Not true love, though of a worthy object; 'tis ofttimes the only savior of a sinking man.
Presently the illustrious foreigner, loaded with his titles, penetrated to the upper circle of society where Madame Hesslein moved, a solitary queen among shrinking ladies of haut ton, who with one accord admired, and hated, and courted her because she was the attraction, and it was "the thing" to say, "we had little Madame Hesslein here last night."
What her beauty and refinement did for her, the chevalier's applomb and versatility of genius did for him. Every one talked of the clever, polished Frenchman—in good society monsieur spoke only French, and wore his Legion of Honor flauntingly—every one raved about the dazzling witch he paid such faithful court to; every one vowed that such a pair were expressly created for each other, none else.
On the last evening of this intoxicating dream the chevalier attended a brilliant assembly which madame held at her hotel.
Magnates of the highest rank were there to give homage to their resistless hostess; and belles of tried skill were there, to waste their ammunition upon the enthralled chevalier; but Romeo and Juliet had no eyes for any but themselves, although their smiles were showered on all.
Madame Hesslein, gorgeous as an Eastern houri, convened her little court about her ottoman, singled the happy Calembours out from all his vexed competitors, and threw him into raptures by addressing her next remarks more particularly to him.
Fascinated, the gay throng watched that set, cruel face, its glimmering, chrysolite eyes, its wreathing, quivering lips, and its wild mischief as the fair dame told her little story to the Chevalier de Calembours:
"Dear Monsieur, your latest anecdote puts this good company in your debt, so I shall do myself the honor of paying that debt with a narrative which is new, true, and pertinent.
"There was living in the town of Raleigh, some twenty years ago, a remarkable girl called—shall we say for the present—Dolores? for that indeed was her fate.
"She was very pretty, they said, but execrably poor. Her father was a blacksmith, you see, and her mother was glad to obtain laundry work from her richer neighbors; so that poor Dolores started in life with the disadvantages of an undeniable beauty and a penniless purse.