“Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of _me_, and very wrong of _you_ to tell me of it. But dear me! is it so late? can it really be three o’clock?” “I am a quarter past; but I think we must both be fast. You are going out?” “A mere drive in the Champs Elysées, where I shall pay a few visits and be back to dinner. Will you dine with us?” “I pray you to excuse me--don’t forget I am a sick man.” “Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?” “I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to take the volume of Balzac away with me.” “Oh, to be sure! But we have some others, much newer. You know ‘Le Recherche de l’Absolu’, already?” “Yes; but I like ‘Eugénie’ still better. It was an old taste of mine, and as you quoted a proverb a few moments ago, let me give you another as trite and as true,-- ‘On revient toujours.’” “‘A ses premières amours,’” said she, finishing; while with a smile, half playful, half sad, she turned toward the window, and I retired noiselessly, and without an adieu. Heigho! how nervous and irritable I feel! The very sight of that handsome barouche that has driven from the hôtel, with its beautiful occupant lying listlessly back among the cushions, has set my heart a-beating far far too hurriedly. How is it that the laws that govern material nature are so inoperative in ours, and that a heart that never felt can make another feel? Heaven knows! It is not love; even my first passion, perhaps, little merited the name: but now, reading her as worldliness as taught roe to do-seeing how little relation exists between attractions and fascinations of the very highest order and any real sentiment, any true feeling--knowing how “Life” is her idol, how in that one idea is comprised all that vanity, self-love, false pride, and passion can form,--how is it that she, whom I recognise thus, that _she_ can move me? There is nothing so like a battle as a sham fight in a review. CHAPTER II. I must leave Paris at once. The weather is intolerably hot; the leaves that were green ten days ago already are shewing symptoms of the sear and yellow. Is it in compliment to the august inhabitant of the palace that the garden is so _empressé_ to turn its coat? Shame on my ingratitude to say so! for I find that his Majesty has sent me a card of invitation to dine on Friday next. Another reason for a hurried departure! Of all moderate endurances, I know of none to compare with a dinner at the Tuileries. “Stay!--halt!” cries Memory; “I’ll tell you of one worse again--a dinner at Neuilly!”