Monsieur de Chatenoeuf, let us go and see who are these
new comers."

And with these words, he turned away, leaning familiarly upon my
brother's arm, and left me to collect myself, and recover from the
perturbation of my feelings as well and as soon as I could; which was
not perhaps the more quickly that I had easily recognised in the new
arrival, the person of the Count de Chavannes.

I have entered perhaps more fully into the detail of my sentiments at
this period of my life, for two reasons--one, because of an eventful
life, this was upon the whole the most eventful moment--the other, that
having hitherto recorded facts and actions rather than feelings or
principles, I am conscious that I have represented myself as a somewhat
harder and more worldly person, than I feel myself in truth to be.

But the hardness and the worldliness were produced, if they existed at
all, by the hardness of the circumstances into which I was thrown, and
the worldliness of the persons with whom I was brought into contact.

Adversity had hardened my character, and perhaps in some sort my heart
also. At least, it had aroused my pride to the utmost, had set me as it
were upon the defensive, and led me to regard every stranger with
suspicion, and to look in him for a future enemy.

Good fortune had, however, altered all this. All who had been my
enemies, who had injured, or misrepresented me, were disarmed, or
subdued, or repentant; I had forgiven all the world--was at peace with
all the world. I had achieved what to me was a little competence; I was
loved and esteemed by those whom I could in return love and esteem, and
of whose regard I could be honestly proud. I had recovered my brother--
I still hoped to be reconciled to my parents--and--and--why should I
conceal it--I was beginning to think it by far less improbable that I
should one day marry--in a word, I was beginning to like, if not yet to
love.

All these things had been by degrees effecting a change in my thoughts
and feelings. I had been gradually thawing, and was now completely
melted, so that I felt the necessity of being alone--of giving way--of
weeping.

I went to my own chamber, threw myself on my bed, and wept long, and
freely.

But these were not tears of agony such as I shed when I first learned
Madame d'Albret's cruel conduct towards me--nor tears of injured pride
such as Madame Bathurst had forced from me, by her effort to humiliate
me in my own eyes--nor