"Ten thousand devils!" muttered Crauford, as he turned away; "I should have foreseen this! He is lost now. Of course he will again change his name; and in the d--d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of houses, how shall I ever find him out? and time presses too! Well, well, well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer, or, as fools would say, more rascally than others; but there is a world of trouble in winning it. But come; I will go home, lock myself up, and get drunk! I am as melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid; and, faith, one must get spirits in order to hit on a new invention. But if there be consistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or wit in Richard Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim--and preserver!" CHAPTER XLIII. Revenge is now the cud That I do chew.--I'll challenge him. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. We return to "the world of fashion," as the admirers of the polite novel of would say. The noon-day sun broke hot and sultry through half-closed curtains of roseate silk, playing in broken beams upon rare and fragrant exotics, which cast the perfumes of southern summers over a chamber, moderate, indeed, as to its dimensions, but decorated with a splendour rather gaudy than graceful, and indicating much more a passion for luxury than a refinement of taste. At a small writing-table sat the beautiful La Meronville. She had just finished a note, written (how Jean Jacques would have been enchanted) upon paper couleur de rose, with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as one of Cupid's darts, dipped into an ink-stand of the same material, which was shaped as a quiver, and placed at the back of a little Love, exquisitely wrought. She was folding this billet when a page, fantastically dressed, entered, and, announcing Lord Borodaile, was immediately followed by that nobleman. Eagerly and almost blushingly did La Meronville thrust the note into her bosom, and hasten to greet and to embrace her adorer. Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the sofas with a listless and discontented air. The experienced Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud on his brow. "My dear friend," said she, in her own tongue, "you seem vexed: has anything annoyed you?" "No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last night?" "Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, your friend." "My friend!" interrupted Borodaile, haughtily: "he's no friend of mine; a vulgar, talkative fellow; my friend, indeed!" "Well, I beg your pardon: then there was Mademoiselle Caumartin, and the Prince Pietro del Orbino, and Mr. Trevanion, and Mr. Lin--Lin-- Linten, or Linden." "And pray, will you allow me to ask how you became acquainted with Mr. Lin--Lin--Linten, or Linden?" "Assuredly; through the Duke of Haverfield." "Humph! Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit to be the acquaintance of my friend: allow me to strike him from your list."