t Briggs and Rumble
can supply, it is not in Lynch's best cushioned chariot that the heart
is most at ease. "Que je me ruinerai," says Fronsac in a letter to
Bossuet, "si je savais ou acheter le bonheur!"

With all her riches, with all her splendor, Amethyst was
wretched--wretched, because lonely; wretched, because her loving heart
had nothing to cling to. Her splendid mansion was a convent; no male
person even entered it, except Franklin Fox, (who counted for nothing,)
and the duchess's family, her kinsman old Lord Humpington, his friend
old Sir John Fogey, and her cousin, the odious, odious Borodino.

The Prince de Borodino declared openly that Amethyst was engaged to
him. Crible de dettes, it is no wonder that he should choose such an
opportunity to refaire sa fortune. He gave out that he would kill any
man who should cast an eye on the heiress, and the monster kept his
word. Major Grigg, of the Lifeguards, had already fallen by his hand at
Ostend. The O'Toole, who had met her on the Rhine, had received a ball
in his shoulder at Coblentz, and did not care to resume so dangerous a
courtship. Borodino could snuff a bougie at a hundred and fifty yards.
He could beat Bertrand or Alexander Dumas himself with the small-sword:
he was the dragon that watched this pomme d'or, and very few persons
were now inclined to face a champion si redoutable.

Over a salmi d'escargot at the "Coventry," the dandies whom we
introduced in our last volume were assembled, there talking of the
heiress; and her story was told by Franklin Fox to Lord Bagnigge, who,
for a wonder, was interested in the tale. Borodino's pretensions
were discussed, and the way in which the fair Amethyst was confined.
Fitzbattleaxe House, in Belgrave Square, is--as everybody knows--the
next mansion to that occupied by Amethyst. A communication was made
between the two houses. She never went out except accompanied by the
duchess's guard, which it was impossible to overcome.

"Impossible! Nothing's impossible," said Lord Bagnigge.

"I bet you what you like you don't get in," said the young Marquis of
Martingale.

"I bet you a thousand ponies I stop a week in the heiress's house before
the season's over," Lord Bagnigge replied with a yawn; and the bet was
registered with shouts of applause.

But it seemed as if the Fates had determined against Lord Bagnigge, for
the very next day, riding in the Park, his horse fell with him; he
was carried home to his house with