Were Let us be friends!'

LUVOIS.

Well?

ALFRED.

How then, after that,

Can you and she meet as acquaintances?

LUVOIS.

What!

Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of hers?

ALFRED.

In our converse to-night we avoided the past.
But the question I ask should be answer'd at last :
By you, if you will; if you will not, by her.

LUVOIS.

Indeed? but that question, milord, can it stir
Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er?

ALFRED.

Yes. Esteem may remain, although love be no more.
Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand

To my wife!) to present her.
Has clasp'd that of Matilda.

I did so. Her hand
We gentlemen owe
Respect to the name that is ours: and, if so,
To the woman that bears it a two-fold respect.
Answer, Duc de Luvois! Did Lucile then reject
The proffer you made of your hand and your name
Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim
Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, because
My title to do so is clear by the laws

?

That

That all gentlemen honour. Make only one sign you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, For which, if your own virgin sister were by,

From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, and I And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow.

XXXI.

The Duke

Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look
Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said,
And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts through
his head:

Leave Ems! would that suit me? no! that were again
To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain,

'She herself will et puis, il a raison; on est Gentilhomme avant tout!' He replied therefore,

'

'Madam de Nevers had rejected me. I,

“Nay!

In those days, I was mad; and in some mad reply 'I threaten'd the life of the rival to whom

'That rejection was due, I was led to presume.

6

She fear'd for his life; and the letter which then

She wrote me, I show'd you; we met and again

'My hand was refused, and my love was denied. 'And the glance you mistook was the vizard which Pride 'Lends to Humiliation.'

'And so,' half in jest

He went on, 'in this best world, 'tis all for the best ; 'You are wedded (bless'd Englishman !), wedded to one Whose past can be call'd into question by none:

And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to feel

'I am lord of myself, and the Mode: and Lucile
'Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair
As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there!
'A Dian in marble that scorns any troth

'With the little love-gods, whom I thank for us both,
'While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart,
'That her arrows are marble as well as her heart,
'Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargrave!'

XXXII.

The Duke, with a smile,

Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking,

meanwhile,

They had reach❜d.

XXXIII.

Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown

Heart and mind!) in the darkness bewilder'd, alone : 'And so,' to himself did he mutter, and so

''Twas to rescue my life, gentle spirit! and, oh,

For this did I doubt her? . a light word—a look—

...

The mistake of a moment! . . . for this I forsookFor this? Pardon, pardon, Lucile ! O Lucile ! Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal, Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his brain, As he stray'd down the darkness.

XXXIV.

Re-entering again

The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turn'd to roulette,

And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, and yet He still smiled: night deepen'd: he played his last number:

Went home and soon slept and still smiled in his

:

slumber.

:

XXXV.

In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, 'In the grief or mischance of a friend, you may note, "There is something which always gives pleasure.'

That reflection fell short of the truth as it was.

Alas!

La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down—
'No misfortune, but what some one turns to his own
Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it
There ever is somebody ready to profit:

No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall 'Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it.' Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld!

Fool! one man's wit

All men's selfishness how should it fathom?

Dost thou satirize Nature?

O sage,

She laughs at thy page.

CANTO II.

I.

COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED.

'London, 18-.

'MY DEAR ALFRED,

'Your last letters put me in pain.

This contempt of existence, this listless disdain. Of your own life,—its joys and its duties,—the deuce Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse! 'I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your leg, And compel you to stump through the world on a peg. 'I wish that you had, like myself (more's the pity !), 'To sit seven hours on this cursed committee.

'I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread "Of another (what is it that Dante has said ?) 'And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, 'I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd

On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause 'For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws!

This pressure against all the purpose of life,

This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife,

Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth,

The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. 'But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with

time,

'Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavour sublime,