ard bore the name of La Comtesse de Glencore, nee
Comtesse della Torre.

The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much as we do
ourselves, all that we mean to impart to him; and now let us come back
to that equipage around which swarmed the fashion of Florence, eagerly
pressing forward to catch a word, a smile, or even a look, and actually
perched on every spot from which they could obtain a glimpse of those
within. A young Russian Prince, with his arm in a sling, had just
recited the incident of his' late duel; a Neapolitan Minister had
delivered a rose-colored epistle from a Royal Highness of his own
court. A Spanish Grandee had deposited his offering of camellias, which
actually covered the front cushions of the carriage; and now a little
lane was formed for the approach of the old Duke de Brignolles, who
made his advance with a mingled courtesy and haughtiness that told of
Versailles and long ago.

A very creditable specimen of the old _noblesse_ of France was the Duke,
and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Marechal to
Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age, his dark eye
seemed to glisten the brighter beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. He
had served with distinction as a soldier, and been an ambassador at the
court of the Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining
the character of a true and loyal gentleman,--a man who could reflect
nothing but honor upon the great country he belonged to. It was amongst
the scandal of Florence that he was the most devoted of La Contessa's
admirers; but we are quite willing to believe that his admiration had
nothing in it of love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most
marked notice. He was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and
the constant visitor at her evenings at home. It was, then, with a
degree of favor that many an envious heart coveted, she extended her
hand to him as he came forward, which he kissed with all the lowly
deference he would have shown to that of his prince.

"_Mon cher Duc_" said she, smiling, "I have such a store of grievances
to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but
verbena."

"Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's."

"Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he
to be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?"

"Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last."

"_Mais a quoi bon l'Emir_ if he can't do impossibiliti