The Colonel looked all amazement.

  “I’m sorry you are disappointed, dearest,” continued Adèle, “if you are so. I am sorry that I’m not Caroline Stanhope with a large fortune, but if I do not bring you a fortune, by economy I will save you one. Let me only see that you are not deprived of your usual pleasures and luxuries, and I care not what I do or how I live. You will find no exacting wife in me, dearest, troubling you for expenses you cannot afford. I will live but to please you, and if I do not succeed, I will die — if you wish to be rid of me.”

  Adèle resumed her caresses with the tears running down her cheeks, for she loved her husband dearly, and felt what she said.

  The Colonel could not resist her: he put his arms round her and said, “Do not cry, Adèle, I believe you, and, moreover, I feel that I love you. I am thankful that I have not married Caroline Stanhope, for I presume she cannot be very different from her parents. I admit that I have been deceiving myself, and that I have deceived myself into a better little wife than I deserve, perhaps. I really am glad of my escape. I would not have been connected with those people for the universe. We will do as you say: we will go to France for a short time, and you shall introduce me to your relations.”

  Before the next morning, Adèle had gained the victory. The Colonel felt that he had deceived himself, that he might be laughed at, and that the best that could be done was to go to Paris and announce from thence his marriage in the papers. He had a sufficiency to live upon, to command luxury as well as comforts, and on the whole he was now satisfied, that a handsome and strongly-attached wife, who brought him no fortune, was preferable to a marriage of mere interest. I may as well here observe, that Adèle played her cards so well, that the Colonel was a happy and contented man. She kept her promise, and he found with her management that he had more money than a married man required, and he blessed the day in which he had married by mistake. And now to return to the Stanhopes.

  Although they were too angry at the time to pay much heed to the Colonel’s parting threats, yet when they had cooled, and had time for reflection, Mr and Mrs Stanhope were much distressed at the intelligence that their daughter was not legally married. For some days, they remained quiet, at last they thought it advisable to come to terms to save their daughter’s honour. But during this delay on their part, Adèle had called upon me, and introduced her husband and made me acquainted with all that had passed. They stated their intention of proceeding to Paris immediately, and although I knew that Adèle’s relations were of good family, yet I thought an introduction to Madame d’Albret would be of service to her. I therefore gave her one, and it proved most serviceable, for the Colonel found himself in the first society in Paris, and his wife was well received and much admired. When, therefore, Mr Stanhope made up his mind to call upon the Colonel at the address of the hotel where they had put up, he found they had left, and nobody knew where they had gone. This was a severe blow, and Mr and Mrs Stanhope were in a state of the utmost uncertainty and suspense. Now was the time for Mr Selwyn to come forward, and I despatched a note to him, requesting him to come to town. I put him in possession of Adèle’s history, her marriage with the Colonel, and all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, and I pointed out to him how he should act when he called upon Mr Stanhope, which I advised him to do immediately. He followed my advice, and thus described what passed on his return.

  “I sent up my card to Mr and Mrs Stanhope, and was received almost as politely as the Colonel. I made no remark, but taking a chair, which was not offered to me, I said, ‘You have my card, Mr Stanhope, I must, in addition to my name, inform you that I am a barrister, and that my father is Judge Selwyn, who now sits on the King’s Bench. You probably have met him in the circles in which you visit, although you are not acquainted with him. Your sister, Madame Bathurst, we have the pleasure of knowing.’

  “This introduction made them look more civil, for a Judge was with them somebody.

  “‘My object in coming here is to speak to you relative to your daughter.’

  “‘Do you come from the Colonel, then?’ said Mrs Stanhope, sharply.

  “‘No, madam. I have no acquaintance with the Colonel.’

  “‘Then how do you know my daughter, sir?’

  “‘I had the pleasure of meeting her at my father’s. She stayed a short time with my family at our country seat at Kew.’

  “‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs Stanhope, ‘well I had no idea of that. I’m sure the Judge was very kind; but, sir, you know that my daughter has married very unfortunately.’

