And now lady Esmondet awakes to the present with a start (as the carriage stops,) and from her silent thoughts on the past, as she had gathered it from Eric Haughton and from Lionel himself.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHIC AUJOURD'HUI.
Captain Trevalyon assisted his friends to alight in front of a handsome house in a fashionable avenue.
"Can this be the right address," said Lady Esmondet. "It is a private residence et regardez, by the gas-light in the entrance one can see the arms of a noble house cut in the stone."
"Yes," answered Trevalyon, "we are all right; a patrician mansion knocked down by the hammer, now simply numero troisieme, Avenue de l'Imperatrice, and if Bertram is as comfortable inside as he is fashionable outside then we may expect turtle's livers a la Francaise, the choicest of wines in this hot-bed of grapes, this land of vineyards, dishes that would tickle the palate of a Lucullus, the cosiest of after dinner chairs, French coffee, which means a good deal, the brightest of fires, and faces, sweet notes of song," with a glance at Vaura, "and the most delicate of cigarettes, so delicate as not to entail the punishment of banishment from two ladies fair."
"What a luxurious picture you draw, Captain Trevalyon," said Vaura gayly, "and what an epicure! you dwell with such pleasure upon each dish, your livers, your—"
"Pardonnez," answered Trevalyon, laughing; "not mine, the turtle's" and continuing with mock gravity, "I never expect mine to be dressed at Voisin's."
"Horrible! a too warm anticipation of torment," cried Vaura.
"Torment!" said their host, stepping forward as a servant announced them, and tortures are obsolete words in gay Paris and even in the reign of terror, such a fair vision would surely have escaped. "A hundred thousand welcomes," he continued, shaking hands with all, "and I feel sure no bachelor under the McMahon regime is so highly favoured as Edward F. Bertram to-night."