a pretty face, but--ah,
bah! one can't amuse oneself always with a little paysanne, for she's
nothing better, after all; and I'm half afraid the Melusine begins to
bore me."

"Better not tell her so, mon ami," said De Kerroualle; "she'd be a nasty
enemy."

"Pooh! a woman like that loves and forgets."

"Sans doute; but they also sometimes revenge. Poor little Bluette you
may safely turn over; but Madame la Baronne won't so easily be jilted."

Vaughan laughed. "Oh, I'm not going to break her heart. Don't you know,
Gaston, 'on a bien de la peine a rompre, meme quand on ne s'aime plus."

"I shouldn't have said you found it so," smiled De Concressault, "for
you change your loves as you change your gloves. La chevelure doree will
be the next, eh?"

"Poor little thing!" said Ernest, bitterly. "I wish her a better fate."

He went to call on la chevelure doree, nevertheless, the morning after,
and found her in the salon alone, greatly to his surprise and pleasure.
Nina Gordon _was_ pretty _even_ in the morning--as Byron says--and she
was much more, she was fascinating, and as perfectly demonstrative and
natural as any peasant girl out of the meadows of Arles, ignorant of the
magic words toilette, cosmetique, and crinoline.

She received him with evident pleasure and perfect unreserve, which even
this daring and skeptical _Lion_ could not twist or contort into
boldness, and began to talk fast and gaily.

"Do I like Paris?" she said, in answer to his question. "Oh yes; or at
least I should, if I could see it differently. I detest sight-seeing,
crowding one's brains with pictures, statues, palaces, Holy Families
jostling Polinchinelle, races, mixing up with grand masses, Versailles,
clouding St. Cloud--the Trianon rattled through in five minutes--all in
inextricable muddle. _I_ should like to see Paris at leisure, with some
one with whom I had a 'rapport,' my thoughts undisturbed, and my
historical associations fresh and fervent."

"I wish I were honored with the office of your guide," said Ernest,
smiling. "Do you think you would have a 'rapport' with me?"

She smiled in return. "Yes, I think I should. I cannot tell why. But as
it is, my warmest souvenir of Conde is chilled by the offer of an ice,
and my tenderest thought of Louise de la Valliere is shivered with the
suggestion of dinner."

Vaughan laughed. "Bravo!" thought he. "Thank God this is no tame English
icicle. I would give much," he said, "to be able to tak