. She had fancied a long train of fair, young bridemaids, a troop
of fair, fond children strewing flowers; and now it would be quite
different. Still she was content; she was marrying the man whom she
loved more than any one, or anything else in the world.

She had wondered so much why the countess desired the wedding to take
place in Paris. She had even one day ventured to ask her, and Lady
Lanswell answered first by kissing her, then by telling her that it was
best for Lord Chandos. That was quite enough to content the loving
heart, if it were better for him in any way. She did not inquire why.
She would sacrifice any wish or desire of her own.

So the day of the wedding came, and a grand ceremonial it was. The
noblest and most exclusive English in Paris attended it, and everything
was after the wish of Lady Lanswell's heart. There had never been a
fairer or more graceful bride. There had never been a handsomer or more
gallant bridegroom. One thing struck the Countess of Lanswell and made
her remember the day with a keen sense of pain, and it was this: when
the bride retired to change her superb bridal dress for a traveling
costume she had time to notice how white and ill her son looked. He was
one of the most temperate of men; she did not remember that he had ever
in his life been in the least degree the worse for wine, but she saw him
go to the buffet and fill a small glass with strong brandy and drink
it--even that, strong as it was, did not put any color into his face.
Then he came to speak to her. She looked anxiously at him.

"Lance," she said, "I do not like asking you the question--but--have you
really been drinking brandy?"

She never forgot the bitter laugh that came from his lips.

"Yes, I have indeed, mother. It is just as well a glass of poison did
not stand there; I should have drunk it."

She shuddered at the words, and it must be owned they were not cheerful
ones for a wedding-day.

The bride and bridegroom drove away; slippers and rice were thrown after
them. And the pity is that every woman inclined to put faith in the vows
and promises of a man was not there to see how they were kept.

CHAPTER XXXV.

"I LEAVE THEM MY HATRED AND MY CURSE."

Leone was alone when the letter of the Countess of Lanswell was
delivered to her: she had been wondering for some days why no news came
from Lord Chandos--why he did not write. She had written most urgent and
affectionate letters to him, praying