f
Parisian society, but into that far more seductive one which consisted
of her most intimate friends. Here she met all that boasted of artistic
excellence in the capital,--the brilliant dramatist, the witty reviewer
of the "Debats," the great actor,--it was Talma in those days,--the
prima donna who was captivating all Europe, and a host of lesser
celebrities, all brimful of spirits, joy, and gayety, as people with
whom the world went well, and whose very business in it was that of
pleasure and amusement. I need not trace the course by which Margot grew
to a perfect infatuation with such company. Wiser and calmer heads than
hers have been unable to resist the charms of a society made up of such
elements, nor was she herself to pass without admiration from them.
Her beauty and her youth, the mingled gentleness and energy of her
temperament, her girlish modesty, blended with a highly-wrought
enthusiasm, were exactly the qualities which they could value and
appreciate.

"What gifts for the stage!" said one of the greatest amongst them, one
night; "if Mademoiselle was not a Marchioness, she might be a Mars."

"But I am going to be a nun," said she, innocently; and a joyous burst
of laughter received the speech. "It is quite true," said she, "and most
unkind of you to laugh at me."

"By Saint Denis, I'll go and turn Trappist or Carmelite to-morrow,"
cried one, "if only to pay you a visit in your convent."

"I wish they'd accept me as almoner to your cloister, Mademoiselle,"
said Breslot, the comedian; "I'm getting tired of serious parts, and
would like a little light business."

"Am I the style of thing for a superior, think ye?" said Jossard, the
life of the "Francais," throwing over his head a lace scarf of one of
the ladies, and assuming a demure look of indescribable drollery.

"How I should like to hear Mademoiselle recite those lines in your play
of 'Cecile,' Monsieur Bertignac," said a famous actress of tragedy. "Her
face, figure, voice, and air are perfect for them. I mean the farewell
the novice takes of her sister as day is just breaking, and the distant
bells of the cloister announce the approach of the ceremony."

"Where's the book?--who has it?" called out three or four together.

"The copies have been all seized by the police," said one. "Bertignac
was suspected of a covert satire on the authorities."

"Or they have been bought up for distribution by the Society of 'Bons
Livres,'" said another; "and B