However laughable such an accusation against poor O’Leary, one circumstance rendered the matter any thing but ludicrous. Although he must come off free of this grave offence, yet, the salon transaction would necessarily now become known; I should be immediately involved, and my departure from Paris prevented.
“So,” said Trevanion, as he briefly laid before me the difficulty of my position, “you may perceive that however strongly your affections may be engaged in a certain quarter, it is quite as well to think of leaving Paris without delay. O’Leary’s arrest will be followed by yours, depend upon it; and once under the surveillance of the police, escape is impossible.”
“But, seriously, Trevanion,” said I, nettled at the tone of raillery he spoke in, “you must see that there is nothing whatever in that business. I was merely taking my farewell of the fair Emily. Her affections have been long since engaged, and I—”
“Only endeavouring to support her in her attachment to the more favoured rival. Is it not so?”
“Come, no quizzing. Faith I began to feel very uncomfortable about parting with her, the moment that I discovered that I must do so.”
“So I guessed,” said Trevanion, with a dry look, “from the interesting scene I so abruptly trespassed upon. But you are right; a little bit of tendresse is never misplaced, so long as the object is young, pretty, and still more than all, disposed for it.”
“Quite out; perfectly mistaken, believe me. Emily not only never cared for me; but she has gone far enough to tell me so.”
“Then, from all I know of such matters,” replied he, “you were both in a very fair way to repair that mistake on her part. But hark! what is this?” A tremendous noise in the street here interrupted our colloquy, and on opening the window, a strange scene presented itself to our eyes. In the middle of a dense mass of moving rabble, shouting, yelling, and screaming, with all their might, were two gens d’armes with a prisoner between them. The unhappy man was followed by a rather well-dressed, middle-aged looking woman, who appeared to be desirous of bestowing the most coram publico endearments upon the culprit, whom a second glance showed us was O’Leary.
“I tell you, my dear madam, you are mistaken,” said O’Leary, addressing her with great sternness of manner and voice.
“Mistaken! Never, never. How could I ever be mistaken in that dear voice, those lovely eyes, that sweet little nose?”