Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances Van Huyden, his betrothed wife--six months ago resting on his bosom and whispering "husband" in his ear,--and now--the wife of another? A widow? Or one utterly fallen from all virtue and all hope? CHAPTER X. THE PALACE-HOME. Having thus given the incident from the life of Ernest, as far as possible, in the very words of his MSS., let me continue my history from the hour when, in company with my mother, I left the cottage home of the good clergyman. After the incident just related, nothing in my life can appear strange. I was riding in the carriage with my mother toward New York. "You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank," said she, once more regarding me attentively. "Your form is that of a mature woman, and your carriage (I remarked it as you passed up the garden-walk) excellent. But this country dress will not do. We will do better than all that when we get to town." It was night when the carriage left the avenue and rolled into Broadway. The noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all frightened me. At the same time Broadway brought back a dim memory of my early childhood in Paris. Turning from Broadway, the carriage at length stopped before a lofty mansion, the windows of which were closed from the sidewalk to the roof. "This is your home," said my mother, as she led me from the carriage up the marble steps into the hall where, in the light of a globular lamp, a group of servants in livery awaited us. "Jenkins,"--my mother spoke to an elderly servant in dark livery turned up with red--"let dinner be served in half an hour." Then turning to another servant, not quite so old, but wearing the same livery, she said: "Jones, Miss Van Huyden wishes to take a look at her house before we go to dinner. Take the light and go before us." The servant, holding a wax candle placed in a huge silver candlestick, went before us and showed us the house from the first to the fourth floor. Never before had I beheld such magnificence even in my dreams. I could not restrain ejaculations of pleasure and surprise at every step,--my mother keenly regarding me, sometimes with a faint smile and sometimes with the wrinkle growing deeper between her brows. A range of parlors on the lower floor were furnished with everything that the most extravagant fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth procure. Carpets that gave no echo to the step; sofas and chairs cushioned with velvet and (so it seemed to me) framed in gold; mirrors extending from the ceiling to the floor; pictures, statues, and tables with tops either of marble or ebony; the walls lofty, and the ceiling glowing with a painting which represented Aurora and the Hours winging their way through a summer sky. "Whose picture, mother?" I asked, pointing to a picture of a singularly handsome man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes remarkable at once for their brightness and expression.