“You are indebted to Mr. Nivernois for it. He gave me, the other day, a mass of musical manuscripts of his own composition. I picked this out of them, not as being by any means the best, but the most suited for insertion in this play. He has more genius than all the men I have ever seen put together; but he has abandoned composition, because he says it is impossible to beat Bellini. The violin that I played with to-night was presented to him by Paganini, as a mark of his admiration; he gave it to me.” “I wonder that he would part with such a gift,” said Miss Stanhope. “I believe that he gave it to me,” said the other, “lest he should seem to himself to value the tribute of any man.” “What a singular person he must be!” said Miss Stanhope, who had been much struck with his appearance, and greatly interested by the oddness and novelty of his character. The company which had formed Mrs. Althorpe’s _cortège_ at the opera, together with two or three other invited guests, were seated around her small but elegant supper-table. A double circle of wax candles in an _or-molu_ chandelier, which hung over the centre of it, cast their pure white light upon the numerous silver dishes and richly cut glass which covered it. After a little while, Mr. Nivernois strode into the room. He was a small man, and the strides which he made were as long as himself. He took his place in a vacant seat which had been reserved for him, opposite to Miss Stanhope. They were talking about Napoleon. He listened in silence, till a pause occurred. “When nature had finished making the devils,” said he, pouring out for himself a capacious goblet of Chambertin, “it threw together all the rubbish that remained, and out of it formed Napoleon.” Miss Stanhope laughed. “Do you mean that for praise or censure, Mr. Nivernois?”