"Arbuthnot, would you like to go with me to-morrow evening to one or two _soirées_?" "Can your Civilizer provide me with my evening suit in time?" "He? The great Michaud? Why, he would equip you for this evening, if it were necessary!" "In that case, I shall be very glad." "_Bon!_ I will call for you at ten o'clock; so do not forget to leave me your address." Whereupon he resumed his letter. When it was written, he returned to the subject. "Then I will take you to-morrow night," said he, "to a reception at Madame Rachel's. Hers is the most beautiful house in Paris. I know fifty men who would give their ears to be admitted to her _salons_." Even in the wilds of Saxonholme I had heard and read of the great _tragedienne_ whose wealth vied with the Rothschilds, and whose diamonds might have graced a crown. I had looked forward to the probability of beholding her from afar off, if she was ever to be seen on the boards of the Theatre Français; but to be admitted to her presence--received in her house--introduced to her in person ... it seemed ever so much too good to be true! Dalrymple smiled good-naturedly, and put my thanks aside. "It is a great sight," said he, "and nothing more. She will bow to you--she may not even speak; and she would pass you the next morning without remembering that she had ever seen you in her life. Actresses are a race apart, my dear fellow, and care for no one who is neither rich nor famous." "I never imagined," said I, half annoyed, "that she would take any notice of me at all. Even a bow from such a woman is an event to be remembered." "Having received that bow, then," continued Dalrymple, "and having enjoyed the ineffable satisfaction of returning it, you can go on with me to the house of a lady close by, who receives every Monday evening. At her _soirées_ you will meet pleasant and refined people, and having been once introduced by me, you will, I have no doubt, find the house open to you for the future." "That would, indeed, be a privilege. Who is this lady?" "Her name," said Dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the little note upon his desk, "is Madame de Courcelles. She is a very charming and accomplished lady." I decided in my own mind that Madame de Courcelles was the writer of that note. "Is she married?" was my next question. "She is a widow," replied Dalrymple. "Monsieur de Courcelles was many years older than his wife, and held office as a cabinet minister during the greater part of the reign of Louis Phillippe. He has been dead these four or five years." "Then she is rich?" "No--not rich; but sufficiently independent." "And handsome?" "Not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating."