ese fancies, at first but
fitful and at intervals, became at length so distressing that I was on
the very point of communicating them to my companion, and asking for his
counsel and comfort, when we drove into a small avenue, and then almost
immediately drew up in front of a porch, where, amid a blaze of light,
stood three or four servants in gaudy liveries, awaiting our arrival.

"Well, Paul!" cried a young, fashionable-looking fellow, with a very
imposing black beard, "what success?"

"I 've won,--here he is!" cried my companion. "Have I much time to
spare?"

"Something less than two minutes," said the other, as he coolly surveyed
me through his glass. "Present me, Paul."

"Mons. Alphonse de Langeron--Mons. de Corneille."

"The author of the 'Fancies by Starlight,'" said I, bowing with a most
respectful devotion.

"Guilty, sir! and of fifty other indiscretions to the fall as great,"
said he, laughing.

"Ah, sir, I know it by heart; that stanza on the 'Waled Letty' haunts
me like a dream."

"Sharp fellow, our friend the 'quatorzieme'!" whispered Alphonse to
Paul as we walked along towards the drawing-room.

How I should like to dwell upon the details of that dinner, the most
delightful entertainment of my whole life! It needed not the sudden
transition from the dark and dreary chamber I inhabited to the gilded
saloon, all in a blaze with wax-lights, to make me feel it such. The
"service" was splendid--the cookery perfection--the wines the rarest of
every vintage--the apartment itself had all the chastened grandeur of
a mediaeval chamber, with the gorgeous splendor contributed by a
magnificent beauffet of silver;--and the guests! what beauty and
fascination of female loveliness--what charm of wit and agreeability
among the men! The great damper upon my enjoyment was my actual doubt of
the reality of the whole scene. It was not, alone, that all the splendor
appeared so wonderful--that the glitter of gold and the beauty of
porcelain dazzled the eye; but the very names of the illustrious guests
themselves suggested incredulity. What wonder if I could not credit my
senses, as I heard the first names in all the genius of France on every
side of me! Here, the great historian, and philosopher, and statesman;
there, the delightful lyric poet; yonder, the first novelist of Europe;
and next to him the distinguished painter, whose great battle-piece
was in commemoration of the young Prince beside him, a hero of
"two-an