'Certainly. But what do you want?'

'I am in a devil of a sc.r.a.pe; I do not know what to do. I want you to advise me.'

'The Count moved aside with this cavalier. 'And what is it?' said he.

'Have you been losing?'

'No, no,' said the young man, shaking his head. 'Much worse. It is the most infernal business; I do not know what I shall do. I think I shall cut my throat.'

'_Betise!_ It cannot be very bad, if it be not money.'

'Oh, my dear Mirabel, you do not know what trouble I am in.'

'_Mon cher Henri, soyez tranquille,_' said the Count, in a kind voice.

'I am your friend. Rest a.s.sured, I will arrange it. Think no more of it until to-morrow at one o'clock, and then call on me. If you like, I am at your service at present.'

'No, no, not here: there are letters.'

'Ha, ha! Well, to-morrow, at one. In the meantime, do not write any nonsense.'

At this moment, the d.u.c.h.ess, with a party of equestrians, pa.s.sed and bowed to the Count Mirabel.

'I say, Mirabel,' exclaimed a young man, 'who is that girl? I want to know. I have seen her several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine creature!'

'Do not you know Miss Temple?' said the Count. 'Fancy a man not knowing Miss Temple! She is the only woman in London to be looked at.'

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and nothing but the name of Miss Temple was heard. All vowed they knew her very well, at least by sight, and never thought of anybody else. Some asked the Count to present them, others meditated plans by which that great result might be obtained; but, in the midst of all this agitation, Count Mirabel rode away, and was soon by the very lady's side.

'What a charming voyage yesterday,' said the Count to Miss Temple. 'You were amused?'

'Very.'

'And to think you should all know my friend Armine so well! I was astonished, for he will never go anywhere, or speak to anyone.'

'You know him intimately?' said Miss Temple.

'He is my brother! There is not a human being in the world I love so much! If you only knew him as I know him. Ah! _chere_ Miss Temple, there is not a man in London to be compared with him, so clever and so good! What a heart! so tender! and what talent! There is no one so _spirituel_.'

'You have known him long, Count?'

'Always; but of late I find a great change in him. I cannot discover what is the matter with him. He has grown melancholy. I think he will not live.'

'Indeed!'

'No, I am never wrong. That _cher_ Armine will not live.'

'You are his friend, surely------'

'Ah! yes; but I do not know what it is. Even me he cares not for. I contrive sometimes to get him about a little; yesterday, for instance; but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, with his eyes fixed on the ground, dark as night. Never was a man so changed. I suppose something has happened to him abroad. When you first knew him, I daresay now, he was the gayest of the gay?'

'He was indeed very different,' said Miss Temple, turning away her face.

'You have known that dear Armine a long time?'

'It seems a long time,' said Miss Temple.

'If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I shall ever be in very good spirits again,' said the Count. 'It is the only thing that would quite upset me. Now do not you think, Miss Temple, that our _cher_ Armine is the most interesting person you ever met?'

'I believe Captain Armine is admired by all those who know him.'

'He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord Montfort, he knows him very well?'

'They were companions in boyhood, I believe; but they have resumed their acquaintance only recently.'

'We must interest Lord Montfort in his case. Lord Montfort must a.s.sist in our endeavours to bring him out a little.'

'Lord Montfort needs no prompting, Count. We are all alike interested in Captain Armine's welfare.'

'I wish you would try to find out what is on his mind,' said Count Mirabel. 'After all, men cannot do much. It requires a more delicate sympathy than we can offer. And yet I would do anything for the _cher_ Armine, because I really love him the same as if he were my brother.'

'He is fortunate in such a friend.'

'Ah! he does not think so any longer,' said the Count; 'he avoids me, he will not tell me anything. _Chere_ Miss Temple, this business haunts me; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine so well; no one knows him like me; his feelings are too strong: no one has such strong feelings.

Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know who is capable of committing suicide.'

'G.o.d forbid!' said Henrietta Temple, with emphasis.

'I rise every morning with apprehension,' said the Count. 'When I call upon him every day, I tremble as I approach his hotel.'

'Are you indeed serious?'

'Most serious. I knew a man once in the same state. It was the Duc de Crillon. He was my brother friend, like this dear Armine. We were at college together; we were in the same regiment. He was exactly like this dear Armine, young, beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all tenderness, terrible pa.s.sions. He loved Mademoiselle de Guise, my cousin, the most beautiful girl in France. Pardon me, but I told Armine yesterday that you reminded me of her. They were going to be married; but there was a _contretemps_. He sent for me; I was in Spain; she married the Viscount de Marsagnac. Until that dreadful morning he remained exactly in the same state as our dear Armine. Never was a melancholy so profound. After the ceremony he shot himself.'

'No, no!' exclaimed Miss Temple in great agitation.

'Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of that dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I see our dear friend here, because I feel it must be love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is not so; it must be something that has happened abroad. Love alone can account for it. It is not his debts that would so overpower him. What are his debts? I would pay them myself. It is a heart-rending business.

I am going to him. How I tremble!' 'How good you are!' exclaimed Miss Temple, with streaming eyes. 'I shall ever be grateful; I mean, we all must. Oh! do go to him, go to him directly; tell him to be happy.'

'It is the song I ever sing,' said the Count. 'I wish some of you would come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.'

'He will not care for it,' said Miss Temple. 'Try. It is a fancy I have.

Let me bear it.' Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off with his prize.

It was about eight o'clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his room, having just parted with Glas...o...b..ry, who was going to dine in Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel's fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count, full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him.

'_Cher ami!_ I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you should be happy.'

'Nonsense, my dear Count'