“Will nothing give her pleasure? not even her lover’s heroism?” inquired Susan of herself, as she watched the colorless, motionless face of her mistress. “Do not confine yourself to this room with me, my girl. Get your bonnet and take a walk—only be discreet, keep to the back streets, and the shady side, and do not raise your vail. Go, Susan,” said the lady, considerate of her attendant’s welfare. “Thank you, dear madam, but I have no desire to do so. Besides, I have not told you all.” “I think you have, my child: pray do not recur to the subject, my Susan,” said the lady, wearily. “But, mistress, dear, this event that I have to tell you, so nearly, so vitally, concerns yourself.” The lady mournfully, incredulously, shook her head. “Let me tell you, madam: indeed, I have it upon my conscience to tell you. I should have told you before, but I was afraid to divulge it suddenly, lest I should do you an injury; and every time I approached the subject gradually, you repelled me and repelled me. Oh, it was as if a drowning lady had waived off, and waived off the life-boat that was coming to save her. And besides there are some names that you will never endure to hear uttered in your presence.” “Susan, memory is a rack; and I—seek forgetfulness—as if that were possible, great Heaven!” “Mistress, may I speak?” “Go on.” “Monsieur Victoire L’Orient——” “HOLD!” cried Lady Montressor, starting and then sinking back in the corner of her chair, collapsed, cowering, shuddering, as if that name had been a musket-shot sent through her bosom. “IS NO MORE,” persisted Susan, following up the shrinking form of her mistress, and speaking close to her ear—“is no more, do you hear, lady? is dead, drowned, buried in the sea.” Lady Montressor lifted a pale, wild, incredulous face to the speaker. “Yes, dead, drowned, buried in the sea,” repeated the girl, emphatically. Lady Montressor changed neither attitude nor expression, but remained gazing almost fiercely upon the speaker. “In a word, madam, he was lost on the Mercury.” “Why, so he was on the ‘Duke of Anjou,’” said the lady, in a strange, ironical tone. “I know; but this time, lady, he was drowned.” “So he was before. He does not mind it, Susan: it does not affect him in the least,” said Estelle, incredulously. “Madam, drowning certainly disagreed with him this time.” “I think it will be found that he is well and hearty, Susan.” “Oh, I see you don’t believe it. But there is a full account of the whole affair in the Baltimore American.” “Why, so there was of the other affair in the London Times—a reliable paper, Susan: yet you know the result.”