“Bah! ma belle amie,” cried I, “you deceive yourself--I adore you--I shall always adore you; but it’s getting very late.” Madame D’Anville sighed, and we parted. “She is not half so pretty or agreeable as she was,” thought I, as I mounted my horse, and remembered my appointment at the ambassador’s. I took unusual pains with my appearance that evening, and drove to the ambassador’s hotel in the Rue Faubourg St. Honore, full half an hour earlier than I had ever done before. I had been some time in the rooms without discovering my heroine of the morning. The Duchess of H--n passed by. “What a wonderfully beautiful woman,” said Mr. Howard de Howard (the spectral secretary of the embassy) to Mr. Aberton. “Ay,” answered Aberton, “but to my taste, the Duchesse de Perpignan is quite equal to her--do you know her?” “No--yes!” said Mr. Howard de Howard; “that is, not exactly--not well;” an Englishman never owns that he does not know a duchess. “Hem!” said Mr. Aberton, thrusting his large hand through his lank light hair. “Hem--could one do anything, do you think, in that quarter?” “I should think one might, with a tolerable person!” answered the spectral secretary, looking down at a pair of most shadowy supporters. “Pray,” said Aberton, “what do you think of Miss--? they say she is an heiress.” “Think of her!” said the secretary, who was as poor as he was thin, “why, I have thought of her!” “They say, that fool Pelham makes up to her.” (Little did Mr. Aberton imagine, when he made this remark, that I was close behind him.) “I should not imagine that was true,” said the secretary; “he is so occupied with Madame D’Anville.” “Pooh!” said Aberton, dictatorially, “she never had any thing to say to him.” “Why are you so sure?” said Mr. Howard de Howard. “Why? because he never showed any notes from her, or ever even said he had a liaison with her himself!” “Ah! that is quite enough!” said the secretary. “But, is not that the Duchesse de Perpignan?” Mr. Aberton turned, and so did I--our eyes met--his fell--well they might, after his courteous epithet to my name; however, I had far too good an opinion of myself to care one straw about his; besides, at that moment, I was wholly lost in my surprise and pleasure, in finding that this Duchesse de Perpignan was no other than my acquaintance of the morning. She caught my gaze and smiled as she bowed. “Now,” thought I, as I approached her, “let us see if we cannot eclipse Mr. Aberton.” All love-making is just the same, and, therefore, I shall spare the reader my conversation that evening. When he recollects that it was Henry Pelham who was the gallant, I am persuaded that he will be pretty certain as to the success. VOLUME II. CHAPTER XIX. Alea sequa vorax species certissima furti Non contenta bonis, animum quoque perfida mergit;--Furca, furax--infamis, iners, furiosa, ruina. Petrarch: Dial.