She soon began to be talked about—but not with suspicion. No—it was her transcendent beauty that became the theme of discourse; and the admiration with which she had inspired both the French and English gentlemen at the soirée, rendered them so enthusiastic in her praise, that they unconsciously suffered themselves to be hurried into assertions guaranteeing her respectability and virtue, as well as expatiating on her charms.
Thus was it, for instance, that one of her French admirers would speak:—
“Never in my life did I behold so beauteous a creature as Miss Laura Mortimer, an English lady whom I met at the soirée last evening. What a pity it is that she cannot talk French: how sweet would our language sound when wafted by such a melodious voice! It is, however, fortunate that I myself understand the English tongue, or I should have been debarred the pleasure of exchanging a syllable with that houri. Houri! Mahommed never dreamt of such a glorious creature! Her hair is of the richest brown that I ever saw—glossy, luxuriant, and shining: her forehead is of a height and width deserving to sustain a queenly diadem; and her eyes, large and brilliant, are of a dark grey when looked into attentively, but seem to be of a deeper hue to the casual observer. Then her teeth—never were beheld such pearls! But her form—her figure—oh, it were impossible to find words to describe the charms of that magnificent shape! A critic, having the ancient models of classic female beauty in his mind, would perhaps pronounce her bust to be in proportions too voluptuous: but let him contemplate that graceful slope of the shoulders—the arching of the swan-like neck—the fine expansion of the chest—the perfect roundness of the bosom—the just symmetry of the waist—and the dazzling whiteness of the charms revealed by the low corsage of the evening toilette,—let the admirer of ancient models behold all this, and he will soon confess that he would have nothing changed in the contours of Laura Mortimer’s figure. Oh! she was indeed heavenly in her elegant, but tasteful attire; and the lustre of her eyes outvied the brilliancy of her diamonds. But, in addition to her faultless beauty there is about her an air of virgin freshness that indicates a mind pure and untainted; though, at the same time, it is easy to perceive that Laura Mortimer is no inexperienced girl. She is, on the contrary, a young woman of fine intellect, proud soul, and independent spirit,—energetic, without being masculine,—firm, yet endowed with all the natural softness of her sex. That her passions are strong and her disposition even sensual, you may read in her eyes and in the lineaments of her aquiline countenance;—but that an honest pride enables her to put a curb upon her ardent imagination, is equally certain. Happy will be the man who shall win so inestimable a prize!”
“I understand,” another enthusiastic admirer would observe, “that she is possessed of a fine property. Her deceased father, I am told, was a wealthy nabob; and she expects her mother shortly to join her in Paris. The old lady has gone to England to make certain transfers from the British to the French funds, in behalf of her daughter. Miss Mortimer is decidedly the most charming creature that ever burst thus suddenly upon the dazzled sight of the fashionable world in Paris. Oh! how I envy the professor of music who gives her lessons, and the artist who is painting her portrait! Never could I grow weary of contemplating that splendid countenance, or of listening to that voice so full of melody!”
In a word, within a very few days from the time when she took the handsome suite of apartments in the Rue Monthabor, Laura became the topic of conversation amongst all the nobles and gentlemen, French or foreign, in the fashionable quarters of Paris; and those who heard the praises so lavishly bestowed upon her by the envied few that had already formed her acquaintance, longed to be presented to this goddess of beauty!
One danger she incurred—and of this she was sensible: it consisted in the fact that the persons belonging to the hotel where she and Charles Hatfield had at first put up, and likewise the British chaplain and his clerk, were aware that she was married! But she calculated that the chances of detection or exposure at their hands were very insignificant and scarcely worth a thought: for even though any of the parties alluded to should meet and recognise her, they would believe themselves to be mistaken in respect to the identity of Laura Mortimer with Perdita Hatfield. Besides, Paris was a very large city; and months might elapse before such a meeting or recognition took place; and in the meantime she hoped to have so successfully conducted her intrigues as to be able to return to England in complete independence of her convention with Mr. Hatfield.
It was on the sixth morning after Laura had taken up her abode in the Rue Monthabor that she saw a paragraph in Galignani’s Messenger, the English journal published in Paris, announcing that His Sovereign Highness the Grand Duke of Castelcicala, who had just succeeded to that lofty rank in consequence of his father-in-law’s demise, had arrived on the preceding evening in the French capital, on his way to Italy. The article, in the usual fulsome manner, stated that his Sovereign Highness intended to remain one day in Paris, in order to have a private interview with the King of the French; and the journalist proceeded to give a list of the noblemen and gentlemen composing the suite of the Grand Duke. In that category there was one English name;—and that name was Charles Hatfield!
“Charles Hatfield!” exclaimed Laura, in astonishment, and scarcely able to believe the evidence of her own eyes; but a second reference to the paragraph assured her that she had indeed made no mistake. “Ah! I comprehend,” she murmured to herself, as she laid the paper upon the breakfast table, at which she was seated; “this is the course that his stern father has adopted in order to throw him amidst new scenes, and remove him afar from the meridian of London as well as from that of Paris! He is to be sent into a species of ostracism in Italy, until he shall have been weaned from the lingering affection he entertains for me!”
Thus reasoning within herself, Laura rose from the sofa whereon she had been reclining, and approached a mirror, on whose bright and polished surface she beheld the glorious reflection of her countenance,—that countenance which was now radiant with the triumph that filled her soul.
“Yes,” she murmured to herself, as she still continued to survey her image in the glass,—“his father is afraid that he will yet fly back to my arms—afraid that the magic of my beauty may once more draw him within the sphere of its influence!”