“Ah! the señorina. Don't you know her? Why, where have you been, my dear chevalier? Oh! I forgot. You've been in Austria, or Russia, or some barbarous place or other. She is the belle, par excellence; nothing else is talked of in Paris.”
“But her name? Who is she?” said Duchesne, impatiently.
“Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie, the daughter of the house,” said the baron, completely overcome with astonishment at our ignorance. “And you not to know this!—you, of all men living! Why,” he continued, dropping his voice to a lower key, “there never was such a fortune. Mines of rubies and emeralds; continents of coffee, rice, and sandal-wood; spice islands and sugar plantations, to make one's mouth water.”
“By Jove, Baron! you seem somewhat susceptible yourself.”
“I had my thoughts on the subject,” said he, with a half sigh. “But, hélas! there are so many ties to be broken! so many tender chains one must snap asunder!”
“I understand,” said Duchesne, with an air of well-assumed seriousness; “the thing was impossible. Now, then, what say you to assist a friend?”
“You,—yourself, do you mean?”
“Of course, Baron; no other.”
“Come this way,” said the old man, taking him by the arm, and leading him along to another part of the room, while Duchesne, with a sly look at me, followed.
While I stood awaiting his return, my thoughts became fixed on Duchesne himself, of whose character I never felt free from my misgivings. The cold indifference he manifested on ordinary occasions to everything and everybody, I now saw could give way to strong impetuosity; but even this might be assumed also. As I pondered thus, I had not remarked that the dance was concluded; and already the dancers were proceeding towards their seats, when I heard my name uttered beside me,—“Capitaine Burke.” I turned; it was the countess herself, leaning on the arm of her daughter.