er fancy that a hero of romance should be found among
your number. Gerard de Stolberg--but, look, here he comes!'

"M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in her
prophecy; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the HERO OF
ROMANCE.

"It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a hero
of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance.

"Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thousand secrets
in the chronicle of the great world: he knew but superficially the
society in which he lived; and, therefore, he devoted his evening to
the gathering of all the information which he could acquire from the
indiscreet conversations of the people about him. His whole man became
ear and memory; so much was Stolberg convinced of the necessity of
becoming a diligent student in this new school, where was taught the art
of knowing and advancing in the great world. In the recess of a window
he learned more on this one night than months of investigation would
have taught him. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the
confidential chatter of a company of idle women. No man present at a
ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to affect
any indulgence for his companions, and the most learned in malice will
always pass for the most witty.

"'How!' said the Viscount de Mondrage: 'the Duchess of Rivesalte arrives
alone to-night, without her inevitable Dormilly!'--And the Viscount, as
he spoke, pointed towards a tall and slender young woman, who, gliding
rather than walking, met the ladies by whom she passed, with a graceful
and modest salute, and replied to the looks of the men BY BRILLIANT
VEILED GLANCES FULL OF COQUETRY AND ATTACK.

"'Parbleu!' said an elegant personage standing near the Viscount de
Mondrage, 'don't you see Dormilly ranged behind the Duchess, in quality
of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his great screen
of moustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good luck?--They call
him THE FOURTH CHAPTER of the Duchess's memoirs. The little Marquise
d'Alberas is ready to die out of spite; but the best of the joke is,
that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent
her spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder; if the
Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him for somebody
else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.'

"'Is he jealous?' asked a young man, looking as if he did not kn