nthorpe.

The whole fabric in which I had been living for weeks past fell at once
to the ground; all the illusions of my daily existence were suddenly
swept away; and there I stood in presence of my own heart,--a poor
bankrupt pretender, without one to know or acknowledge him!

I hastened to my room and sat down, for some minutes actually
overwhelmed by the chaotic flood of thought that now poured through my
brain. Very little calm consideration would have shown me that my real
condition in life had undergone no change, that I stood precisely as I
had done the day before,--a ruined, houseless adventurer! With a little
reflection, too, it is not impossible I might have congratulated
myself that my separation had not been brought about by any disgraceful
discovery of my actual rank in life, and that I had escaped the
humiliation of an exposure. These thoughts came later; for the moment
all was sadness and gloomy depression.

The waiter entered to say that the carriage Monsieur had ordered was at
the door, and it took me some minutes to recall my mind to the fact,
and to remember that I had ordered a carriage to convey us to the
restaurant. "Be it so," said I to myself, "let us play out the comedy;"
and with this resolve I proceeded to dress myself for dinner with all
the elegance I could bestow on my toilet.

Had I been about to dine at court, I could not have been more
particular. My sabot and ruffles were of the finest "Valenciennes;" my
vest was white satin, richly embroidered with gold; and the hilt of my
sword glittered with marqueseta and turquoise. I took a look at myself
in the glass, and almost started back as I saw the contrast between
this finery of my apparel and the haggard expression of my features;
for though my cheek was flushed and my eyes sparkled, my mouth was drawn
down, and my thin, parched lips denoted fever. There was that in my
looks that actually scared myself.

"To the Fleur-de-Pois," said I, throwing myself back in the carriage;
and away we drove along the crowded Boulevard, many an eye turned on
the foppish figure that lounged so elegantly in his carriage, never
suspecting the while what the tone of his thoughts at that moment was,
and that he was gravely canvassing within himself the strange stories
that would circulate on the morrow, should his body be taken up in the
"Filets de St. Cloud." True was it, the dark and muddy Seine, the
cold, fast-flowing river, was never out of my thoughts.