essively knowing and fully up to all the wiles and
snares of the metropolis. In reality he was exceedingly raw, was
victimised accordingly, and, at the end of a few months in town, found
himself minus a sum that brought reflection, I suspect, even to his
giddy head. I conjectured so, at least, when, at the end of the
season, I encountered him on a Boulogne steamer, looking fagged and
out of spirits. It was only a year since we had met at Harleigh Hall,
but that year had told upon him. Dissipation had driven the flush of
health from his cheek, and his youthful brow was already care-loaded.
I spoke to him, and made an attempt to converse; but he seemed sulky
and unwilling; and, on reaching Boulogne, I lost sight of him. After a
short tour, I went to winter at Paris, and there I frequently saw him.
He had forgotten, apparently, the annoyances that weighed on him when
he left London, and was again the gayest of the gay; living as if his
purse were bottomless, and his _Gibus_ the wishing cap of Fortunatus.
Nothing was too hot or too strong for him: rated a "fast man" in
England, in France he was held a _viveur enrage_. I did not much
admire the society he selected. I saw him alternately with the most
_roue_ and dissolute young Frenchmen of fashion, and with an English
set which, if it comprised men against whom nothing positively bad
could be proved, also included others whose reputation was more than
doubtful. At first he was chiefly with the French, whose language,
from long residence in the country when a boy, he spoke as one of
themselves; then he seemed to abandon them for the English clique, and
then he suddenly disappeared. I no longer saw him pacing the Boulevard
or riding in the Bois, or issuing at night from the Cafe Anglais,
flushed with wine and bent on riotous debauch. All his former
companions remained, pursuing their old amusements, frequenting the
same haunts; but he was no more with them. I could not understand his
leaving Paris just as the best season commenced, and at first I
supposed him ill. But week after week slipped by, and, no Oakley
appearing, I made up my mind he had departed, whither I knew not. I
was rather vexed at this, for I had proposed watching him to the end
of his career. Moreover, although we never spoke, and had almost left
off bowing, my idle habit of observing his proceedings had given me a
sort of interest in him. Once only, after his eclipse, did I fancy I
caught a glimpse of him. I w