“It is true. Madame de Merville, whose failing was pride, was known more than once to have bought off the matrimonial inclinations of the amorous vicomte. Suddenly there appeared in her circles a very handsome young man. He was presented formally to her friends as the son of the Vicomte de Vaudemont by his second marriage with an English lady, brought up in England, and now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some scandal was circulated--” “Sir,” interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very gravely, “the scandal was such as all honourable men must stigmatise and despise--it was only to be traced to some lying lackey--a scandal that the young man was already the lover of a woman of stainless reputation the very first day that he entered Paris! I answer for the falsity of that report. But that report I own was one that decided not only Madame de Merville, who was a sensitive--too sensitive a person, but my friend young Vaudemont, to a marriage, from the pecuniary advantages of which he was too high-spirited not to shrink.” “Well,” said Lord Lilburne, “then this young De Vaudemont married Madame de Merville?” “No,” said Liancourt somewhat sadly, “it was not so decreed; for Vaudemont, with a feeling which belongs to a gentleman, and which I honour, while deeply and gratefully attached to Madame de Merville, desired that he might first win for himself some honourable distinction before he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so much higher had aspired in vain. I am not ashamed,” he added, after a slight pause, “to say that I had been one of the rejected suitors, and that I still revere the memory of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, therefore, was to have entered my regiment. Before, however, he had joined it, and while yet in the full flush of a young man’s love for a woman formed to excite the strongest attachment, she--she---” The Frenchman’s voice trembled, and he resumed with affected composure: “Madame de Merville, who had the best and kindest heart that ever beat in a human breast, learned one day that there was a poor widow in the garret of the hotel she inhabited who was dangerously ill--without medicine and without food--having lost her only friend and supporter in her husband some time before. In the impulse of the moment, Madame de Merville herself attended this widow--caught the fever that preyed upon her--was confined to her bed ten days--and died as she had lived, in serving others and forgetting self.--And so much, sir, for the scandal you spoke of!” “A warning,” observed Lord Lilburne, “against trifling with one’s health by that vanity of parading a kind heart, which is called charity. If charity, mon cher, begins at home, it is in the drawing-room, not the garret!” The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, bit his lip, and was silent.