“Help me to support her, Monsieur—while I seek de l’eau de Cologne.”
Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance.
Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, “The companion of my earliest days!”
Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward,—“Friend of my childhood!” cried he: “yes, my sister: your father promised me this friendship—this happiness,” said he supporting her, as she raised herself from the sofa.
“Où est-il? où est-il?—Where is he, Monsieur Ormond?” cried Mademoiselle, throwing open the door. “Ah ciel, comme il est beau! A perfect Frenchman already! And how much embellished by dress!—Ah! Paris for that. Did I not prophesy?—Dora, my darling, do me the justice.—But—comme vous voilà saisie!—here’s l’amie with l’eau de Cologne. Ah! my child, recover yourself, for here is some one—the Comte de Jarillac it is entering the salon.”
The promptitude of Dora’s recovery was a new surprise to our hero. “Follow me,” said she to him, and with Parisian ease and grace she glided into the salon to receive M. de Jarillac—presented Ormond to M. le Comte—“Anglois—Irlandois—an English, an Irish gentleman—the companion of her childhood,” with the slightest, lightest tone of sentiment imaginable; and another count and another came, and a baron, and a marquis, and a duke, and Madame la Comtesse de ——, and Madame la Duchesse ——; and all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or sentiment as the occasion required—now advancing a step or two to mark empressement where requisite;—regaining always, imperceptibly, the most advantageous situation and attitude for herself;—presenting Ormond to every one—quite intent upon him, yet appearing entirely occupied with every body else; and, in short, never forgetting them, him, or herself for an instant.
“Can this be Dora?” thought Ormond in admiration, yet in astonishment that divided his feelings. It was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how completely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed into a French woman of fashion.
And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing with crosses and stars, she received les hommages—enjoyed le succès—accepted the incense without bending too low or holding herself too high—not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her head, not more than was agreeable and becoming—extending her smiles to all, and hoping all the time that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him—for her early passion for him had revived in an instant—the first sight of his figure and air, the first glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, too, how well he would succeed at Paris—how many rivals she would have in a week: these perceptions, sensations, and conclusions, requiring so much time in slow words to express, had darted through Dora’s head in one instant, had exalted her imagination, and touched her heart—as much as that heart could be touched.
Ormond meantime breathed more freely, and recovered from his tremors. Madame de Connal, surrounded by adorers, and shining in the salon, was not so dangerous as Dora, half fainting in the boudoir; nor had any words that wit or sentiment could devise power to please or touch him so much as the “Harry Ormond!” which had burst naturally from Dora’s lips. Now he began almost to doubt whether nature or art prevailed. Now he felt himself safe at least, since he saw that it was only the coquette of the Black Islands transformed into the coquette of the Hotel de Connal. The transformation was curious, was admirable; Ormond thought he could admire without danger, and, in due time, perhaps gallant, with the best of them, without feeling—without scruple.
The tables were now arranging for play. The conversation he heard every where round him related to the good or bad fortune of the preceding nights. Ormond perceived that it was the custom of the house to play every evening, and the expressions that reached him about bets and debts confirmed the hint which his guardian had given him, that Connal played high.