“Alas, Monsieur le Vicomte! can you flatter yourself that you will regain the society you have quitted, and the name you have--” Louvier stopped short; something in the Vicomte’s eye daunted him. “The name I have laid aside for convenience of travel. Princes travel incognito, and so may a simple gentilhomme. ‘Regain my place in society,’ say you? Yes; it is not that which troubles me.” “What does?” “The consideration whether on a very modest income I can be sufficiently esteemed for myself to render that society more pleasant than ever. Ah, mon cher! why recoil? why so frightened? Do you think I am going to ask you for money? Have I ever done so since we parted; and did I ever do so before without repaying you? Bah! you roturiers are worse than the Bourbons. You never learn or unlearn. ‘Fors non mutat genus.’” The magnificent millionaire, accustomed to the homage of grandees from the Faubourg and lions from the Chaussee d’Antin, rose to his feet in superb wrath, less at the taunting words than at the haughtiness of mien with which they were uttered. “Monsieur, I cannot permit you to address me in that tone. Do you mean to insult me?” “Certainly not. Tranquillize your nerves, reseat yourself, and listen,--reseat yourself, I say.” Louvier dropped into his chair. “No,” resumed the Vicomte, politely, “I do not come here to insult you, neither do I come to ask money; I assume that I am in my rights when I ask Monsieur Louvier what has become of Louise Duval?” “Louise Duval! I know nothing about her.” “Possibly not now; but you did know her well enough, when we two parted, to be a candidate for her hand. You did know her enough to solicit my good offices in promotion of your suit; and you did, at my advice, quit Paris to seek her at Aix-la-Chapelle.” “What! have you, Monsieur de Mauleon, not heard news of her since that day?” “I decline to accept your question as an answer to mine. You went to Aix-la-Chapelle; you saw Louise Duval, at my urgent request she condescended to accept your hand.” “No, Monsieur de Mauleon, she did not accept my hand. I did not even see her. The day before I arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle she had left it,--not alone,--left it with her lover.” “Her lover! You do not mean the miserable Englishman who--” “No Englishman,” interrupted Louvier, fiercely. “Enough that the step she took placed an eternal barrier between her and myself. I have never even sought to hear of her since that day. Vicomte, that woman was the one love of my life. I loved her, as you must have known, to folly, to madness. And how was my love requited? Ah! you open a very deep wound, Monsieur le Vicomte.” “Pardon me, Louvier; I did not give you credit for feelings so keen and so genuine, nor did I think myself thus easily affected by matters belonging to a past life so remote from the present. For whom did Louise forsake you?” “It matters not; he is dead.” “I regret to hear that; I might have avenged you.”