PART THE TWENTY-NINTH.

I.

VALETE.

Two days after there was a fête given at Enghein, at the princely maison de plaisance of an English earl-a stout, bloated old man, lavish as the wind, and rich as a Russian, who, consequently, had all the most seductive Parisiennes to make love to him; Dalilah caring very little who her Samson be, provided she can cut off his locks to her own advantage. The fête was of unusual magnificence, and the empress of it was "the Trefusis," as we call her, "that poor fellow De Vigne's wife-a very fast lot, too," as men in general called her "Ma Reine,” as the Earl of Morehampton called her, in that pleasant familiarity which the lady in question ever readily admitted to those good friends of hers, who emptied half the Palais Royal upon her in bijouterie, jewelry, and other innocent gifts of amity-a familiarity that always stopped just short of Sir Cresswell's court, over the water. The Trefusis reigned at Enghein, and remarkably well she looked in her sovereignty, her jeweled ivory parasol handle for her scepter, and her handsome eyes for her droit de conquête. Only three nights before she had lain on the dank grass in the Royal Forest, where the mad agony of a man, whom she had goaded and taunted to the verge of the darkest and most hideous guilt that can stain a human soul, had flung her off, bidding her thank God, not him, he had not murdered her in that ghastly temptation; hurling her from him in delirious violence, lest in another

moment of that fell struggle crime should stain his life, and his grip should be upon her throat-her death lie at his door-her blood be red upon his hand! Only three nights before! but to-day she sat under the limes at Enghein, the very memory of that hour cast behind her for evermore, save when she remembered how she had taunted, how she had jeered, how she had triumphedremembered in gloating glee, for her victim could not escape her snare! The Trefusis had rarely looked better -never felt more secure in her completed vengeance upon De Vigne, her omnipotent sway over Morehampton, and all her lordly claque, than now. She was beautifully rouged, the carnation tint rich and soft, and defying all detection; her black Chantilly lace swept around her superb form; a parure of amethysts glittering in her bosom, haughtily defiant, magnificent, though coarse if you will, as she drove down to the villa in the Earl's carriage, and reigned under the limes in dominance and triumph that day, as she had reigned since the day she had first looked at her own face in the mirror, and sworn by that face to rise and to revenge.

In brilliant style Morehampton had prepared to receive her, for he admired the quasi-milliner of Frestonhills more than anything else, for the time being, to the extreme rage of La Baronne de Bréloques, Mademoiselle Celeste Papillon of the Français, and many other fair Parisiennes. There was the villa itself, luxurious as Eugène Sue's; and there were grounds with alcoves, and statues, and rosieries à ravir, as Mademoiselle Celeste phrased it; there was a "pavillon des arts," where some of the best cantatrici in Paris sang like nightingales; there was a déjeûner, with the best cookery in France-who can say more? there were wines that would have made Rahab or Father Mathew swear, with Trimalchio, "Vita vinum est;" there

were plenty of men, lions, littérateurs, and milors Anglais, who were not bored here, because they could say and do just what they pleased, with no restraint upon them whatever. And there were plenty of women, (very handsome ones, too, for the Earl would never have wasted his invitations on plain faces,) who smoked, and laughed at grivoises tales, and smiled at very prononcée flattery, and drank the Johannisberg and the Steinberg very freely for such dainty lips, and imitated us with their tranchant manners, their slang, and their lionneism in many things, except their toilettes, which were exclusively feminine in their brilliance and voluminous extent-among them the Trefusis, reigning like an empress, to the dire annoyance of most of them, especially to Mademoiselle Papillon, who, being a very dashing young actress, accustomed to look upon. Morehampton as her own especial spoil, did not relish being eclipsed by the Englishwoman's superb person and bold black eyes.

The déjeûner was over, during which the noble Earl, as his friends in the Upper House termed him when they were most politely damning him and his party, was exceedingly devoué to the Trefusis, and thought he had never seen anything finer than those admirably-tinted eyes and beautifully-colored cheeks. He did not care for your nymphs of eighteen, they were generally too shy and too thin for his taste; he liked bien conservé, full-blown, magnificent roses, like the ex-milliner, who certainly made herself more amiable to him than those who have only heard of her in the studio at St. Crucis and the Forest of Fontainebleau can well imagine. The déjeûner was over, at which the Trefusis had reigned with supreme contentment, laughed very loudly, and drank champagne enough for a young cornet just joined; at which old Fantyre enjoyed the pâtes de foie gras and other delicacies, like an old

gourmette as she was, told dirty stories in broad IrishFrench, and chuckled in herself to see gouty old Morehampton playing the gallant; and at which Mademoiselle Papillon could have fainted with spite, but not willing to give the detested Englishwoman so enormous a triumph, resisted her feelings with noble heroism.

The déjeûner was over, and the guests had broken up into groups, dispersing themselves over the villa and its grounds. The Trefusis and Morehampton took themselves to the "pavillon des arts;" but, after hearing one song from the "Traviata," "Ma Reine" was bored-she cared nothing for music-and she threw herself down on a seat under some linden-trees to take ice, listen to his private band, which was playing close by, and flatter him about his new barouche, which she knew would be offered her as soon as she had praised it. It was by such gifts as these she managed to eke out her income, and live au premier in the Champs Elysées. Morehampton flung himself on the grass at her feet, forgetful of gout and lumbago; other men gathered round her; she was a "deuced fine woman," they thought, but, "by George! they didn't envy De Vigne." The band played valses and Béranger airs; the Earl was diverted between admiration of the black eyes above and rueful recollections of the damp turf beneath him; Mademoiselle Papillon made desperate love to Leslie Egerton, of the Queen's Bays, but never missed a word or a glance that went on under the lime-trees for all that, with that peculiar double set of optics and oral nerves with which women seem gifted. Very brilliant, and pleasant, and lively, and Watteau-like it all was; and, standing under an alcove at some little distance, mingling unnoticed with the crowd of domestics, stood Raymond, alias Charles Trefusis, come to claim his wife, as he had been bound by De Vigne to do on receipt of De Vigne's

reward-none the less weighty a one, you may be sure, because the man had been given only a promise, and not a bond. De Vigne's honor in those matters was in exact inverse ratio to the world's.

"By Jove! sir," the fellow whispered to me-I had come with him to see he kept good faith, and did not give us the slip "just look at her, what a dash she cuts, and what a fool she's making of that old lord! That's Lord Morehampton, ain't it, sir? I think I remember him dining once with Lord Vane in Pall Mall. He's a regular martyr to the gout. I wonder he likes that damp grass. I suppose Lucy's bewitched him. Isn't she a wonderful woman, sir! Who'd think, to see her now, that she was ever the daughter of a beggar-woman, and a little millinergirl at Frestonhills, making bonnets and dresses for parsons' wives!"

I looked at her as he spoke, and, though it seemed wonderful to him, it did not seem wonderful to me. Lucy Davis's rise was such a rise as Lucy Davis was certain to make, favored by opportunity as she had been-neither more nor less of a rise than a hard-headed, unscrupulous, excessively handsome woman, determined to push her way, and able to take the best possible advantage of every turn of the wheel, was pretty sure to effect. She could not make herself a gentlewoman-she could not make herself a woman of talent or of ton. That she was not a "lady," Sabretasche's sure perception had told him long, long ago, and his daughter's delicate taste had known still more certainly later on: she was merely what she had been for the last ten years, with the aid of money, dress, and assurance -a dashing, handsome, skillful intrigante, whose magnificence of form made men forget or never notice her shortcomings in style, and whose full-blown beauty made them content with the paucity of ideas and the vulgar harshness