married your grandmother."

"Well, does it not show his taste, even in your own opinion, to follow
your example, and admire what you tell me _you_ worship?"

"You are changed; you are a _girouette_, Mariamne."

"Well, nothing in the world is so melancholy as one who lets all the
world pass by it, without a thought, a feeling, or a wish. One might as
well be one of the pictures in the Louvre, pretty and charming, and
gazed at by all the passers-by, without a glance for any of them, in
return. I have no kind of envy for being a mummy, covered with cloth of
gold, and standing in a niche of cedar, yet with all its sensations
vanished some thousand years ago."

"Was this the language you held to me when first we met, Mariamne?"

"Was this the language _you_ held to me, when first we met, Charles? But
I shall lose my spirits if I talk to you. What a sweet evening! What a
delicious breeze! _Bon soir_!" And forth she went, tripping it among the
beds of flowers like a sylph, followed by Lafontaine, moody and
miserable, yet unable to resist the spell. Of those scenes I saw a
hundred, regularly ending in the same conclusion; the lady always, as
ladies ought, gaining the day, and the gentleman vexed, yet vanquished.
But evil days were at hand; many a trial more severe than the pretty
arguments of lovers awaited them; and Lafontaine was to prove himself a
hero in more senses than one, before they met again.

It happened, that I was somewhat a favourite with Mariamne. Yet I was
the only one of whom Lafontaine never exhibited a suspicion. His nature