Besides propinquity, which causes half or perhaps nearly all the love affairs in the world, daily companionship, and the country, are all peculiarly adapted to develope and foster the tender passion. Isolate any two young persons of opposite sexes together in the country for a short season, and if they are passably handsome, and their hearts previously unoccupied, some mysterious principle of animal magnetism will infallibly draw them nearer to each other, and a very decided flirtation, if not an actual passion, will be the result. Thus, in the country, when wandering with a young and pretty companion, she will become all the more interesting, because we see her face and hear her voice alone, without being contrasted with the faces, voices, or manners of others; and surrounded by the blue sky, the bright sunshine, the green fields, or the shady woods, a thousand new charms and graces that were unheeded before will develope themselves. Away from the bustle of towns, camps, and garrisons--away from the glitter, gloss, and buzz of life, our thoughts will run, as it were, all to one focus; imagination gets fuller and freer play, all the impulses of the heart are more joyous and pure; and thus a girl on whom we might scarcely have bestowed a thought had we met her in the bustle of the world, may become a very divinity, enshrined by a halo of such beauty as the eye or fancy of a lover alone can see. But Nicola was charming enough to have attracted attention even amid the court beauties of Louis XIII.; thus it was very natural to expect that I, in whose protection she confided, and on whose friendship and honour she relied, should feel a dangerous interest in her, during our solitary journey through Champagne and Lorraine to the frontiers of France. Alas! I could neither know nor foresee all the bitterness this growing passion, which I so heedlessly fostered, would yet cost my heart. At breakfast, next morning, my attention was attracted by a silver medal which the maitre d'hôtel wore suspended from his neck by a little steel chain. It proved to be one of those struck at Rome by order of Pope Gregory XIII., to eternise the infamous massacre of St. Bartholomew; and as the existence of such a memorial is but little known in my native country, I may as well describe it. It bore the destroying angel, his right hand armed with a sword; his left arm bearing a cross; below him were several figures with their throats cut, and around was this motto: '_Hugonetorwn strages_, 1572.' 'Were you engaged in that scene of blood?' I asked, with a lowering brow. 'Yes, monsieur, in some manner, I was.' 'But that was sixty-three years ago.' 'Well, M. l'Abbé, I am just sixty-three years old.' 'And you were engaged in a massacre when a year old--what a blood thirsty young imp you must have been!'