A very creditable specimen of the old _noblesse_ of France was the Duke, and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Maréchal to Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age, his dark eye seemed to glisten the brighter beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. He had served with distinction as a soldier, and been an ambassador at the court of the Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining the character of a true and loyal gentleman,--a man who could reflect nothing but honor upon the great country he belonged to. It was amongst the scandal of Florence that he was the most devoted of La Contessa's admirers; but we are quite willing to believe that his admiration had nothing in it of love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most marked notice. He was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and the constant visitor at her evenings at home. It was, then, with a degree of favor that many an envious heart coveted, she extended her hand to him as he came forward, which he kissed with all the lowly deference he would have shown to that of his prince. “_Mon cher Duc_” said she, smiling, “I have such a store of grievances to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but verbena.” “Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's.” “Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he to be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?” “Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last.” “_Mais à quoi bon l'Emir_ if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights and the Calif Haroun. By the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus, is it not?” “Of course. I 'd not have dared--” “To be sure not. I told the Archduchess it was. I wore it in my Turkish dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, would n't come to admire me!” “You know what a sad day was that for me, madam,” said he, solemnly. “It was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as she had no rival in undeserved misfortunes.” “_Pauvre Reine!_” sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her face. “What great mass of papers is that you have there, Duke?” resumed she. “Can it be a journal?” “It is an English newspaper, my dear Countess. As I know you do not receive any of his countrymen, I have not asked your permission to present the Lord Selby; but hearing him read out your name in a paragraph here, I carried off his paper to have it translated for me. You read English, don't you?” “Very imperfectly, and I detest it,” said she, impatiently; “but Prince Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige you.” And she turned away her head, in ill humor. “It is here somewhere. _Parbleu_, I thought I marked the place,” muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the Russian. “Is n't that it?” “This is all about theatres,--Madame Pasta and the Haymarket.” “Ah! well, it is lower down; here, perhaps.” “Court news. The Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar--”