"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old man.
"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest, showing the long letter which I had written, "this will show you that she has not forgotten us, but that her heart beats warmly as ever—that she is the same."
And he read the letter to the good old man, who frequently interrupted him, with "God bless her! God bless my child!"
Soon afterward Ernest came to New York and entered his name in the office of an eminent lawyer. Determining to make the law his profession, he hoped to complete his studies before my return from Paris. He lived in New York, and began to move in the circles of its varied society. Among the acquaintances which he made were certain authors and artists who, once a month, in company with a few select friends, gave a social supper at a prominent hotel.
At one of these suppers Ernest was a guest. The wine passed round, wit sparkled, and the enjoyment of the festival did not begin to flag even when midnight drew near.
While one of the guests was singing, a portly gentleman (once well known as a man of fashion, the very Brummel of the sidewalk) began to converse with Ernest in a low voice.
He described a lady—a young widow with a large fortune—who at that time occupied a large portion of the interest of certain circles in New York. She was exceedingly beautiful. She was witty, accomplished, eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon and Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, she presided over festivals whose voluptuousness was masked in flowers. Her previous history was unknown, but she had suddenly entered the orbit of New York social life—of a peculiar kind of social life—as a star of the first magnitude. His blood heated by wine, his imagination warmed by the description of his fashionable friend, Ernest manifested great curiosity to behold this singular lady.
"You shall see her to-night—at once," whispered the fashionable gentleman. "She gives a select party to-night. Let us glide off from the company unobserved."
They passed from the company, took their hats and cloaks—it was a clear, cold winter night—and entered a carriage.
"I will introduce you by the name of Johnson—Fred. Johnson, a rich southern planter," said the fashionable gentleman. "You need not call me by my real name. Call me Lawson."