The coming time is filled with things that we know not, and chance calls forth so many unexpected events, that the only way in life is to wait for Fate, and seize the circumstances of the day; by the errors of the past to correct our actions at present, and to leave the future to a wiser judgment and a stronger hand. Madame de Beaumont took no notice of her daughter's melancholy, resolving to be guided in her conduct by approaching circumstances; for clouds were gathering thickly on the political horizon of France, which, like a thunder-storm depending on the fickle breath of the wind, might break in tempests over their head, or be wafted afar, and leave them still in peace. It was one of those still evenings, when the world, as if melancholy at the sun's decline, seems to watch in silence the departure of his latest beams. All had sunk into repose, not a cloud passed over the clear expanse of sky, not a noise was stirring upon earth; and Pauline felt a sensation of quiet, pensive melancholy steal over all her thoughts, harmonizing them with the calmness of the scene, as it lay tranquilly before her, extending far away to the glowing verge of heaven, unawakened by a sound, unruffled by a breath of air. The window at which she sat looked towards St. Denis, where lay the bones of many a race of Kings, who had, in turn, worn that often contested diadem, which to the winner had generally proved a crown of thorns. But her thoughts were not of them. The loss of early hopes, the blight of only love, was the theme on which her mind brooded, like a mother over the tomb of her child. The scene before her--its vast extent--the dying splendour of the sun--the deep pureness of the evening sky--the sublimity of the silence--all wrought upon her mind; and while she thought of all the fairy hopes she had nourished from her youth, while she dreamed, over again, all the dreams she had indulged of one on whose fame, on whose honour, on whose truth, she had fondly, rashly, raised every wish of her future life; and while new-born fears and doubts came sweeping away the whole,--the tears rose glistening in her eyes, and rolled, drop after drop, down her cheeks. "Pauline!" said a voice close behind her. She started, turned towards the speaker, and with an impulse stronger than volition, held out her hand to Claude de Blenau. "Pauline," said he, printing a warm kiss on the soft white hand that he held in his, "dear, beautiful Pauline, we have met at last." From the moment he had spoken, Pauline resolved to believe him as immaculate as any human being ever was since the first meeting of Adam and Eve; but still she wanted him to tell her so. It was not coquetry; but she was afraid that after what she had seen, and what she had heard, she ought not to be satisfied. Common propriety, she thought, required that she should be jealous till such time as he proved to her that she had no right to be so. She turned pale, and red, and drew back her hand without reply.