Ormond had written to M. and Madame de Connal to announce his intentions of spending some time in Paris, and to thank them for the invitation to their house; an invitation which, however, he declined accepting; but he requested M. de Connal to secure apartments for him in some hotel near them.

Upon his arrival he found every thing prepared for a Milord Anglois: handsome apartments, fashionable carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a valet-de-chambre, waited the orders of monsieur.

Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival — welcomed him to Paris with cordial gaiety — was more glad, and more sorry, and said more in five minutes, and above all made more protestations of regard, than an Englishman would make in a year.

He was rejoiced — delighted — enchanted to see Mr. Ormond. Madame de Connal was absolutely transported with joy when she heard he was on his road to Paris. Madame was now at Versailles; but she would return in a few days: she would be in despair at Mr. Ormond’s not accepting the apartments in the Hotel de Connal, which were actually prepared for him; but in fact it was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. He hoped Mr. Ormond liked his apartments — but in truth that was of little consequence, for he would never be in them, except when he was asleep or dressing.

Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and was going to have thanked M. de Connal for the trouble he had taken; but at the word superbe, Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination.

“Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought,” he said, “to have every thing now in the first style.” He congratulated our hero on his accession of fortune, “of which Madame de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. And Mdlle. O’Faley, too, she who had always prophesied that they should meet in happiness at Paris, was now absolutely in ecstasy.”

“You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of what a strong impression you left on all our minds — no conception of the lively interest you always inspired.”

It was a lively interest which had slumbered quietly for a considerable time, but now it wakened with perfectly good grace. Ormond set little value on these sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear that it should be supposed he was deceived by them; yet, altogether, the manner was agreeable, and Connal was essentially useful at this moment: as Sir Ulick had justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain circumstances, be a useful friend.

“But, my dear fellow,” cried Connal, “what savage cut your hair last? — It is a sin to trust your fine head to the barbarians — my hairdresser shall be with you in the twinkling of an eye: I will send my tailor — allow me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before you decide — I am said to have a tolerable taste — the ladies say so, and they are always the best judges. The French dress will become you prodigiously, I foresee — but, just Heaven! — what buckles! — those must have been made before the flood: no disparagement to your taste, but what could you do better in the Black Islands? Paris is the only place for bijouterie— except in steel, Paris surpasses the universe — your eyes will be dazzled by the Palais Royal. But this hat! — you know it can’t appear — it would destroy you: my chapelier shall be with you instantly. It will all be done in five minutes — you have no idea of the celerity with which you may command every thing at Paris. But I am so sorry that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a necessity of being there myself to-morrow for the rest of this week; but I have a friend, a little Abbé, who will be delighted in the mean time to show you Paris.”

From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence Annaly completely out of his thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and dissipation the too painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. He was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to see something of Paris.

He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to the play, to accustom himself to the language. He must wear off his English or Irish awkwardness a little, before he should be presented to Madame de Connal, or appear in French society. A profusion of compliments followed from M. de Connal; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he should go incog. this night to the Théatre Fran?ois.

Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre.

They were in une petite loge, where they could see without being seen. In the box with them was the young Abbé, and a pretty little French actress, Mdlle. Adrienne. At the first coup-d’oeil, the French ladies did not strike him as handsome; they looked, as he said, like dolls, all eyes and rouge; and rouge, as he thought, very unbecomingly put on, in one frightful red patch or plaster, high upon the cheek, without any pretence to the imitation of natural colour.

“Eh fi donc!” said the Abbé, “what you call the natural colour, that would be rouge coquette, which no woman of quality can permit herself.”

“No, Dieu merci,” said the actress, “that is for us: ’tis very fair we should have some advantages in the competition, they have so many — by birth — if not by nature.”

M. de Connal explained to Ormond that the frightful red patch which offended his eye, was the mark of a woman of quality: “women only of a certain rank have the privilege of wearing their rouge in that manner — your eye will soon grow accustomed to it, and you will like it as a sign of rank and fashion.”

The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something about “la belle nature,” and the good taste of Monsieur l’Anglois. The moment the curtain drew up, she told him the names of all the actors and actresses as they appeared — noting the value and celebrity of each. The play was, unfortunately for Ormond, a tragedy; and Le Kain was at Versailles. Ormond thought he understood French pretty well, but he did not comprehend what was going on. The French tone of tragic declamation, so unnatural to his ear, distracted his attention so much, that he could not make out the sense of what any of the actors said.

