The day after the failure of his tragedy, the Marquise de Guesvillers, an ancient dowager of the Faubourg St. Germain, and his chief _prôneuse_, sent to beg the discomfited author would come dine with her _tête-à-tête_. Ferdinand had a reason now for desiring to explore to the utmost extent the upper regions of society, and he accepted the invitation. The old lady greeted him with a half-benevolent, half-mischievous smile—“My dear child,” said she, when the servant had closed the door, “now that Providence has saved you from becoming an _homme de lettres_, we must try to make something of you. Heaven be praised! pen and ink must have lost its charm for you at last;” (a pinch of snuff,) “it seems your play was as bad as your enemy could wish; Madame de Rouvion was there, and has just told me so—poor dear Hector de Candolles,” (another pinch of snuff,) “if he could have guessed that a great-grandson of his would write a play! But, however, that is over now, and we have only to rejoice that things were no worse: when the recollection of your _aventure_ shall have quite subsided, we will find a wife for you, and settle you in life! Thank Heaven! you are cured of your taste for pen and ink!” and these last words the good lady repeated over and over again in the course of the evening, and each time with remarkable satisfaction. Once or twice Ferdinand was tempted to shake the monotonous little dowager to pieces, and shout in her ear—“Woman! I must _live_ by pen and ink, or starve!” but the remembrance of _the face_ he had seen the night before, froze the words on his tongue, and he submitted to the torture in silence. For months in the _salons_, whither Madame de Guesvillers carried him, he sought out the object of his dreams, but she never appeared, and Ferdinand went on leading _la vie de Bohème_, until hope began almost entirely to fade away. One evening, he had, for the fiftieth time, accepted an invitation to some _soirée_, where his indefatigable patroness insisted upon his going; and he was, as usual, looking on whilst others amused (or fancied they amused) themselves, when the conversation of two ladies near him attracted his attention—he knew not why. “So Blanche Vouvray is come back at last?” said one. “She is coming here to-night,” replied the other.