breath which a literary man
respires is hot with hatred, and the youthful proselyte enters that
career which seems to him so glittering, even as Dame Pliant's brother
in the 'Alchemist' entered town,--not to be fed with luxury, and diet on
pleasure, but 'to learn to quarrel and live by his wits.'"

The play was now nearly over. With great gravity Lord Bolingbroke
summoned one of the principal actors to his box, and bespoke a play for
the next week; leaning then on my arm, he left the theatre. We hastened
to his home, put on our disguises, and, without any adventure worth
recounting, effected our escape and landed safely at Calais.

CHAPTER IV.

PARIS.--A FEMALE POLITICIAN AND AN ECCLESIASTICAL ONE.--SUNDRY OTHER
MATTERS.

THE ex-minister was received both at Calais and at Paris with the
most gratifying honours: he was then entirely the man to captivate
the French. The beauty of his person, the grace of his manner, his
consummate taste in all things, the exceeding variety and sparkling
vivacity of his conversation, enchanted them. In later life he has grown
more reserved and profound, even in habitual intercourse; and attention
is now fixed to the solidity of the diamond, as at that time one was too
dazzled to think of anything but its brilliancy.

While Bolingbroke was receiving visits of state, I busied myself in
inquiring after a certain Madame de Balzac. The reader will remember
that the envelope of that letter which Oswald had brought to me at
Devereux Court was signed by the letters C. de B. Now, when Oswald
disappeared, after that dreadful night to which even now I can scarcely
bring myself to allude, these initials occurred to my remembrance, and
Oswald having said they belonged to a lady formerly intimate with my
father, I inquired of my mother if she could guess to what French
lady such initials would apply. She, with an evident pang of jealousy,
mentioned a Madame de Balzac; and to this lady I now resolved to address
myself, with the faint hope of learning from her some intelligence
respecting Oswald. It was not difficult to find out the abode of one
who in her day had played no inconsiderable role in that 'Comedy
of Errors,'--the Great World. She was still living at Paris: what
Frenchwoman would, if she could help it, live anywhere else? "There are
a hundred gates," said the witty Madame de Choisi to me, "which lead
into Paris, but only two roads out of it,--the convent, or (odious
word!) the grave