ith one another, will be found to do. A lady of one-and-twenty, and a
gentleman of sixty-six, alone in a great castle, have not unfrequently
a third guest at their table, who comes without a card, and whom they
cannot shut out, though they keep their doors closed ever so. His name
is Ennui, and many a long hour and weary night must such folks pass in
the unbidden society of this Old Man of the Sea; this daily guest at the
board; this watchful attendant at the fireside; this assiduous companion
who will walk out with you; this sleepless restless bedfellow.

At first, M. d'Ivry, that well-conserved nobleman who never would allow
that he was not young, exhibited no sign of doubt regarding his own
youth except an extreme jealousy and avoidance of all other young
fellows. Very likely Madame la Duchesse may have thought men in general
dyed their hair, wore stays, and had the rheumatism. Coming out of the
convent of the Sacre Coeur, how was the innocent young lady to know
better? You see, in these mariages de convenance, though a coronet
may be convenient to a beautiful young creature, and a beautiful young
creature may be convenient to an old gentleman, there are articles which
the marriage-monger cannot make to convene at all: tempers over which M.
de Foy and his like have no control; and tastes which cannot be put into
the marriage settlements. So this couple were unhappy, and the Duke and
Duchess quarrelled with one another like the most vulgar pair who ever
fought across a table.

In this unhappy state of home affairs, madame took to literature,
monsieur to politics. She discovered that she was a great unappreciated
soul, and when a woman finds that treasure in her bosom of course she
sets her own price on the article. Did you ever see the first poems of
Madame la Duchesse d'Ivry, Les Cris de l'Ame? She used to read them to
her very intimate friends, in white, with her hair a good deal down her
back. They had some success. Dubufe having painted her as a Duchess,
Scheffer depicted her as a Muse. That was in the third year of her
marriage, when she rebelled against the Duke her husband, insisted on
opening her saloons to art and literature, and, a fervent devotee still,
proposed to unite genius and religion. Poets had interviews with her.
Musicians came and twanged guitars to her.

Her husband, entering her room, would fall over the sabre and spurs
of Count Almaviva from the boulevard, or Don Basilio with his great
sombre