"And then came dark mistrust and doubt,
Gathered by worming his secrets out,
And slips in his conversation—
Fears which all her peace destroyed,
That his title was null, his coffers were void,
And his French château was in Spain, or enjoyed
The most airy of situations.
"But still his heart—if he had such a part—
She—only she—might possess his heart,
And hold her affections in fetters.
Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship,
Was forced its anchor and cable to slip
When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip
In his private papers and letters—
"Letters that told of dangerous leagues,
And notes that hinted as many intrigues
As the Count's in the 'Barber of Seville.'
In short, such mysteries came to light
That the Countess-bride, on the thirtieth night,
Woke and started up in a fright,
And kicked and screamed with all her might,
And finally fainted away outright,
For she dreamt she had married the Devil!"
In short, poor Miss Kilmansegg, or, rather, the "Golden Countess," was utterly wretched:
"Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim,
And downward cast, yet not at the limb
Once the centre of all speculation;
But downward drooping in comfort's dearth,
As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth—
Whence human sorrows derive their birth—
By a moral gravitation.
"How blessed the heart that has a friend
A sympathizing ear to lend
To troubles too great to smother!
But friend or gossip she had none
To hear the vile deeds the Count had done,
How night after night he rambled;
And how she learned by sad degrees
That he drank and smoked, and, worse than these,
That he 'swindled, intrigued, and gambled'!
* * * * *
"He brought strange gentlemen home to dine
That he said were in the Fancy Line,—
And they fancied spirits instead of wine,
And called her lap-dog 'Wenus.'"