  “‘That she has married, madam, I am aware, but I trust not unfortunately.’

  “‘Why, sir, she has married a colonel, — a fellow who came here and told us it was no marriage at all!’

  “‘It is to rectify that mistake, madam, which has induced me to call. The Colonel, madam, did hear that your daughter was at Mrs Bradshaw’s establishment, and wished to carry her off, supposing that she was a very rich prize, but, madam, he made a slight mistake — instead of your daughter, he has run away and married the French teacher, who has not a sixpence. He has now found out his mistake, and is off to Paris to hide himself from the laughter of the town.’

  “This intelligence was the cause of much mirth and glee to Mr and Mrs Stanhope; the latter actually cried with delight, and I took care to join heartily in the merriment. As soon as it had subsided, Mrs Stanhope said —

  “‘But Mr Selwyn, you said that my daughter was married. How is that?’

  “‘Why, madam, the fact is, that your daughter’s affections were engaged at the time of this elopement of the Colonel’s, and it was her intention to make known to you that such was the case, presuming that you would not refuse to sanction her marriage; but, when the elopement took place, and it was even reported that she had run away, her position became very awkward, and the more so, as some people declared (as the Colonel asserted), that she was not legally married. On consulting with the gentleman of her choice, it was argued thus: If Miss Stanhope goes back to her father’s house after this report that she is not legally married, it will be supposed that the Colonel, finding that he was disappointed in his views, had returned her dishonoured upon her parents’ hands, and no subsequent marriage would remove the impression. It was therefore considered advisable, both on her parents’ account and on her own, that she also should elope, and then it would be easily explained that it was somebody else who had eloped with the Colonel, and that Miss Stanhope had married in a secret way. Miss Stanhope, therefore, was properly married in church before respectable witnesses, and conducted immediately afterwards by her husband to his father’s house, who approved of what was done, as now no reflection can be made, either upon Miss Stanhope or her respectable parents.’

  “‘Well, let us all know the person to whom she is married.’

  “‘To myself, madam, and your daughter is now at Judge Selwyn’s, where she has been ever since her marriage, with my mother and sisters. My father would have accompanied me, to explain all this, but the fact is, that his lordship is now so much occupied that he could not. He will, however, be happy to see Mr Stanhope, who is an idle man, either at his town house, or at his country seat. I trust, madam, as I have the honour to be your son-in-law, you will permit me to kiss your hand?’

  “‘Caroline may have done worse, my dear,’ said the lady to her husband, who was still wavering. ‘Mr Selwyn may be a judge himself, or he may be a Lord Chancellor, recollect that. Mr Selwyn you are welcome, and I shall be most happy to see his lordship, and my husband shall call upon him when we know when he will be at leisure. Oh! that Colonel, but he’s rightly served, a French teacher. Ha, ha, ha!’ and Mrs Stanhope’s mirth was communicated to her husband, who now held out his hand to me in a most patronising manner.

  “‘Well, sir, I give you joy. I believe you have saved my daughter’s character, and my dear,’ added he, very pompously, ‘we must do something for the young people.’

  “‘I trust, sir, I bear your forgiveness to Caroline.’

  “‘Yes, you do, Mr Selwyn,’ said the lady. ‘Bring her here as soon as you please. Oh that Colonel! ha, ha, ha! and it is capital. A French teacher. Ha, ha, ha.’”

  Such was the winding up of this second marriage. Had not Mr and Mrs Stanhope been much subdued by the intelligence received from the Colonel of the marriage being illegal, and had they not also been much gratified at the mistake of the Colonel, things might not have gone off so pleasantly. I have only to add, that Mr Stanhope, who appeared to obey his wife in every thing, called upon the Judge, and their interview was very amicable. Mr Stanhope, upon the Judge stating that his son had sufficient income, immediately became profuse, and settled 2000 pounds per annum upon his daughter, during his life, with a promise of much more eventually. Caroline was graciously received by her mother, and presented with some splendid diamonds. The Judge told me that he knew the part I had taken in the affair, and shook his finger at me.

