“And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond.
“Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win,” said Connal, “and no doubt you will keep that as well—I prophesy that you will; and you will give fortune fair play to-morrow night.” Ormond simply repeated that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was a matter of no consequence to him—that he had done exactly what he had determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this money he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed.
“But you shall not lose your money,” said Dora; “when next you play it shall be on my account as well as your own—you know this is not only a compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages—and it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you,” continued Madame de Connal—“they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may speak in English at our ease—I must explain to you, that a good portion of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal—my aunt, you know, has also a good fortune—we are partners, and put a considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing to do with that. If you would take my advice,” continued she, speaking in a very persuasive tone, “instead of forswearing play, as you seem inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces with us; you cannot imagine that I would advise you to any thing which I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you—you little know how much I am interested.” She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and hurried on—“you have no ties in Ireland—you seem to like Paris—where can you spend your time more agreeably?”
“More agreeably—nowhere upon earth!” cried Ormond. Her manner, tone, and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir—the company had risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them departed. Connal was gone—only a few remained in a distant apartment, listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse—her intimacy with him was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal paré at the Spanish ambassador’s for the ensuing night—but she had more inclination to go to a bal masqué, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak, because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted his apprehensions.
Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered, gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness—and she immediately yielded her will, her fantaisie, to his better judgment. This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted with Dora—she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive.
“Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed.
“Call me Dora,” said she: “I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh! Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real happiness since we parted.”
Tears filled her fine eyes—no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger.
“My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!”
That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed.