ed; the well-known library-salon, in
which the conversaziones took place, was crowded, but not with guests.
The arm-chair in which the lady of the mansion was wont to sit was
occupied by a stout, coarse gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, busily
engaged in examining a marble hand extended on a book, the fingers of
which were modeled from a cast of those of the absent mistress of the
establishment. People, as they passed through the room, poked the
furniture, pulled about the precious objects of art and ornaments of
various kinds that lay on the table; and some made jests and ribald
jokes on the scene they witnessed.

At this compulsory sale things went for less than half their value.
Pictures by Lawrence and Landseer, a library consisting of thousands of
volumes, vases of exquisite workmanship, chandeliers of ormolu, and
precious porcelains--all were knocked down relentlessly at farcical
prices. Lady Blessington reserved nothing for herself. She knew that
the hour had struck, and very soon she was on her way to Paris, whither
Count d'Orsay had already gone, having been threatened with arrest by a
boot-maker to whom he owed five hundred pounds.

D'Orsay very naturally went to Paris, for, like his father, he had
always been an ardent Bonapartist, and now Prince Louis Bonaparte had
been chosen president of the Second French Republic. During the
prince's long period of exile he had been the guest of Count d'Orsay,
who had helped him both with money and with influence. D'Orsay now
expected some return for his former generosity. It came, but it came
too late. In 1852, shortly after Prince Louis assumed the title of
emperor, the count was appointed director of fine arts; but when the
news was brought to him he was already dying. Lady Blessington died
soon after coming to Paris, before the end of the year 1849.

Comment upon this tangled story is scarcely needed. Yet one may quote
some sayings from a sort of diary which Lady Blessington called her
"Night Book." They seem to show that her supreme happiness lasted only
for a little while, and that deep down in her heart she had condemned
herself.

A woman's head is always influenced by her heart; but a man's heart is
always influenced by his head.

The separation of friends by death is less terrible than the divorce of
two hearts that have loved, but have ceased to sympathize, while memory
still recalls what they once were to each other.

People are seldom tired of the wor