“’Tis like the quality rouge,” said Connal; “your taste must be formed to it. But your eye and your ear will accommodate themselves to both. You will like it in a month.”

M. de Connal said this was always the first feeling of foreigners. “But have patience,” said he; “go on listening, and in a night or two, perhaps in an hour or two, the sense will break in upon you all at once. You will never find yourself at a loss in society. Talk, at all events, whether you speak ill or well, talk: don’t aim at correctness — we don’t expect it Besides, as they will tell you, we like to see how a stranger ‘play with our language.’”

M. de Connal’s manner was infinitely more agreeable toward Ormond now than in former days.

There was perhaps still at the bottom of his mind the same fund of self-conceit, but he did not take the same arrogant tone. It was the tone not of a superior to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new society, and a country to which he is a stranger. There was as little of the protector in his manner as possible, considering his natural presumption and acquired habits: considering that he had made his own way in Paris, and that he thought that to be the first man in a certain circle there, was to be nearly the first man in the universe. The next morning, the little Abbé called to pay his compliments, and to offer his services.

M. de Connal being obliged to go to Versailles, in his absence the Abbé would be very happy, he said, to attend Mr. Ormond, and to show him Paris: he believed, he humbly said, that he had the means of showing him every thing that was worth his attention.

Away they drove.

“Gare! gare!” cried the coachman, chasing away the droves of walkers before him. There being no footpaths in the streets of Paris, they were continually driven up close to the walls.

Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril and narrow escapes.

“Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his voyage?” said the Abbé.

“No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. I will make the coachman drive more quietly.”

“Du tout! — not at all,” said the little Abbé, who was of a noble family, and had all the airs of it. “Leave him to settle it with the people — they are used to it. And, after all, what have they to think of, but to take care of themselves —la cancille?”

“La canaille,” synonymous with the swinish multitude, an expression of contempt for which the Parisian nobility have since paid terribly dear.

Ormond, who was not used to it, found it difficult to abstract his sympathy from his fellow-creatures, by whatever name they were called; and he could not exclusively command his attention, to admire the houses and churches, which his Abbé continually pointed out to his notice.

He admired, however, the fine fa?ade of the Louvre, the Place de Louis XV., the astonishingly brilliant spectacle of the Palais Royal, Notre Dame, a few handsome bridges, and the drives on the Boulevards.

But in fact there was at that time much more to be heard, and less to be seen, than at present in Paris. Paris was not then as fine a city as it now is. Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred the bay of Dublin to all he then saw on the banks of the Seine.

The little Abbé was not satisfied with the paucity of his exclamations, and would have given him up, as un froid Anglois, but that, fortunately, our young hero had each night an opportunity of redeeming his credit. They went to the play — he saw French comedy! — he saw and heard Molet, and Madame de la Ruette: the Abbé was charmed with his delight, his enthusiasm, his genuine enjoyment of high comedy, and his quick feeling of dramatic excellence. It was indeed perfection — beyond any thing of which Ormond could have formed an idea. Every part well performed — nothing to break the illusion!

This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm was the third day at its height, when Connal returned from Versailles; and it was so strong upon him, and he was so full of Molet and Madame de la Ruette, that he could scarcely listen to what Connal said of Versailles, the king’s supper, and Madame la Dauphine.

“No doubt — he should like to see all that — but at all events he was positively determined to see Molet, and Madame de la Ruette, every night they acted.”

Connal smiled, and only answered, “Of course he would do as he pleased.” But in the mean time, it was now Madame de Connal’s night for seeing company, and he was to make his debut in a French assembly. Connal called for him early, that they might have a few minutes to themselves before the company should arrive.

Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight flutter at the heart, at the thought of seeing Dora again.

The arrival of her husband interrupted these thoughts.

Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed Ormond from head to foot.

“Very well, Crepin: you have done your part, and Nature has done hers, for Monsieur.”

“Yes, truly,” said Crepin, “Nature has done wonders for Monsieur; and Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really all the air of a Frenchman.”

