Prince Tchernigow possessed a mansion in the Champs Elysées; and thither, a short time after the arrival of the pair, all Paris (presentable Paris, of course) flocked to pay their respects, and inspect the magnificence of the possessions in the midst of which Tchernigow had installed his bride--doubtless the most precious of them all. Then came brilliant entertainments, and the Princess achieved at one stroke the almost incredible eminence of being declared by common consent the best-dressed woman in Europe--Paris meaning that continent, of course.
It was at the second of these entertainments that Madame de Soubise remarked to Madame de Somme, in a pregnant little sentence, beginning with the invariable "dites-donc, chère Adèle," that Madame la Princesse seemed a little distraite, and had begun to wear rouge like the rest of the world. Madame de Somme acquiesced in her friend's remark, and further added on her own account, that the English complexions, undeniably charming, were very evanescent, and that really the Princess had no longer the appearance of being young. It was on the same occasion that several of the company had asked who was the "petite dame," so beautifully dressed, so quiet, and yet so spirituelle, to whom the Princess was so caressing, and the "best" men were invariably presented. The "petite dame" was small and slight, pale-faced, and rather plain, perhaps, than pretty. Her features had nothing remarkable about them, and her figure was redeemed from insignificance only by the taste and richness of her dress. But she was eminently attractive; and before long rumours circulated about the salons to the effect that the little lady--the close, the inseparable friend of the Princess; a charming Irish widow, who spoke French remarkably well, but with perhaps the slightest defect in the accent (it is so difficult to be certain that one is taught by persons who are comme il faut)--was as witty, as brilliant, as her friend was beautiful. She was so completely at her ease, and she enjoyed herself so much; and how delightful it was to see the affection which subsisted between the little lady and the Princess! Did one hint to the former that the Princess looked a little fatigued, she would be all concern and agitation; she would fly to her cherished Laura, and ask her in fervent tones if the pleasures, the delights of this evening of Paradise had been too much for her; and the two women would form the prettiest tableau in the world.
Did any of the worshippers at Laura's canapé, beside which the Prince, most attentive of bridegrooms, most devoted of men, kept his place steadily all the evening, admire the vivacity, the wit, the grace of the little lady, the Princess would reply warmly, that her dear Lucy was fortunate in possessing such a charming flow of spirits; and Tchernigow would remark that Madame Seymour was indeed a captivating islander, but that he understood the Irish ladies resembled the French in wit and vivacity.
When the season in Paris approached its termination, the beau monde was distressed to learn that the health of the Princess was not in so satisfactory a condition as the host of friends who were desolated by the intelligence could have desired. She was as much seen as ever; she was the gayest of the gay, the richest of the rich, the most brilliant of the brilliant; but she was not as beautiful at the close of the season as she had been at the beginning; and it was not to be denied that Lady Walford and Mrs. Fane--the last new brides and beauties from the English capital--had as many admirers, if not more.
The Princess still dressed better than any woman in Europe, conventionally defined; and her diamonds at least were unapproachable, though there might possibly be brighter eyes to be now seen under the Paris moonlight and waxlight.
"Going to St. Petersburg, are they?" said Lord Dollamore to his bosom-friend the Malacca cane, as he retreated gracefully from the side of the Princess's carriage, after a brief conversation with her. "Going to St. Petersburg, are they? She does not look enchanted; on the contrary, rather frightened, I thought. And that little devil Marcelline, doing her beloved compatriots with such perfect composure and success! I would not have lost seeing that for a good deal. Gad, the bow she bestowed upon me when the Princess introduced me would have done credit to a duchess! Madame Seymour, hey?--and Irish! By Jove, I have not enjoyed anything so much for an age!"
Lord Dollamore walked on chuckling and tapping his ear in his old manner. After a little his face grew graver and his confidences with his cane were resumed in a different tone.
"What the deuce has come over her, I wonder?" he said. "I see a change; but I don't know where it is. Is it in her face? is it in her manner? She's very handsome--she's wonderfully handsome still, though she rouges; but that's of course here-every one does it; though it's not a case of painting the lily, so far as the Parisiennes are concerned. Stop, though: there's such a thing as an orange-lily--forgot that. It's something in the expression, I fancy--something which gives one an impression that she's thinking of one thing and talking of another, which was never la belle Laura's way: she knew her monde better than to shock their self-love by anything of that kind. Yes: that's it, by Jove!" and Lord Dollamore struck himself quite a sharp little blow on the ear; "I've hit it: the expression in her face is fear!"
When Lord Dollamore had stepped back from the side of her carriage, and the horses were once more whirling it along, to the admiration of the multitude, the Princess sank back upon the luxurious cushions with a deep sigh. Madame Seymour looked at her with steady composure and not a little contempt.
"Agitated, are you?" she said; "and quite upset by old memories and all that sort of thing? What a weak fool you are! you are thinking of the last time you and that very estimable nobleman met, I daresay, and feeling quite sentimental. If you would remember, in addition, what you intended to do when that interesting interview took place (I remember it: I thought I never saw anything cooler or cleverer than his polite unconsciousness of the identity of your dame de compagnie; he used to walk with me in the shrubberies at Redmoor, and I've given him a kiss occasionally for a guinea),--if you would remember what you intended to do, and how completely you have done it, it would be more to the purpose."