  Thus ended this affair, and Madame Gironac, when she heard how busy I had been in the two elopements, said, “Ah, Valerie, you begin by marrying other people. You will end in finding a husband for yourself.”

  “That is quite another thing, madam,” I replied. “I have no objection in assisting other people to their wishes, but it does not follow that therefore I am to seek for myself what I do not wish.”

  “Valerie, I am a prophetess. You will be married some time next year. Mark my words.”

  “I will not forget them, and at the end of the year we shall see who is right, and who is wrong.”

  After all this bustle and turmoil, there was a calm, which lasted the whole winter. I followed up my usual avocations. I had as many pupils as I could attend to, and saved money fast. The winter passed away, and in the spring I expected Lionel with my brother Auguste. I looked forward to seeing my brother with great impatience; not a day that he was out of my thoughts. I was most anxious to hear of my father, my brothers, and sisters, and every particular connected with the family; even my mother was an object of interest, although not of regard, but I had forgiven all others who had ill-treated me, and I felt that I forgave and forgot, if she would behave as a mother towards me. I had received kind letters from Madame d’Albret and Adèle; the letters of the latter were most amusing. Madame Bathurst had called upon me several times. I was at peace with all the world and with myself. At last, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that he was coming over in a few days; that he had great difficulty in persuading my brother to come with him, as he could not afford the expense out of his own means, and did not like to lie under such an obligation. At last, he had been over-ruled, and was coming with him.

  “Then I shall see you again, dear Auguste!” thought I; “you who always loved me, always protected me and took my part, and who so lamented my supposed death;” and my thoughts turned to the time when he and I were with my grandmother in the palace, and our early days were passed over in review. “My poor grandmother, how I loved you! and how you deserved to be loved!” And then I calculated what I might have been, had I been left with my grandmother, and had inherited her small property; and, on reflection, I decided that I was better off now than I probably should have been, and that all was for the best. I thought of the future, and whether it was likely I ever should marry, and I decided that I never would, but that if I ever returned to my family, I would assist my sisters, and try to make them happy.

  “Yes,” thought I, “marry I never will — that is decided — nothing shall ever induce me.”

  My reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, who, apologising to me, stated that he had come to seek Monsieur Gironac.

  I replied that he was not at home, and probably it would be half an hour before he returned to dinner.

  “With your leave, mademoiselle,” said he, gracefully bowing, “I will wait till he returns. I will not, however, trespass upon your time, if it is disagreeable; perhaps the servant will accommodate me with a chair elsewhere?”

  I requested that he would be seated, as there was no fire in any other room, and he took a chair. He was a Frenchman, speaking good English, but he soon discovered that I was his countrywoman, and the conversation was carried on in French. He informed me that he was the Comte de Chavannes. But I must describe him. He was rather small in stature, but elegantly made; his features were, if anything, effeminate, but very handsome; they would have been handsome in a woman. The effeminacy, was, however, relieved by a pair of moustaches, soft, silky, and curling. His manners were peculiarly fascinating, and his conversation lively and full of point. I was much pleased with him during the half hour that we were together, during which we had kept up the conversation with much spirit. The arrival of Monsieur Gironac put an end to our tête-à-tête, and having arranged his business with him, which was relative to some flute-music which the Comte wished to be published, after a few minutes more conversation, he took his leave.

  “Now there’s a man that I would select for your husband, Valerie,” said Monsieur Gironac, after the Comte had left. “Is he not a very agreeable fellow?”

  “Yes he is,” I replied, “he is very entertaining and very well-bred. Who is he?”

