“Oh! if you be alone in the world, feel for one like me, who has not even a country he can call his own. Take not the one hope from my heart, I ask you. Leave me the thought that there is one, but one, in all this land, to whom my name, if ever mentioned with praise, can bring one moment's pleasure,--who can say 'I knew him.' Do not forget that Charles, with his dying breath, said you would be my sister.” The door of the _salon_ opened suddenly, and a name was announced, but in my confusion, I heard not what. Madame Bonaparte, however, advanced towards the new arrival with an air of welcome, as she said,-- “We were just wishing for you, general. Pray tell us all the news of Paris.” The person thus addressed was a very tall and singularly handsome man, whose dark eyes, and dark whiskers meeting in the middle of his chin, gave him the appearance of an Italian. He was dressed in a hussar uniform, whose gorgeous braiding of gold was heightened in effect by a blaze of orders and stars that covered the entire breast; the scarlet pantaloons, tight to the leg, displayed to advantage the perfect symmetry of his form; while his boots of yellow morocco, bound and tasselled with gold, seemed the very coquetry of military costume. A sabre, the hilt actually covered with precious stones, clanked at his side, and the aigrette of his plumed hat was a large diamond. There was something almost theatrical in the manner of his approach, as with a stately step and a deep bow he took Madame Bonaparte's hand and kissed it; a ceremony he repeated to Mademoiselle de Meudon, adding, as he did so,-- “And my fair rose de Provence, more beautiful than ever!--how is she?” “What flattery is he whispering, Marie?” said the Consulesse, laughing. “Don't you know, Général, that I insist on all the compliments here being paid to myself. What do you think of my robe? Your judgment is said to be perfect.” “Charming, absolutely charming!” said he, in an attitude of affected admiration. “It is only such taste as yours could have devised anything so beautiful. Yet the roses,--I half think I should have preferred them white.” “You can scarcely imagine that vain fellow with the long ringlets the boldest soldier of the French army,” said the general, in a low whisper, as he drew me to one side. “Indeed! And who is he, then?” “You a hussar, and not know him! Why, Murat, to be sure.” “So, then, Madame, all my news of Monsieur Talleyrand's ball, it seems, is stale already. You 've heard that the russian and Austrian ministers both sent apologies?” “Oh dear!” said she, sighing; “have I not heard it a thousand times, and every reason for it canvassed, until I wished both of their excellencies at--at Madame Lefebvre's dinner-party?” “That was perfect,” cried Murat, aloud; “a regular bivouac in a salon. You'd think that the silver dishes and the gilt candelabras had just been captured from the enemy, and that the cuisine was made by beat of drum.”