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?"