''Tis a fine question,' said Ferdinand; 'and yet I confess I should like to be callous.'

'Ah! but you cannot be,' said the Count, 'you have a soul of great sensibility; I see that in a moment.'

'You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,' said Ferdinand, with a little reserve.

'Yes; in a minute,' said the Count, 'in a minute I read a person's character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.'

Ferdinand changed countenance again. 'You are a very extraordinary man, Count,' he at length observed.

'Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What are you going to do with yourself?'

'Nothing; I never do anything,' said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful tone.

'A melancholy man! _Quelle betise!_ I will cure you. I will be your friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond; we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you to Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper.

_Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_' Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.

Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The effervescence produced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not quite subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in a few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet in London, whirled along by a horse that stepped out with a proud consciousness of its master.

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Richmond as if he had never been to Richmond in his life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every object he pa.s.sed and that pa.s.sed him called for his praise or observation.

He inoculated Ferdinand with his gaiety, as Ferdinand listened to his light, lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of merriment and poignant truth and daring fancy. When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the Park, along the Terrace walk; and they had not proceeded fifty paces when they came up with the d.u.c.h.ess and her party, who were resting on a bench and looking over the valley.

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and pa.s.sed on; but that was impossible. He was obliged to stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to disembarra.s.s himself of friends who greeted him so kindly.

Ferdinand presented his companion. The ladies were charmed to know so celebrated a gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps only that he was always natural, adapted himself in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the occasion. He was quite delighted at these sources of amus.e.m.e.nt, that had so unexpectedly revealed themselves; and in a few minutes they had all agreed to walk together, and in due time the d.u.c.h.ess was begging Ferdinand and his friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had accepted the proposition. After pa.s.sing the morning together so agreeably, to go and dine in separate rooms, it would be a _betise_.

This word _betise_ settled everything with Count Mirabel; when once he declared that anything was a _betise_, he would hear no more.

It was a charming stroll. Never was Count Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more completely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike smiled upon him, and the d.u.c.h.ess was quite enchanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather have entertained a prejudice against the Count before he knew him--though none could after--and who was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pretending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, quite yielded to his amiable gaiety, and his racy and thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they walked and talked and laughed, and all agreed that it was the most fortunately fine day and the most felicitous _rencontre_ that had ever occurred, until the dinner hour was at hand.

The Count was at her Grace's side, and she was leaning on Miss Temple's arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had fallen back apace, as their party had increased. Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his cousin; but would have attached himself to the latter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed him. He was glad, however, when they returned to dinner.

'We have only availed ourselves of your Grace's permission to join our dinners,' said Count Mirabel, offering the d.u.c.h.ess his arm. He placed himself at the head of the table; Lord Montfort took the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss Grandison, with a heedlessness that was quite remarkable, seated herself next to the d.u.c.h.ess, so that Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, who was thus separated from Lord Montfort.

The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand was the only person who was silent.

'How amusing he is!' said Miss Temple, turning to Ferdinand, and speaking in an undertone.

'Yes; I envy him his gaiety.'

'Be gay.'

'I thank you; I dare say I shall in time. I have not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel's philosophy. He says that the man who plagues himself for five minutes about a woman is an idiot. When I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare say I shall be as gay.'

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdinand.

They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great annoyance, the Count did not hesitate for a moment to avail himself of the d.u.c.h.ess's proposal that he and his companion should form part of the crew. He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found there was no chance of escape.

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent light, just as they were off delicate Rosebank; but the air long continued warm, and always soft, and the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were tinted by the young and glittering moon.

'I wish we had brought a guitar,' said Miss Grandison; 'Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing to us?' 'And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, will you not?' said the Count, smiling.

'Henrietta, will you sing?' said Miss Grandison. 'With you.'

'Of course; now you must,' said the Count: so they did.

This gliding home to the metropolis on a summer eve, so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, as was the present--there is something very ravishing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, the pa.s.sionate past vividly recurred to him. Fortunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care to be the last in the boat. He turned away his face, but its stern expression did not escape the observation of the Count Mirabel.

'And now, Count Mirabel, you must really favour us,' said the d.u.c.h.ess.

'Without a guitar?' said the Count, and he began thrumming on his arm for an accompaniment. 'Well, when I was with the Duc d'Angouleme in Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at Seville. I will try to remember one.'

A SERENADE OF SEVILLE.

I.

Come forth, come forth, the star we love Is high o'er Guadalquivir's grove, And tints each tree with golden light; Ah! Rosalie, one smile from thee were far more bright.

II.

Come forth, come forth, the flowers that fear To blossom in the sun's career The moonlight with their odours greet; Ah! Rosalie, one sigh from thee were far more sweet!

III.

Come forth, come forth, one hour of night, When flowers are fresh and stars are bright, Were worth an age of gaudy day; Then, Rosalie, fly, fly to me, nor longer stay!

'I hope the lady came,' said Miss Temple, 'after such a pretty song.'

'Of course,' said the Count, 'they always come.'

'Ferdinand, will you sing?' said Miss Grandison.

'I cannot, Katherine.'

'Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing,' said Miss Grandison; 'he makes it a rule never to do anything I ask him, but I am sure you have more influence.'

Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Temple. 'Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of your singing, Captain Armine,' said his lordship; and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little departed front the habitual exact.i.tude of his statements.

'How very strange!' thought Ferdinand; 'her callousness or her candour baffles me. I will try to sing,' he continued aloud, 'but it is a year, really, since I have sung.'

In a voice of singular power and melody, and with an expression which increased as he proceeded, until the singer seemed scarcely able to control his emotions, Captain Armine thus proceeded:--

CAPTAIN ARMINE'S SONG.

I.

My heart is like a silent lute Some faithless hand has thrown aside; Those chords are dumb, those tones are mute, That once sent forth a voice of pride!