erwise; she was
even beloved by a certain number of persons; but she never was what is
termed _consideree_,--and this gave to her _salon_ a different aspect
from that of the others we have spoken of. A dozen names could be
mentioned, whose wearers, without any means of "entertaining" their
friends, or giving them more than a glass of _eau sucree_, were yet
surrounded by everything highest and best in the land, simply because
they were _gens considerables_, as the phrase went; but
Mme. d'Abrantes, who more or less received all that mixed population
known by the name of _tout Paris_, never was, we repeat, _consideree_.

The way in which Mme. Ancelot introduces her "friend," the poor
Duchesse d'Abrantes, on the scene, is exceedingly amusing and natural;
and we have here at once the opportunity of applying the remark we
made in commencing these pages, upon Mme. Ancelot's truthfulness. She
is the _habituee_ of the house of Mme. d'Abrantes; she professes
herself attached to the Duchess; yet she does not scruple to tell
everything as it really is, nor, out of any of the usual little
weaknesses of friendship, does she omit any one single detail that
proves the strange and indeed somewhat "Bohemian" manner of life of
her patroness. We, the readers of her book, are obviously obliged to
her for her indiscretions; with those who object to them from other
motives we have nothing to do.

Here, then, is the fashion in which we are introduced to Mme. la
Duchesse d'Abrantes, widow of Marshal Junot, and a born descendant of
the Comneni, Emperors of Byzantium.

Mme. Ancelot is sitting quietly by her fireside, one evening in
October, (some short time after the establishment of the monarchy of
July,) waiting to hear the result of a representation at the Theatre
Francais, where a piece of her own is for the first time being
performed. All at once, she hears several carriages stop at her door,
a number of persons rush up the stairs, and she finds herself in the
arms of the Duchesse d'Abrantes, who was resolved, as she says, to be
the first to congratulate her on her success. The hour is a late one;
supper is served, and conversation is prolonged into the "small
hours." All at once Mme. d'Abrantes exclaims, with an explosion of
delight,--"Ah! what a charming time is the night! one is so
deliciously off for talking! so safe! so secure! safe from bores and
from duns!" (_on ne craint ni les ennuyeux ni les creanciers_.')

Madame Ancelot affi