Tom Burke Of

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an air at once dignified and easy. Her dress well suited the character of her figure: it was entirely of black, covered with a profusion of deep lace, – the jupe looped up in Andalusian fashion to display the leg, whose symmetry was perfect. Even her costume, however, had something about it too theatrical for my taste; but there was a stamp of firmness, fierté even, in her carriage and her attitude, that at once showed hers was no vulgar desire of being remarkable, but the womanly consciousness of being dressed as became her. She suddenly turned her head around, and we both exclaimed in the same breath, “How lovely!” Her features were of that brilliant character only seen in Southern blood: eyes large, black, and lustrous, fringed with lashes that threw their shadow on the very cheek; full lips, curled with an air of almost saucy expression; while the rich olive tint of her transparent skin was scarce colored with the pink flush of exercise, and harmonized perfectly with the proud repose of her countenance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “You, – yourself, do you mean?”

      “Of course, Baron; no other.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I will hope – ”

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

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

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

      “Whose carriage is this?” said he.

      “Yours, Monsieur le Général.”

      “And the servant, and the horses?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “And that, if I might ask – ”

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

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

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

      “Ah! how?”

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

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