ill here that she revelled, as in a charmed existence,--here sought
the inspirations that quickened her spirit to its proudest darings, and
nerved her heart for efforts almost beyond human strength.

I had but to see her for a moment in the midst of this adulation to
comprehend the whole history of her life. The poet brought his verses,
the musician his strains, the sculptor laid his own image of herself at
her feet; the most rapturous verses, the most polished flatteries, met
her as she entered. Mademoiselle Mars herself swelled the chorus of
these praises, and seemed prouder in the triumphs of her _protegee_ than
she had ever been in her own. Margot accepted all this homage as a queen
might have done. She received it as a tribute that was due, and of
which none dared to defraud her. Shall I own that if at first a modest
humility and a girlish diffidence had been more gratifying to me to
witness, yet, as the hours wore on, not only had I accustomed myself
to bear with, but I actually felt myself joining in that same spirit of
adulation which seemed so meetly offered at this shrine?

What sad repinings, what terrible self-reproaches come over me as I
write these lines! My thoughts all turn to the very darkest, and yet
the most brilliant, moment of my life: the brightest in all its actual
splendor and delight,--the gloomiest in its dreary memory! Lest these
fancies should master me, I will pursue my story rapidly, coldly,
apathetically, if I may. I will not suffer a word, if I can help it,
to escape me that may unman me for my task, now all but completed. I
suppose that no man can write of himself without becoming more or less
his own apologist. Even in his self-accusings there will be mingled a
degree of commiseration, and his judgments will be found tempered
with merciful considerations. I would that I were capable of something
better, bolder, and more manly than this. I would that others might
learn of my "short-comings," and be taught by my "over-reachings"! But
though I cannot point the moral, I will tell the tale.

Margot--it was the caprice of the moment--presented me to the society
as her cousin. I was the Chevalier de Bertin, of good family and ample
fortune. "Passionne pour les arts," as she said, "and the devoted
slave of genius." The introduction was well calculated to insure me a
favorable reception; and so it proved. I was at once admitted into all
the masonry of the craft. The "coulisses" of every theatre