t that the tiger is
only waiting for his spring. As to a thought of true liberty, one single
high and noble aspiration after freedom, they never dreamed of it.

"You see, my friend, I have no desire to win you over to the Bourbon
cause; neither, if I could, would I make you a Jacobin. But how is
this? Can it really be so late? Come, we have no time to lose: it is not
accounted good breeding to be late in a visit at the Faubourg."

CHAPTER XIX. THE TWO SOIREES

Duchesne's story had unfortunately driven all memory of Bubbleton out of
my head; and it was only as we entered the street where the Duchesse de
Montserrat lived that I remembered my friend, and thought of asking the
chevalier's advice about him.

In a few words I explained so much of his character and situation as was
necessary, and was going on to express my fears lest a temperament so
unstable and uncertain should involve its possessor in much trouble,
when Duchesne interrupted me by saying,--

"Be of courage on that head. Your friend, if the man you describe him,
is the very person to baffle the police. They can see to any depth, if
the water be only clear; muddy it, and it matters little how shallow it
be. This Bubbleton might be of the greatest service just now; you must
present me to him, Burke."

"Most willingly. But first promise that you will not involve my poor
friend in the snares of any plot. Heaven knows, his own faculties are
quite sufficient for his mystification."

"Plot! snares!--why, what are you thinking of? But come, this is our
halting-place; and here we are, without my even having a moment to give
you any account of my good aunt."

As he spoke he turned the handle of a large door, which led into a
gloomy _porte cochere_, dimly illuminated by a single old-fashioned
lantern. A fat, unwieldy-looking porter peeped at us from his den in the
conciergerie; and then, having announced our approach by ringing a bell,
he closed the shutter, and left us to find the way ourselves.

Ascending the great spacious stair, the wall alongside which was covered
with family portraits,--grim-looking heroes in mail, or prim dames with
bouquets in their jewelled hands,--we reached a species of gallery, from
which several doors led off. Here a servant, dressed in deep black, was
standing to announce the visitors.

As the servant preceded us along the corridor, I could not help feeling
the contrast of this gloomy mansion, where every footstep had its ow