happened to call. As I turned from
the door, uncertain whither to turn my steps, I walked on unconsciously
towards the Boulevard, and occupied as I was, thinking over all the
chances before me, did not perceive where I stood till the bright glare
of a large gas lamp over my head apprised me that I was at the door of
the well known Salon des Etrangers, at the corner of the Rue Richelieu;
carriages, citadines, and vigilantes were crowding, crashing, and
clattering on all sides, as the host of fashion and the gaming-table were
hastening to their champ de bataille. Not being a member of the Salon,
and having little disposition to enter, if I had been, I stood for some
minutes looking at the crowd as it continued to press on towards the
splendid and brilliantly lighted stairs, which leads from the very street
to the rooms of the palace, for such, in the magnificence and luxury of
its decorations, it really is. As I was on the very eve of turning
away, a large and very handsome cab-horse turned the corner from the
balustrade, with the most perfect appointment of harness and carriage
I had seen for a long time.

While I continued to admire the taste and propriety of the equipage, a
young man in deep mourning sprung from the inside and stood upon the
pavement before me. "A deux heures, Charles," said he to his servant,
as the cab turned slowly around. The voice struck me as well known. I
waited till he approached the lamp, to catch a glimpse of the face; and
what was my surprise to recognise my cousin, Guy Lorrequer of the 10th,
whom I had not met with for six years before. My first impulse was not
to make myself known to him. Our mutual position with regard to Lady
Jane was so much a mystery, as regarded myself, that I feared the result
of any meeting, until I was sufficiently aware of how matters stood, and
whether we were to meet as friends and relations, or rivals, and
consequently enemies.

Before I had time to take my resolution, Guy had recognised me, and
seizing me by the hand with both his, called, "Harry, my old friend, how
are you? how long have you been here, and never to call on me? Why man,
what is the meaning of this?" Before I had time to say that I was only a
few hours in Paris, he again interrupted me by saying: "And how comes it
that you are not in mourning? You must surely have heard it."

"Heard what?" I cried, nearly hoarse from agitation. "Our poor old
friend, Sir Guy, didn't you know, is d