CHAPTER XIX. THE TWO SOIREES
Duchesne's story had unfortunately driven all memory of Bubbleton out of my head; and it was only as we entered the street where the Duchesse de Montserrat lived that I remembered my friend, and thought of asking the chevalier's advice about him.
In a few words I explained so much of his character and situation as was necessary, and was going on to express my fears lest a temperament so unstable and uncertain should involve its possessor in much trouble, when Duchesne interrupted me by saying,—
“Be of courage on that head. Your friend, if the man you describe him, is the very person to baffle the police. They can see to any depth, if the water be only clear; muddy it, and it matters little how shallow it be. This Bubbleton might be of the greatest service just now; you must present me to him, Burke.”
“Most willingly. But first promise that you will not involve my poor friend in the snares of any plot. Heaven knows, his own faculties are quite sufficient for his mystification.”
“Plot! snares!—why, what are you thinking of? But come, this is our halting-place; and here we are, without my even having a moment to give you any account of my good aunt.”
As he spoke he turned the handle of a large door, which led into a gloomy porte cochère, dimly illuminated by a single old-fashioned lantern. A fat, unwieldy-looking porter peeped at us from his den in the conciergerie; and then, having announced our approach by ringing a bell, he closed the shutter, and left us to find the way ourselves.
Ascending the great spacious stair, the wall alongside which was covered with family portraits,—grim-looking heroes in mail, or prim dames with bouquets in their jewelled hands,—we reached a species of gallery, from which several doors led off. Here a servant, dressed in deep black, was standing to announce the visitors.
As the servant preceded us along the corridor, I could not help feeling the contrast of this gloomy mansion, where every footstep had its own sad echo, with the gorgeous splendor of the Hôtel Clichy. Here, all was dark, cold, and dreary; there, everything was lightsome, cheerful, and elegant. What an emblem, to my thinking, were they both of the dynasties they represented! But the reflection was only made as one half of the folding-door was thrown open,—the double-door was the prerogative of the blood-royal,—and we were announced.