So the day of the wedding came, and a grand ceremonial it was. The noblest and most exclusive English in Paris attended it, and everything was after the wish of Lady Lanswell's heart. There had never been a fairer or more graceful bride. There had never been a handsomer or more gallant bridegroom. One thing struck the Countess of Lanswell and made her remember the day with a keen sense of pain, and it was this: when the bride retired to change her superb bridal dress for a traveling costume she had time to notice how white and ill her son looked. He was one of the most temperate of men; she did not remember that he had ever in his life been in the least degree the worse for wine, but she saw him go to the buffet and fill a small glass with strong brandy and drink it—even that, strong as it was, did not put any color into his face. Then he came to speak to her. She looked anxiously at him.
"Lance," she said, "I do not like asking you the question—but—have you really been drinking brandy?"
She never forgot the bitter laugh that came from his lips.
"Yes, I have indeed, mother. It is just as well a glass of poison did not stand there; I should have drunk it."
She shuddered at the words, and it must be owned they were not cheerful ones for a wedding-day.
The bride and bridegroom drove away; slippers and rice were thrown after them. And the pity is that every woman inclined to put faith in the vows and promises of a man was not there to see how they were kept.
CHAPTER XXXV.
"I LEAVE THEM MY HATRED AND MY CURSE."
Leone was alone when the letter of the Countess of Lanswell was delivered to her: she had been wondering for some days why no news came from Lord Chandos—why he did not write. She had written most urgent and affectionate letters to him, praying for news of him, telling him how bravely and happily she was bearing the separation from him, only longing to know something of him.