To Lady Dorothea's ears no theme could be more grateful; and she moved from group to group, delighted to mingle her congratulations with those around, and exchange her hopes and aspirations and wishes with theirs. Kate Henderson, upon whom habitually devolved the chief part in these “receptions,” was excited and flurried in manner; a more than ordinary effort to please being dashed, as it were, by some secret anxiety, and the expectation of some coming event. Had there been any one to watch her movements, he might have seen the eagerness with which she listened to each new account of the state of the capital, and how impatiently she drank in the last tidings from the streets; nor less marked was the expression of proud scorn upon her features, as she heard the insulting estimate of the populace, and the vainglorious confidence in the soldiery. But more than all these was her haughty indignation as she listened to the confused, mistaken opinions uttered on every side as to the policy of the Government and the benevolent intentions of the king. Once, and only once, did she forget the prudent resolve she wished to impose upon herself; but temper and caution and reserve gave way, as she heard a very distinguished person amusing a circle around him by an unfair and unfaithful portraiture of the great leaders of '92. It was then, when stung by the odious epithet of canaille applied to those for whose characters she entertained a deep devotion, that she forgot everything, and in a burst of indignant eloquence overwhelmed and refuted the speaker. This was the moment, too, in which she replied to Villemart by a word of terrible ferocity. Had the red cap of Liberty itself been suddenly hoisted in that brilliant assemblage, the dread and terror which arose could scarcely have been greater.
“Where are we?” cried the Marquise de Longueville. “I thought we were in the Place de Vendôme, and I find myself in the Faubourg St. Antoine!”
“Does my Lady know that her friend and confidante is a Girondist of the first water?” said an ex-Minister.
“Who could have suspected the spirit of Marat under the mask of Ninon de l'Enclos?” muttered Villemart.
“What is this I hear, dearest Kate?” cried the Duchesse de Mirecourt, as she drew the young girl's arm within her own. “They tell me you have terrified every one,—that Madame de Soissons has gone home ill, and the old Chevalier de Gardonnes has sent for his confessor.”
“I have been very rash, very foolish,” said Kate, as a deadly pallor came over her; “but I could bear it no longer. Besides, what does it matter? They 'll hear worse, and bear it too, before three days are over.”
“Then it is all true?” cried the Duchess, eagerly. “You told Villemart that when the Government spoke with grape-shot, the people replied with the guillotine!”
“Not exactly,” said Kate, with a faint smile. “But are they all going?”
“Of course they are. You have frightened them almost to death; and I know you only meant it for jest,—one of those little half-cruel jests you were ever fond of. Come with me and say so,—come, dearest.” And she drew her, as she spoke, into the crowded salon, now already a scene of excited leave-taking. The brilliant company, however, fell back as they came forward, and an expression of mingled dismay and compassion was turned towards the young Duchess, who with a kind of heroic courage drew Kate's arm closer within her own.
“I am come to make an explanation, messieurs et mesdames,” said the Duchess, with her most captivating smile; “pray vouchsafe me a hearing. My friend—my dearest, best friend here—has, in a moment of sportive pleasantry, suffered herself to jest—”