LITMIR.BIZ

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find it so, my Lady?”

      “I go but little into society!” said Lady Dorothea, stiffly.

      “How strange! and I – I cannot live without it. Even when we go to our Château at Roche-Mire I carry away with me all my friends who will consent to come. We try to imitate that delightful life of your country houses, and make up that great family party which is the beau idéal of social enjoyment.”

      “And you like a country life, then?” asked her Ladyship.

      “To be sure. I love the excursions on horseback, the forest drives, the evening walks in the trellised vines, the parties one makes to see a thousand things one never looks at afterwards; the little dinners on the grass, with all their disasters, and the moonlight drive homewards, half joyous, half romantic, – not to speak of that charming frankness by which every one makes confession of his besetting weakness, and each has some little secret episode of his own life to tell the others. All but Kate here,” cried she, laughingly, “who never revealed anything.”

      “Madame la Duchesse will, I ‘m sure, excuse my absence; she has doubtless many things she would like to say to her friend alone,” said Lady Dorothea, rising and courtesying formally; and the young Duchess returned the salutation with equal courtesy and respect.

      “My dear, dear Kate,” cried she, throwing her arms around her as the door closed after her Ladyship, “how I have longed for this moment, to tell you ten thousand things about myself and hear from you as many more! And first, dearest, are you happy? for you look more serious, more thoughtful than you used, – and paler, too.”

      “Am I so?” asked Kate, faintly.

      “Yes. When you’re not speaking, your brows grow stern and your lips compressed. Your features have not that dear repose, as Giorgevo used to call it. Poor fellow! how much in love he was, and you ‘ve never asked for him!”

      “I never thought of him!” said she, with a smile.

      “Nor of Florian, Kate!”

      “Nor even of him.”

      “And yet that poor fellow was really in love, – nay, don’t laugh, Kate, I know it. He gave up his career, everything he had in life, – he was a Secretary of Legation, with good prospects, – all to win your favor, becoming a ‘Carbonaro,’ or a ‘Montagnard,’ or something or other that swears to annihilate all kings and extirpate monarchy.”

      “And after that?” asked Kate, with more of interest.

      “After that, ma chère, they sent him to the galleys; I forget exactly where, but I think it was in Sicily. And then there was that Hungarian Count Nemescz, that wanted to kill somebody who picked up your bouquet out of the Grand Canal at Venice.”

      “And whom, strangely enough, I met and made acquaintance with in Ireland. His name is Massingbred.”

      “Not the celebrity, surely, – the young politician who made such a sensation by a first speech in Parliament t’other day? He’s all the rage here. Could it be him?”

      “Possibly enough,” said she, carelessly. “He had very good abilities, and knew it.”

      “He comes to us occasionally, but I scarcely have any acquaintance with him. But this is not telling me of yourself, child. Who and what are these people you are living with? Do they value my dear Kate as they ought? Are they worthy of having her amongst them?”

      “I ‘m afraid not,” said Kate, with a smile. “They do not seem at all impressed with the blessing they enjoy, and only treat me as one of themselves.”

      “But, seriously, child, are they as kind as they should be? That old lady is, to my thinking, as austere as an Archduchess.”

      “I like her,” said Kate; “that is, I like her cold, reserved manner, unbending as it is, which only demands the quiet duties of servitude, and neither asks nor wishes for affection. She admits me to no friendship, but she exacts no attachment.”

      “And you like this?”

      “I did not say I should like it from you! said Kate, pressing the hand she held fervently to her lips, while her pale cheek grew faintly red.

      “And you go into the world with her, – at least her world?”

      “She has none here. Too haughty for second-rate society, and unknown to those who form the first class at Paris, she never goes out.”

      “But she would – she would like to do so?”

      “I ‘m sure she would.”

      “Then mamma shall visit her. You know she is everything here; her house is the rendezvous of all the distinguished people, and, once seen in her salons, my Lady – how do you call her?”

      “Lady Dorothea Martin.”

      “I can’t repeat it – but no matter – her Ladyship shall not want for attentions. Perhaps she would condescend to come to me on Wednesday? Dare I venture to ask her?”

      Kate hesitated, and the Duchess quickly rejoined, – “No, dearest, you are quite right; it would be hazardous, too abrupt, too unceremonious. You will, however, be with us; and I long to present you to all my friends, and show them one to whom I owe so much, and ought to be indebted to for far more. I ‘ll send for you early, that we may have a long morning together.” And so saying, she arose to take leave.

      “I feel as though I ‘ll scarcely believe I had seen you when you have gone,” said Kate, earnestly. “I’ll fancy it all a dream – or rather, that my life since we met has been one, and that we had never parted.”

      “Were we not very happy then, Kate?” said the Duchess, with a half-sigh; “happier, perhaps, than we may ever be again.”

      “You must not say so, at all events,” said Kate, once more embracing her. And they parted.

      Kate arose and watched the splendid equipage as it drove away, and then slowly returned to her place at the work-table. She did not, however, resume her embroidery, but sat deep in reflection, with her hands clasped before her.

      “Poor fellow!” said she, at length, “a galley-slave, and Massingbred a celebrity! So much for honesty and truth in this good world of ours! Can it always go on thus? That is the question I’m curious to hear solved. A little time may, perhaps, reveal it!” So saying to herself, she leaned her head upon her hand, deep lost in thought.

      CHAPTER IV. A VERY GREAT FAVOR

      Amongst the embarrassments of story-telling there is one which, to be appreciated, must have been experienced; it is, however, sufficiently intelligible to claim sympathy even by indicating, – we mean the difficulty a narrator has in the choice of those incidents by which his tale is to be marked out, and the characters who fill it adequately depicted.

      It is quite clear that a great number of events must occur in the story of every life of which no record can be made; some seem too trivial, some too irrelevant for mention, and yet, when we come to reflect upon real life itself, how many times do we discover that what appeared to be but the veriest trifles were the mainsprings of an entire existence, and the incidents which we deemed irrelevant were the hidden links that connected a whole chain of events? How easy, then, to err in the selection! This difficulty presents itself strongly to us at present; a vast number of circumstances rise before us from which we must refrain, lest they should appear to indicate a road we are not about to travel; and, at the same time, we feel the want of those very events to reconcile what may well seem contradictions in our history.

      It not unfrequently happens that an apology is just as tiresome as the offence it should excuse; and so, without further explanation, we proceed. Lady Dorothea soon found herself as much sought after as she had previously been neglected. The Duchesse de Luygnes was the great leader of fashion at Paris; and the marked attentions by which she distinguished her Ladyship at once established her position. Of course her unquestionable claim to station, and her own high connections rendered the task less difficult; while it imparted to Lady Dorothea’s own manner and bearing that degree of dignity and calm

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