ysteries of the soul, he passes
through the ordeal of fire and tears, happy if he keep his faith
unshaken and his heart pure, for the wiser worship hereafter. We all
know this; and few know it better than myself. Yet, with all its
suffering, which of us would choose to obliterate all record of his
first romance? Which of us would be without the memory of its smiles and
tears, its sunshine and its clouds? Not I for one.

CHAPTER XVI.

A CONTRETEMPS IN A CARRIAGE.

My slavery lasted somewhat longer than three weeks, and less than a
month; and was brought, oddly enough, to an abrupt conclusion. This was
how it happened.

I had, as usual, attended Madame de Marignan one evening to the Opera,
and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others. There
was one man in particular whom I hated, and whom (perhaps because I
hated him) she distinguished rather more than the rest. His name was
Delaroche, and he called himself Monsieur le Comte Delaroche. Most
likely he was a Count---I have no reason to doubt his title; but I chose
to doubt it for mere spite, and because he was loud and conceited, and
wore a little red and green ribbon in his button-hole. He had, besides,
an offensive sense of my youth and his own superiority, which I have
never forgiven to this day. On the particular occasion of which I am
now speaking, this person had made his appearance in Madame de
Marignan's box at the close of the first act, established himself in the
seat behind hers, and there held the lists against all comers during the
remainder of the evening. Everything he said, everything he did,
aggravated me. When he looked through her lorgnette, I loathed him. When
he admired her fan, I longed to thrust it down his throat. When he held
her bouquet to his odious nose (the bouquet that I had given her!) I
felt it would have been justifiable manslaughter to take him up bodily,
and pitch him over into the pit.

At length the performance came to a close, and M. Delaroche, having
taken upon himself to arrange Madame de Marignan's cloak, carry Madame
de Marignan's fan, and put Madame de Marignan's opera-glass into its
morocco case, completed his officiousness by offering his arm and
conducting her into the lobby, whilst I, outwardly indifferent but
inwardly boiling, dropped behind, and consigned him silently to all the
torments of the seven circles.

It was an oppressive autumnal night without a star in the sky, and so
still that one m