this ?" he enquired, with a 
 countenance fully expressive of the liveliest 
 emotion ; but, before Mildred could answer, or 
 he add more, he started back in amazement. 
 " Heavens !" exclaimed he ; " Madame de Bois- 
 lambert !"
 
 310 MILDRED VERMON. 
 
 Lady Vernon sprang to her feet, and, it must 
 be, I am afraid, confessed, with a look of 
 offended pride singularly misplaced. Madame 
 de Boislambert — for she indeed it was — with- 
 drew her hands, gently deposed her patient's 
 head upon the cushion, and, with a dignified 
 obeisance to Mildred, prepared to leave the 
 room. The shock had so evidently over- 
 powered her, that Mildred almost relented, as 
 she looked upon the deadly paleness that was 
 visible even through the olive-tinted cheek of 
 the Marquise. 
 
 The latter had gathered up her bonnet and 
 shawl — her hand was on the door: Mildred 
 paused : — She, who to save Lady Vernon's life 
 had risked her own ; she, whose active virtues 
 and whose humble piety Mildred had almost 
 worshipped ; she was about to be driven from 
 Mildred's door — a moral outcast ! A minute, 
 and it would be too late; a second, and the 
 door would have closed upon the last flutter 
 of her sable dress. Mildred caught the eye 
 of M. de Montevreux intensely fixed upon 
 her.
 
 MILDRED VERNON. 311 
 
 " Oh ! Lady Vernon !" murmured he, with a 
 mixture of reproach and entreaty. 
 
 That was all ; but ^lildred was vanquished. 
 The tone said, " For shame !" but the look 
 said, " For my sake ! " and Mildred resisted no 
 more. With one bound she was at the door, 
 and had seized Madame de Boislambert's 
 hand. 
 
 " Restez ! Madame la Marquise,'' faltered 
 she. " Restez, je vous en supplie.'' 
 
 Madame de Boislambert, overcome by con- 
 tending feelings, had sunk upon one knee, and 
 supported herself against a chair. She cast a 
 look at Lady Vernon that would have melted a 
 heart of stone. Mildred hesitated but an 
 instant — and then, opening her arms, raised 
 the humble, shrinking Magdalen at her feet to 
 her embrace. Nay, more ! The enraptured 
 Gaston, amid the sobs of the Marchioness, 
 caught the solitary word that fell wliispered 
 from Mildred's hps ; and that word was 
 " Pardon /" 
 
 Right ! Lady Vernon — right ! You have, at 
 length, learnt to be generous, and not to strike
 
 312 MILDRED VERNON. 
 
 the fallen. You have been a better and more 
 virtuous woman within the last ten minutes, 
 than you ever were in your whole life 
 before ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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