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distances groups of crocuses and hyacinths were putting forth their early blossoms. On looking at the tombstone, he found that it was dedicated to the memory of an amiable wife, and eighteen years had passed since the moment it was placed there. After passing through the farther parts of the cemetery, he returned to look at it again, but was deterred from approaching, by observing an old man in mourning leaning against the monument. There was another plain marble obelisk, marked simply with the name Julie; and round the fence which enclosed it, a young offi. cer, with several orders at his breast, was engaged in binding a fresh wreath of flowers. Perhaps it was the tomb of a sister he was adorning; perhaps of one still dearer: but on seeing strangers coming near, he snatched up his hat that lay beside him, and passed quickly amongst the surrounding monuments.

A moment or two after, Charles's eye fell upon the figure of a man whose countenance he instantly remembered.—“Good God !” exclaimed he, “that is the man who attacked my cousin at Ilfracombe;" and was starting forward to seize him, when Mr. Wilmot staggered, caught his arm for support, and pressing his hand before his eyes—“: Oh Heaven!” he cried, “ what is it that I see?” But the figure was gone in a moment; and Mr. Wilmot, looking round, appeared to recover him. self, attributing his faintness to some ordinary cause.


Charles's curiosity was considerably roused, but he did not choose to ask any. questions that might give pain to one to whom he was so much indebted. Mr. Wilmot, however, immediately proposed to return home, and on arriving at their hotel, betook himself to his own apartment, where he remained till dinner.

In the mean time, as Charles was sitting by himself, the count de L- was announced: he shook hands frankly with the young Englishman, and again apolo

gized for his conduct of the evening before—“ But the truth is,” added he, “ I was irritated against you before I went to the hotel of the baroness.”

Charles laughed, and replied, that he could not tell on what account, as he had scarcely been long enough in Paris to give offence to any one.

“ You have certainly been long enough here to make some one your enemy,” replied the count; “ for yesterday, when on duty at the Tuileries, a noté was put into my hand, informing me of your engagement with the baroness (to whom I am known to have paid my court), adding at the same time, that your rivalry with me did not proceed from any sentiment towards the lady, but merely for the vanity of supplanting me. It described you as the cousin of lord Burton, and told me the very day of your arrival in Paris.”

Charles's face must have expressed his astonishment. " It is very true," continued the count,

“ I can

“ I can assure you; and farther, it informed me that the baroness was not insensible to your suit, which, when I came in the evening, I plainly perceived to be true.”

“ Indeed!” interrupted Mr. Melville. “ On that point you are very much mistaken: the precise extent of the insinuation I do not understand; but let me as sure you, that the baroness has merely received me as a common acquaintance."

« C'est possible," replied the count, with the utmost indifference : " but that is what the note said." .“ Is it in French or English ?" demanded Charles.

« Oh, French, to be sure,” he answered, se and very good French too: I can shew it to you;" and he took out his pocketbook to search for it. He soon found it, after turning over half a dozen notes of different descriptions, and handed it to Charles, who found it exactly as he had described it. But one thing he remarked, which was, that the hand in which it was


written was not a French one: it was one of which he had no remembrance whatever, but certainly English. The count agreed in this observation, and endeavoured to suggest some clue by which Charles might guess who it was that had written it, but in vain. He had communicated his invitation to dine with the baroness to none, and the only supposition be could form was, that the engagement which had been made as he got out of the carriage, had been heard by some one passing. He then remembered, that in turning to enter the hotel, somebody had pushed roughly against him. · But how they could be acquainted with his name and circumstances, or for what purpose they could wish to injure him, he could not divine.

“ C'est bien drole,” said the count. “ C'est bien drole," echoed Charles.

“ But after all," continued the Frenchman," it is these things that give a zest to life: they amuse and interest us while


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