Now, it fell out that Major D’Orville arrived in the nick of time to save Blanche from further embarrassment, in consequence of his inability, in common with the rest of his fellow-creatures, “to know his own mind.” The Major had got up the _fête_ entirely, as he imagined, with the idea of prosecuting his views against the heiress, and hardly allowed to himself that, in his innermost soul, there lurked a hope that Mrs. Delaval might accompany her former charge, and he might see her _just once more_. Had D’Orville been thoroughly _bad_, he would have been a successful man; as it was, there gleamed ever and anon upon his worldly heart a ray of that higher nature, that nobler instinct, which spoils the villain, while it makes the hero. Mary had pierced the coat-of-mail in which the _roué_ was encased; probably her very indifference was her most fatal weapon. D’Orville really loved her--yes, though he despised himself for the weakness (since weakness it is deemed in creeds such as his), though he would grind his teeth and stamp his foot in solitude, while he muttered, “Fool! fool! to bow down before a woman!” yet the spell was on him, and the chain was eating into his heart. In the watches of the night _her image_ sank into his brain and tortured him with its calm, indifferent smile. In his dreams _she_ bent over him, and her drooping hair swept across his forehead, till the strong man woke, and yearned like a child for a fellow-mortal’s love. But not for him the childlike trust that can repose on human affection. Gaston had eaten of the tree of knowledge, the knowledge of good and evil; much did the evil predominate over the good, and still the galling thought goaded him almost to madness. “Suppose I should gain this woman’s affections--suppose I should sacrifice my every hope to that sweet face, and find her, after all, like the rest of them! Suppose _I_, too, should weary, as I have wearied before of faces well-nigh as fair--hearts even far more kind--is there no green branch on earth? Am I to wander for ever seeking rest and finding none? Am I to be cursed, like a lost spirit, with longings for that happiness which my very nature will not permit me to enjoy? Oh that I were wholly good, or wholly bad! that I could loathe the false excitement and the dazzling charms of vice, or steep my better feelings in the petrifying waters of perdition! I _will_ conquer my weakness. What should I care for this stone-cold governess? I _will_ be free, and this Mrs. Delaval shall discover that _I_ too can be as careless, and as faithless, and as hard-hearted as--_a woman_!” With which laudable and manly resolution our dashing Major proceeded to make the agreeable to his guests, and to lose no opportunity of exchanging glances and mixing in conversation with the very lady he had sworn so stoutly to avoid. But with all his tactics, all his military proficiency in manœuvring, he found it impossible to detach Mary from her party, or to engage her