urns, and constantly enlivened by Leon de Lora's
sallies--for he is considered the most roguish wit of Paris to-day--and
by the good taste which will surprise no one after the list of guests,
literature had scarcely been mentioned. However, the butterfly flittings
of this French tilting match were certain to come to it, were it only to
flutter over this essentially French subject. But before coming to the
turn in the conversation which led the Consul-General to speak, it will
not be out of place to give some account of him and his family.

This diplomate, a man of four-and-thirty, who had been married about six
years, was the living portrait of Lord Byron. The familiarity of that
face makes a description of the Consul's unnecessary. It may, however,
be noted that there was no affectation in his dreamy expression. Lord
Byron was a poet, and the Consul was poetical; women know and recognize
the difference, which explains without justifying some of their
attachments. His handsome face, thrown into relief by a delightful
nature, had captivated a Genoese heiress. A Genoese heiress! the
expression might raise a smile at Genoa, where, in consequence of the
inability of daughters to inherit, a woman is rarely rich; but Onorina
Pedrotti, the only child of a banker without heirs male, was an
exception. Notwithstanding all the flattering advances prompted by a
spontaneous passion, the Consul-General had not seemed to wish to marry.
Nevertheless, after living in the town for two years, and after certain
steps taken by the Ambassador during his visits to the Genoese Court,
the marriage was decided on. The young man withdrew his former refusal,
less on account of the touching affection of Onorina Pedrotti than by
reason of an unknown incident, one of those crises of private life which
are so instantly buried under the daily tide of interests that, at a
subsequent date, the most natural actions seem inexplicable.

This involution of causes sometimes affects the most serious events of
history. This, at any rate, was the opinion of the town of Genoa, where,
to some women, the extreme reserve, the melancholy of the French Consul
could be explained only by the word passion. It may be remarked, in
passing, that women never complain of being the victims of a preference;
they are very ready to immolate themselves for the common weal. Onorina
Pedrotti, who might have hated the Consul if she had been altogether
scorned, loved her _sposo_ no le