sing the
snow-white hand, very clumsily, too. "I'll tell the fellow my mind
directly--an unprincipled, gambling----"

"Non, non, je vous en prie, monsieur!" cried the widow, really
frightened, for this would not have suited her plans at all. "You would
put me in the power of that unscrupulous man. He would destroy my
reputation at once in his revenge."

"But what am I to do?" said the poor gulled banker. "Nina's a will of
her own, and if she take a fancy to this confounded----"

"Leave that to me," said la baronne, softly. "I have proofs which will
stagger her most obstinate faith in her lover. Meanwhile give him no
suspicion, go to his supper on Tuesday, and--you are asked to Vauvenay,
accept the invitation--and conclude the fiancailles with Monsieur le
Ministre as soon as you can."

"But--but, madame," stammered this new Jourdain to his enchanting
Dorimene, "Vauvenay is an exile. I shall not see you there?"

"Ah, silly man," laughed the widow, "I shall be only two miles off. I am
going to stay with the Salvador; they leave Paris in three weeks.
Listen--your daughter is singing 'The Swallows.' Her voice is quite as
good as Ristori's."

Three hours after, madame held another tete-a-tete in that boudoir. This
time the favored mortal was Vaughan. They had had a pathetic interview,
of which the pathos hardly moved Ernest as much as the widow desired.

"You love me no longer, Ernest," she murmured, the tears falling down
her cheeks--her rouge was the product of high art, and never washed
off--"I see it, I feel it; your heart is given to that English girl. I
have tried to jest about it; I have tried to affect indifference, but I
cannot. The love you once won will be yours to the grave."

Ernest listened, a satirical smile on his lips.

"I should feel more grateful," he said, calmly, "if the gift had not
been given to so many; it will be a great deal of trouble to you to
love us all to our graves. And your new friend Gordon, do you intend
cherishing his grey hairs, too, till the gout puts them under the sod?"

She fell back sobbing with exquisite _abandon_. No deserted Calypso's
_pose_ was ever more effective.

"Ernest, Ernest! that I should live to be so insulted, and by you!"

"Nay, madame, end this vaudeville," said he bitterly. "I know well
enough that you hate me, or why have you troubled yourself to coin the
untruths about me that you whispered to Miss Gordon?"

"Ah! have you no pity for the first mad ven