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I went after her to the other end of the saloon, noting by the way with what keen curiosity she caught up what was passing either in word or action on each side of her. When we stood opposite to the end wall, I perceived a full-length picture of a handsome, peculiar-looking man, with–in spite of his good looks–a very fierce and scowling expression. My hostess clasped her hands together as her arms hung down in front, and sighed once more. Then, half in soliloquy, she said:

‘He was the love of my youth; his stern yet manly character first touched this heart of mine. When–when shall I cease to deplore his loss!’

Not being acquainted with her enough to answer this question (if, indeed, it were not sufficiently answered by the fact of her second marriage), I felt awkward; and, by way of saying something, I remarked:

‘The countenance strikes me as resembling something I have seen before–in an engraving from an historical picture, I think; only, it is there the principal figure in a group: he is holding a lady by her hair, and threatening her with his scimitar, while two cavaliers are rushing up the stairs, apparently only just in time to save her life.’

‘Alas, alas!’ said she, ‘you too accurately describe a miserable passage in my life, which has often been represented in a false light. The best of husbands’–here she sobbed, and became slightly inarticulate with her grief–‘will sometimes be displeased. I was young and curious, he was justly angry with my disobedience–my brothers were too hasty–the consequence is, I became a widow!’

After due respect for her tears, I ventured to suggest some commonplace consolation. She turned round sharply:–

‘No, monsieur: my only comfort is that I have never forgiven the brothers who interfered so cruelly, in such an uncalled-for manner, between my dear husband and myself. To quote my friend Monsieur Sganarelle–“Ce sont petites choses qui sont de temps en temps necessaires dans l’amitie; et cinq ou six coups d’epee entre gens qui s’aiment ne font que ragaillardir l’affection.” You observe the colouring is not quite what it should be?’

‘In this light the beard is of rather a peculiar tint,’ said I.

‘Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, and gave him such a distinguished air, quite different from the common herd. Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come near this flambeau!’ And going near the light, she took off a bracelet of hair, with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly. I did not know what to say. ‘His precious lovely beard!’ said she. ‘And the pearls go so well with the delicate blue!’

Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fell upon him before venturing to speak, now said, ‘It is strange Monsieur Ogre is not yet arrived!’

‘Not at all strange,’ said she, tartly. ‘He was always very stupid, and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he comes worse off; and it is very well he does, for he is credulous and cowardly fellow. Not at all strange! If you will’–turning to her husband, so that I hardly heard her words, until I caught–‘Then everybody would have their rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not, monsieur?’ addressing me.

‘If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of the reform bill, or the millennium,–but I am in ignorance.’

And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown open wide, and every one started to their feet to greet a little old lady, leaning on a thin black wand–and–

‘Madame la Feemarraine,’ was announced by a chorus of sweet shrill voices.

And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollow oak-tree, with the slanting glory of the dawning day shining full in my face, and thousands of little birds and delicate insects piping and warbling out their welcome to the ruddy splendour.