“Paris, undoubtedly. You can spend a life there, looking at the curiosities. There is the Louvre, the Tuilleries, the bridges, the arcs and a thousand other things that I cannot think of now. I read Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables while I was there, and went to the streets and other places he mentions. It made the story much more interesting. Did you ever read that work?”
“No, sir, I never did.”
“I have a copy, and will bring it to you if you would like to read it.”
“Indeed, I should like to do so. We can get no books in this dull town.”
“Well may you call it dull,” said Xerxes. “I told my father the other day that I felt that I would have to dissolve our partnership. I don’t believe I can stand the country much longer. Father came here to have a quiet time, but it is almost too quiet for me.”
These two talked about nothing but parties, dances, shows and the like the remainder of the evening, and the young lady thought she had been highly entertained. Xerxes had touched responsive chords in her nature whose very existence Ernest had ignored. After his departure, she, at first timidly asked herself the question if she really had any true affection for Ernest. Was he a suitable companion for her? After their marriage, was it not evident that he would expect her to take a deep interest in the stupid books to which he was devoted. Xerxes was like herself and she thought how happy she could be with an elegant gentleman who would take delight in the things of which she was so fond.
With such communings as these she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was wandering in a wide plain, and that she was weary and sad on account of a great sorrow which had come over her, which was the loss of her parents. She sat down on a stone, covered her face with her hands, and wept. Hearing a deep-drawn sigh at her side, she looked around, and beheld Ernest. He mingled his tears with hers, and pointed upward. Suddenly he disappeared. Again she bowed her head, and wept afresh. Then she heard a joyous laugh, and rising up, she saw Xerxes standing before her. “Why weep?” he said. “Enjoy life. Come with me to yon throng of dancers, and drown your sorrow.” She cast her eyes in the direction in which he was pointing, and beheld a company gayly dressed, whirling amid gorgeous flowers under gigantic oaks. She gave her hand to the smiling Xerxes, and they were soon mingling with the giddy pleasure-seekers.
When Clara awoke, the superstition of her nature, more or less of which all of us have, inclined her to put an interpretation upon her dream which was decidedly unfavorable to Ernest. Did not the dream foreshadow a fearful destiny, if she married him? All that day she was in a state of perplexing indecision. But circumstances soon enabled her to reach a conclusion; for Xerxes, to her surprise, called that very evening. He looked sad, and seemed to be greatly embarrassed.
“I cannot stay long,” he said as soon as they were seated. “I have come to bid you adieu.”
“What!” exclaimed Clara in unfeigned astonishment, but suddenly restraining her emotion, she said: