aring
lights dazzle the pained vision until utter darkness would seem
grateful; the merry voices and careless laughter catch a tone of bitter
mockery; the gayly apparelled forms, the faces decked with soulless
smiles, are more oppressive than all the apparitions with which a
fevered imagination can people the gloomiest seclusion. Maurice soon
found the festive scene at the Chateau de Tremazan intolerable, and took
refuge in the illuminated conservatory, the doors of which were thrown
invitingly open. It was mid-summer, but the flowers had been restored to
brighten their winter shelter during the fete. He had thought to find
himself alone; but yonder, bending over richly-tinted clusters of
azaleas and odorous heliotropes, a group of youthful heads unconcernedly
thrust their lifeless chaplets in challenging contrast with nature's
living loveliness, while flowing robes recklessly swept their floral
imitations against her shrinking originals. In a different state of mind
Maurice might not have been struck by the incongruous contact of the
painted semblance with the blushing reality; but now it reminded him too
keenly that the sphere within which he was bound, a social Ixion upon
the petty wheel of conventionalism, was one grand combination of
artificial trivialities and senseless shams. Goaded beyond endurance by
the reflection, he impatiently made his escape into the open air.

Bertha had never mingled with a gay crowd in so joyless a mood. The
presence of the heiress created no little sensation; but good-breeding
kept its manifestation within such delicate limits that she was
unconscious of its existence. She was not even aware that it was a sign
of her own importance when the Marchioness de Fleury glided up to Count
Tristan, on whose arm Bertha was leaning, and, in a softly cadenced
voice, asked if she had not the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle de
Merrivale. In reply, the count presented Bertha. As she returned the
courtesy of the marchioness, she could not help remembering the
declaration of Maurice, that he had never perused the countenance of the
distinguished belle, because his attention was irresistibly riveted upon
the wondrous details of her toilet: for Bertha found her own eyes
involuntarily wandering over the graceful folds of the amethyst velvet,
and the exquisite disposition of the _point de Venise_ by which it was
elaborately ornamented; the artistic head-dress in perfect accordance
with the costly robe, and