‘I believe it,’ I answered, for I am very proud of and very devoted to my own country-people, whatever friends I may have found in other nations. ‘I am speaking now, mademoiselle, of ten years ago—when the first notes of that terrible discord that shook France to her foundations were beginning to be heard, and Paris was in a state of ferment and expectation. The revolution had not commenced, but disaffection was already pre-evident amongst the labouring classes, and _émeutes_ and brawls were of hourly occurrence in the city. It was on the occasion of the last night of the old year, which devotees celebrate in the churches and roysterers in the streets. I was returning home after the theatre with some of my friends, about the hour of midnight mass, when, just outside the church of the Madeleine, I saw a young girl standing up against the wall, and prevented from passing on her way by a band of tipsy artisans who surrounded her, calling out, “_A bas_ the aristocrat!”—“Pull off her hood and rub her face in the mud!”—“Down on her knees and make her pray for the _bonnets rouges_!” and other phrases of similar import. You may suppose that was more than I and my friends could stand, and we went at once to her rescue. The poor child caught hold of my arm, crying, “Oh! save me, monsieur; I am no aristocrat. My father is a commoner, and lives but a couple of streets from here.” A few blows and rough words soon dispersed the rioters, and I took the young lady home under my protection. I found that her name was Corinne Duplat, and her father was a man of letters. She was very beautiful——’ ‘Oh yes, I know! You needn’t tell me,’ I interrupted him, impatiently. ‘She was the loveliest creature you had ever seen, and you became enamoured of her at once. You can skip all that! I have heard it so often before.’ The Baron fixed his dark eyes upon me with an expression of the greatest surprise. After all my amiability and interest, he did not know what to make of the sudden change. I suppose I looked as sulky as a bear, for he immediately began to apologise. ‘I felt I should weary mademoiselle. Let me say no more than to thank you for the patience with which you have listened to me.’ But this was not what I wanted. I sat there, biting my lip and feeling very much as if I should cry; whilst Armand de Nesselrode looked deeply annoyed and a little bit wounded. ‘I have abused your goodness,’ he continued, ‘and I shall never forgive myself.’ ‘No, no, monsieur! Do not think so. It was only because I was in such haste to hear the end of the story. Go on about Corinne! She was very beautiful, and you loved her!’ ‘I _thought_ I loved her,’ he corrected me, gently. ‘I was very young and knew no better; I have found out since what true love is.’ ‘Yes, monsieur?’