little wager. Some foolish girl, who had seen De Lancy on the stage, and who believed him the ideal hero of romance, and was only in too much danger of throwing her heart and fortune at his feet, was to be disenchanted by any stratagem that could be devised. Her parents had intrusted the management of the affair to him, a relation of the lady's. Would I assist him? Would I represent De Lancy, and play a little scene in the Bois de Boulogne, to open the eyes of this silly boarding-school miss—would I, for a consideration? It was only to act a little stage play off the stage, and was for a good cause. I consented; and that evening, at half-past ten o'clock, under the shadow of the winter night and the leafless trees, I———"
"Stop, stop! Signor Mosquetti!" cry the bystanders. "Madame! Madame de Marolles! Water! Smelling-salts! Your flacon, Lady Emily: she has fainted!"
No; she has not fainted; this is something worse than fainting, this convulsive agony, in which the proud form writhes, while the white and livid lips murmur strange and dreadful words.
"Murdered, murdered and innocent! while I, vile dupe, pitiful fool, was only a puppet in the hands of a demon!"
At this very moment Monsieur de Marolles, who has been summoned from the adjoining apartment, where he has been discussing a financial measure with some members of the lower House, enters hurriedly.
"Valerie, Valerie, what is the matter?" he says, approaching his wife.
She rises—rises with a terrible effort, and looks him full in the face.
"I thought, monsieur, that I knew the hideous abyss of your black soul to its lowest depths. I was wrong; I never knew you till to-night."
Imagine such strong language as this in a Belgravian drawingroom, and then you can imagine the astonishment of the bystanders.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Signor Mosquetti hurriedly.
"What?" cried they eagerly.
"That is the very man I have been speaking of."
"That? The Count de Marolles?"
"The man bending over the lady who has fainted."
Petrified Belgravians experience a new sensation—surprise—and rather like it.
Argyle Fitz-Bertram twists his black moustachios reflectively, and mutters—
"So help me, Jupiter, I knew there'd be a row! I shan't have to sing 'Scots wha hae,' and shall be just in time for that little supper at the Café de l'Europe."
