been twice married; once to an Englishwoman, who had been decoyed by the title; by this lady, who died in childbed, he had one son; a fact which he sedulously concealed from the world of Paris by keeping the unhappy boy--who was now some eighteen or nineteen years old--a perpetual exile in England. Monsieur de Vaudemont did not wish to pass for more than thirty, and he considered that to produce a son of eighteen would be to make the lad a monster of ingratitude by giving the lie every hour to his own father! In spite of this precaution the Vicomte found great difficulty in getting a third wife--especially as he had no actual land and visible income; was, not seamed, but ploughed up, with the small-pox; small of stature, and was considered more than un peu bete. He was, however, a prodigious dandy, and wore a lace frill and embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Love’s vis-a-vis was Mr. Birnie, an Englishman, a sort of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry, parchment face, and a remarkable talent for silence. The host himself was a splendid animal; his vast chest seemed to occupy more space at the table than any four of his guests, yet he was not corpulent or unwieldy; he was dressed in black, wore a velvet stock very high, and four gold studs glittered in his shirt-front; he was bald to the crown, which made his forehead appear singularly lofty, and what hair he had left was a little greyish and curled; his face was shaved smoothly, except a close-clipped mustache; and his eyes, though small, were bright and piercing. Such was the party. “These are the best bon-bons I ever ate,” said Mr. Love, glancing at Madame Caumartin. “My fair friends, have compassion on the table of a poor bachelor.” “But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur Lofe,” replied the fair Rosalie, with an arch look; “you who make others marry, should set the example.” “All in good time,” answered Mr. Love, nodding; “one serves one’s customers to so much happiness that one has none left for one’s self.” Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Goupille had pulled one of the bon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle Adele. “I’ve got the motto!--no--Monsieur has it: I’m always unlucky,” said the gentle Adele. The epicier solemnly unrolled the little slip of paper; the print was very small, and he longed to take out his spectacles, but he thought that would make him look old. However, he spelled through the motto with some difficulty:-- “Comme elle fait soumettre un coeur, En refusant son doux hommage, On peut traiter la coquette en vainqueur; De la beauty modeste on cherit l’esclavage.” [The coquette, who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender homage, one may treat as a conqueror: of modest beauty we cherish the slavery.] “I present it to Mademoiselle,” said he, laying the motto solemnly in Adele’s plate, upon a little mountain of chestnut-husks. “It is very pretty,” said she, looking down.