Seated in the oriel of an apartment in the _Palais du Ministéres des Affaires des Etrangéres_, was a lady clothed in a suit of sables. The year was in its decline, and the melancholy aspect of the external world served to deepen the gloom that sat throned upon the features of the mourner. Ever and anon the hoarse roar of the multitude in the adjacent _place_ swept into the room, as some popular leader vented his oratory; or from the Boulevard below the window, there would ascend the voices of the patriotic artizans, as they repeated in stunning chorus, “Aux armes citoyens, formons nos battaillons Marchons; qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!” She shuddered as these sounds broke upon her ear, and when from the _Place Vendome_ there darted a thousand artificial meteors, aided in effect by the discharge of artillery, she shrouded her face with her hands and wept convulsively. The door was thrown open and a visiter announced, but absorbed in grief she heeded not the tidings. The visiter advanced until within a few feet and paused, as if awaiting her attention, but still she noted not his proximity. “Lady,” murmured the stranger—God of heaven! could it be _his_ voice?—“Duchess of Marmonti, will you not speak to your friend?” _Yes_, those tones were _his_; his whom in her girlhood she had such cause to love and honor, whom in her womanhood she had slighted and defamed. And what did he here? Had he heard of her misfortunes, and was his errand to the wretched that he might triumph in her wretchedness? The passions of her race stirred within her as she caught at this opinion, and throwing back the dishevelled ringlets from her care-worn features she raised her flashing eyes to the face of the speaker; but the saddened look and pitying glance that met her gaze, spoke not joy but sorrow for her misery, and again her head was hidden from her companion's view.