ed in all the Parisian papers, and in the eyes of some he
was a lucky criminal, and of others a victim and a martyr to his
opinions, whom God alone had preserved. The women especially were
interested in the hero of this judicial drama, on account of the
exaggerated representations of his personal attractions. Received with
general curiosity, which, however, he did not seem to notice, and
crossing the rooms with his usual dignified air, Monte-Leone approached
the Duchess of Palma and expressed his gratitude for her kindness in
including him among her guests. The Duchess recognized the Count
politely, and replied to him with a few meaningless phrases. She then
left him to meet the young Marquise de Maulear, who came in leaning on
the arm of her father, the old Prince. The Prince knew the Neapolitan
Ambassador, whom he had often seen with the Duchess. He had been one of
the first to visit the Duchess of Palma. A man of intelligence and
devotion to pleasure, he thought he did not at all derogate from his
dignity by civility to a young and beautiful woman, who bore so nobly
the name which was conferred on her by love and hymen.

"Duchess," said the Prince, presenting Aminta, "you have often
questioned me about my daughter-in-law, and know what I told you. I am,
I confess, proud for you to be able now to judge for yourself." In the
_interim_ La Felina had taken in the whole person of Aminta at a single
glance, and the result of this rapid examination exerted a strange
influence on her. She grew pale, and her voice trembled, as she told the
Prince that the praises he had bestowed on the Marquise were far less
than the truth.

"The Marquis de Maulear," added she, "is an old acquaintance," and
bowing kindly to him, she offered Aminta a seat and then left her, under
the influence of an emotion which, actress as she was, she could repress
with great difficulty.

The Prince sat by his daughter-in-law, and passing in review before her
the distinguished personages of the room, described them with that
skeptical wit, that courteous irony, of which the nobles of other days
were so completely the masters. He spoke like the Duke d'Ayer of old,
that caustic wit, of whom a lady of the court said that she was amazed
that his tongue was not torn out twenty times a day, so full of pointed
needles was all he said. Aminta smiled at the pencil sketches of the
Prince, or rather at his dagger blow. Had the old man, however, been
twenty times as