  “His history is told in few words,” replied Monsieur Gironac. “His father emigrated with the Bourbons; but, unlike most of those who emigrated, he neither turned music-teacher, dancing-master, hair-dresser, nor teacher of the French language. He had a little money, and he embarked in commerce. He went as super-cargo, and then as travelling partner in a house to America, the Havannah, and the West Indies; and, after having crossed the Atlantic about twenty times in the course of the late war, he amassed a fortune of about 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, he went to Paris, resumed his title, which he had laid aside during his commercial course, was well received by Louis XVIII, and made a Colonel of the Legion of Honour. He returned to this country to settle his affairs, previous to going down to Brittany, and died suddenly, leaving the young man you have just seen, who is his only son and heir, alone on the wide world, and with a good fortune as soon as he came of age. At the time of his father’s death, he was still at school. Now he is twenty-four years old, and has been for three years in possession of the property, which is still in the English funds. He appears to like England better than France, for most of his time is passed in London. He is very talented, very musical, composes well, and is altogether a most agreeable young man, and fit for the husband of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now you have the whole history, the marriage is yet to take place.”

  “Your last observation is correct; or rather it is not, for the marriage will never take place.”

  “Mais, que voulez-vous Mademoiselle?” cried Monsieur Gironac, “must we send for the angel Gabriel for you?”

  “No,” replied I, “he is not a marrying man any more than I am a marrying woman. Is it not sufficient that I admit your Count to be very agreeable? — that won’t content you. You want me to marry a man whom I have seen for one half hour. Are you reasonable, Monsieur Gironac?”

  “He has rank, wealth, good looks, talent, and polished manners; and you admit that you do not dislike him; what would you have more?”

  “He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him.”

  “Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf, you are une enfant. I will no longer trouble myself with looking out for a husband for you. You shall die a sour old maid,” and Monsieur Gironac left the room, pretending to be in a passion.

  A few days after the meeting with Count de Chavannes, Lionel made his appearance. My heart beat quick as I welcomed him.

  “He is here,” said he, anticipating my question, “but I called just to know when we should come, and whether I was to say any thing to him before he came.”

  “No, no, tell him nothing — bring him here directly — how long will it be before you return?”

  “Not half an hour; I am at my old lodgings in Suffolk Street, so good-bye for the present,” and Lionel walked away again.

  Monsieur and Madame Gironac were both out, and would not return for an hour or two. I thought the half hour would never pass, but it did at last, and they knocked at the door. Lionel entered, followed by my brother Auguste. I was surprised at his having grown so tall and handsome.

  “Madame Gironac is not at home, mademoiselle,” said Lionel.

  “No, Monsieur Lionel.”

  “Allow me to present to you Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf, a lieutenant in the service of his Majesty the King of the French.”

  Auguste bowed, and, as I returned the salute, looked earnestly at me and started.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he, coming up to me, and speaking in a tremulous voice, “but — yes, you must be Valerie.”

  “Yes, dear Auguste,” cried I, opening my arms.

  He rushed to me and covered me with kisses, and then staggering to a chair, sat down and wept. So did I, and so did Lionel, for sympathy and company.

  “Why did you conceal this from me, Lionel?” said he after a time; “see how you have unmanned me.”

  “I only obeyed orders, Auguste,” replied Lionel; “but, now that I have executed my commission, I will leave you together, for you must have much to say to each other. I will join you at dinner-time.”

  Lionel went out and left us together; we renewed our embraces, and after we were more composed, entered into explanations. I told him my history in as few words as possible, promising to enter into details afterwards, and then I inquired about the family. Auguste replied, “I will begin from the time of your disappearance. No one certainly had any suspicion of Madame d’Albret having spirited you away; indeed, she was, as you know, constantly at the barracks till my father left, and expressed her conviction that you had destroyed yourself. The outcry against your mother was universal; she dared not show herself, and your father was in a state to excite compassion. Four or five times a day did he take his melancholy walk down to the Morgue to ascertain if your body was found. He became so melancholy, morose, and irritable, that people were afraid lest he would destroy himself. He never went home to your mother but there was a scene of reproaches on his part, and defence on hers, that was a scandal to the barracks. All her power over him ceased from that time, and has ceased for ever since, and perhaps you know that he has retired.”