of the town."

"Ten thousand devils!" muttered Crauford, as he turned away; "I should
have foreseen this! He is lost now. Of course he will again change
his name; and in the d--d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of
houses, how shall I ever find him out? and time presses too! Well, well,
well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer, or, as fools would say,
more rascally than others; but there is a world of trouble in winning
it. But come; I will go home, lock myself up, and get drunk! I am as
melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid; and, faith, one
must get spirits in order to hit on a new invention. But if there be
consistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or wit in Richard
Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim--and preserver!"

CHAPTER XLIII.

Revenge is now the cud
That I do chew.--I'll challenge him.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

We return to "the world of fashion," as the admirers of the polite novel
of would say. The noon-day sun broke hot and sultry through half-closed
curtains of roseate silk, playing in broken beams upon rare and fragrant
exotics, which cast the perfumes of southern summers over a chamber,
moderate, indeed, as to its dimensions, but decorated with a splendour
rather gaudy than graceful, and indicating much more a passion for
luxury than a refinement of taste.

At a small writing-table sat the beautiful La Meronville. She had just
finished a note, written (how Jean Jacques would have been enchanted)
upon paper couleur de rose, with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as one of
Cupid's darts, dipped into an ink-stand of the same material, which was
shaped as a quiver, and placed at the back of a little Love, exquisitely
wrought. She was folding this billet when a page, fantastically dressed,
entered, and, announcing Lord Borodaile, was immediately followed by
that nobleman. Eagerly and almost blushingly did La Meronville thrust
the note into her bosom, and hasten to greet and to embrace her adorer.
Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the sofas with a listless and
discontented air. The experienced Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud
on his brow.

"My dear friend," said she, in her own tongue, "you seem vexed: has
anything annoyed you?"

"No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last night?"

"Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, your friend."

"My friend!" interrupted Borodaile, haughtily: "he's no friend of mine;
a vulgar, talkative fel