whispering in her ear—though, for the matter of that, she had not paid the least attention to a single word he had said—it had all gone in at one ear and out at the other, she could tell him; for she knew well enough what a pack of deceitful things the French gentlemen were,—they were all general lovers; and she dare say that he’d go and repeat the very same things—silly things—that he’d been telling her, to the first poor girl he met after leaving. Of course, M. le Comte de Sanschemise threw his eyes up to the ceiling, and gazed steadfastly at the pink, pickled-looking Cupid that was painted in the centre of it, and supposed to be supporting, while in the act of flying, the heavy ormolu lamp that dangled from his hand; then he whispered, in subdued recitative, an impassioned French “roman,” commencing,— “Vous le savez! je vous adore!” all the while gesticulating in the most theatrical manner: now he extended his arms out, and leaned far forward towards her; now he suddenly threw back the lapel of his surtout, and tapped quickly and repeatedly the left side of his embroidered waistcoat; then, as the sentiment of the “chanson” grew more desperate, he clasped his forehead with his two hands, and rolled himself backwards and forwards, exclaiming,— “Un seul mot pour me satisfaire! Dites le moi (ange du ciel), je vous en pr-r-r-ie! dites le moi!” after which he tore his wig for a few minutes, and then dropped, exhausted, into the nearest chair. Unfortunately, however, for the pathos of the Count, the nearest chair happened to be a “devotional,” and the seat being lower, and the back less substantial than those of the ordinary style, and the Frenchman, being unprepared for the extra distance that he had to descend, fell with such force on the cushion, that the back gave way with a crash, while M. le Comte himself was thrown with his head backwards, and his legs up in the air, with such violence, that the buttons of his braces and straps were heard to burst with a loud explosion. At this particular juncture, the gate-bell was again heard to sound in the same authoritative manner as that in which Miss Wewitz was known to delight by way of announcing her advent. The Count was instantly on his feet, while the terrified Miss Chutney—suffering the double fright of the Frenchman’s fall and the schoolmistress’s return—begged and prayed of him, if he really _did_ adore her only half as much as he had been making such a noise about, that he’d return that minute to his former hiding-place.