“Quite l’air comme il faut! l’air noble!” added Connal; and he agreed with Crepin in opinion that French dress made an astonishing difference in Mr. Ormond.

“Madame de Connal, I am sure, will think so,” continued Connal, “will see it with admiration — for she really has good taste. I will pledge myself for your success. With that figure, with that air, you will turn many heads in Paris — if you will but talk enough. Say every thing that comes into your head — don’t be like an Englishman, always thinking about the sense — the more nonsense the better — trust me —livrez-vous— let yourself out — follow me, and fear nothing,” cried he, running down stairs, delighted with Ormond and with himself.

He foresaw that he should gain credit by producing such a man. He really wished that Ormond should succeed in French society, and that he should pass his time agreeably in Paris.

No man could feel better disposed towards another. Even if he should take a fancy to Madame, it was to the polite French husband a matter of indifference, except so far as the arrangement might, or might not, interfere with his own views.

And these views — what were they? — Only to win all the young man’s fortune at play. A cela près — excepting this, he was sincerely Ormond’s friend, ready to do every thing possible — de faire l’impossible — to oblige and entertain him.

Connal enjoyed Ormond’s surprise at the magnificence of his hotel. After ascending a spacious staircase, and passing through antechamber after antechamber, they reached the splendid salon, blazing with lights, reflected on all sides in mirrors, that reached from the painted ceiling to the inlaid floor.

“Not a creature here yet — happily.” “Madame begs,” said the servant, “that Monsieur will pass on into the boudoir.”

“Any body with Madame?”

“No one but Madame de Clairville.”

“Only l’amie intime,” said Connal, “the bosom friend.”

“How will Dora feel? — How will it be with us both?” thought Ormond, as he followed the light step of the husband.

“Entrez! — Entrez toujours.”

Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of Dora’s beauty, her face, her figure, her air, so infinitely improved, so fashioned!

“Dora! — Ah! Madame de Connal,” cried Ormond.

No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him.

Dora gave one glance at Ormond — pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes; then leaning on the lady who stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora sighed, and exclaimed, “Ah! Harry Ormond!”

The husband vanished.

“Ah ciel!” said l’amie intime, looking towards Ormond.

“Help me to support her, Monsieur — while I seek de l’eau de Cologne.”

Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance.

Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, “The companion of my earliest days!”

Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward — “Friend of my childhood!” cried he: “yes, my sister: your father promised me this friendship — this happiness,” said he supporting her, as she raised herself from the sofa.

“Où est-il? où est-il? — Where is he, Monsieur Ormond?” cried Mademoiselle, throwing open the door. “Ah ciel, comme il est beau! A perfect Frenchman already! And how much embellished by dress! — Ah! Paris for that. Did I not prophesy? — Dora, my darling, do me the justice. — But — comme vous voilà saisie! — here’s l’amie with l’eau de Cologne. Ah! my child, recover yourself, for here is some one — the Comte de Jarillac it is entering the salon.”

The promptitude of Dora’s recovery was a new surprise to our hero. “Follow me,” said she to him, and with Parisian ease and grace she glided into the salon to receive M. de Jarillac — presented Ormond to M. le Comte —“Anglois — Irlandois — an English, an Irish gentleman — the companion of her childhood,” with the slightest, lightest tone of sentiment imaginable; and another count and another came, and a baron, and a marquis, and a duke, and Madame la Comtesse de —— and Madame la Duchesse ——; and all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or sentiment as the occasion required — now advancing a step or two to mark empressement where requisite; — regaining always, imperceptibly, the most advantageous situation and attitude for herself; — presenting Ormond to every one — quite intent upon him, yet appearing entirely occupied with every body else; and, in short, never forgetting them, him, or herself for an instant.

“Can this be Dora?” thought Ormond in admiration, yet in astonishment that divided his feelings. It was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how completely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed into a French woman of fashion.

And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing with crosses and stars, she received les hommages— enjoyed le succès— accepted the incense without bending too low or holding herself too high — not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her head, not more than was agreeable and becoming — extending her smiles to all, and hoping all the time that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him — for her early passion for him had revived in an instant — the first sight of his figure and air, the first glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, too, how well he would succeed at Paris — how many rivals she would have in a week: these perceptions, sensations, and conclusions, requ............