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armed the count, and then whipped out again, without uttering a word. Again it was lord Burton, who had arrived in a carriage and four from London, just in time to assist his cousin. But the edition which mademoiselle , the famous fortune-teller, had of it, was the most credited, which was, that the gentleman in black, who interfered in favour of the Englishman, was no other than the devil; or else how came he in black, when the fashion was “habit de drap bleu, gillet de satin couleur de rose.” To one of her most favourite pupils, of her most favourite class, namely, the coiffeurs de dames, dame Rumour condescended to whisper something like the truth, as he bent his steps from the Rue Filles St. Thomas towards the Rue de Castiglione; and, as fortune would have it, the first door he turned into was that of the baroness de S > into whose dressing-room he was shewnThe coiffeur entered with an important step, and knowing the value of a secret, resolved not to tell it till he was asked “what news?” But the baroness was silent, and quietly placed herself to have her hair dressed. The coiffeur was longer than usual in cutting his paper into the meat triangular pieces fit for curling. But the baroness said not a word. He had even already twisted up three of the beautiful dark brown locks of hair ere the baroness opened her lips. But then, she said—“Arrangez mes cheveux a l’Anglaise;” and that talismanic word Anglaise gave the coiffeur at once an opportunity

resolved:

of telling all he knew. The whole machinery of the world turns upon combinations. The coiffeur at once conceived a train of these combinations, between Anglaise, and Charles Melville, and the duel, and the whole story; and beginning with “Savez vous, madame,” went straight through it, till he wound up the whole with “ cest vrai, je vous assure;” while the baroness sat in mute astonishment, not knowing whether to think it true or false. However, the tale was too interesting to her to admit of delay, and writing a short note to Mr. Melville, she dispatched it instantly to his hotel, while the coiffeur, delighted to see the anxiety he had produced, went on curling her hair, and commenting upon the text, till the baroness was out of all patience at

his tediousness. Charles did not fail to answer the note in person, and that as quickly as possible. The hand of the baroness was clasped in his the moment they met. Her eye ran over his person, as if to see he was uninjured; and though her tongue scarcely did its office in telling him how glad she was to see him safe, her smiles supplied all deficiencies. She made him twice repeat his story his own way—asked a thousand questions in a breath, and vowing that the count de L– should never enter her house again, she congratulated herself that no harm had befallen Charles through her heedlessness. She then demanded

manded how Mr. Wilmot chanced to arrive just at that moment, as he was perfectly unacquainted with the count. “That is easily explained,” replied Charles: “my French servant was waiting below with my carriage. The first words that the count addressed to me were said in a tone and manner that raised his suspicion; and bidding the coachman putup his horses, he followed us into the street, where he contrived to hear all that passed, and amongst the rest, the count's invitation to his apartments, the precise situation of which he had ascertained in gossiping with the count's groom in the court-yard. With this intelligence he flew to Mr. Wilmot, and the event you know.” * Oh, Melville!” said the baroness, “what would it have been, had your friend arrived a moment later I dare not think of it. Surely there is some fatality, that makes me the cause of sorrow to all that I esteem.” It is lucky perhaps that we * 2: , T: ; shall

shall part so soon, or I might see you too miserable, through some fault or misfortune of mine.” “ The only misery I fear,”, replied Charles hastily, “ is to part from you:” and he raised the hand she had given him to the lips from which the confession he had just made had proceeded almost unconsciously. She looked down for a moment in deep thought, without answering; then raising her eyes to his face, she seemed to inquire whether what he said was truth, or a mere empty compliment. She found nothing there to make her doubt him. Charles was infatuated: he forgot every thing else in the world but her, and his countenance plainly shewed all the warmth of his feelings.-" It cannot be!” she replied, in an agitated manner—“it cannot be Melville, I am sure you would not wish to lead me wrong: you would not make me most unhappy.” Charles's arm, while she spoke, had al

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