been so had I added to my other accomplishments the gift of prophecy.
Above five days after this interview, I thought it would be but prudent
to pay the Abbe Dubois one of those visits of homage which it was
already become policy to pay him. "If I go," thought I, "it will seem
as if nothing had happened; if I stay away, it will seem as if I
attached importance to a scene I should appear to have forgotten."

It so happened that the Abbe had a very unusual visitor that morning, in
the person of the austere but admirable Duc de St. Simon. There was a
singular and almost invariable distinction in the Regent's mind between
one kind of regard and another. His regard for one order of persons
always arose either out of his vices or his indolence; his regard for
another, out of his good qualities and his strong sense. The Duc de St.
Simon held the same place in the latter species of affection that Dubois
did in the former. The Duc was just coming out of the Abbe's closet as
I entered the anteroom. He paused to speak to me, while Dubois, who had
followed the Duc out, stopped for one moment, and surveyed me with a
look like a thundercloud. I did not appear to notice it, but St. Simon
did.

"That look," said he, as Dubois, beckoning to a gentleman to accompany
him to his closet, once more disappeared, "that look bodes you no good,
Count."

Pride is an elevation which is a spring-board at one time and a
stumbling-block at another. It was with me more often the
stumbling-block than the spring-board. "Monseigneur le Duc," said I,
haughtily enough, and rather in too loud a tone considering the chamber
was pretty full, "in no court to which Morton Devereux proffers his
services shall his fortune depend upon the looks of a low-born insolent