FullReads

Madame Dalmas–for she must be called according to the name engraved on her card–was a little meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with bright eyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an ill-pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French and worse English.

“Bon jour, miladi Lucy,” she exclaimed as she entered Lady Lucy’s sanctum; “need not inquire of health, you look si charmante. Oh, si belle!–that make you wear old clothes so longer dan oder ladies, and have so leetel for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look well in anyting, but yet she should not wear old clothes: no right–for example–for de trade, and de hoosband always like de wife well dressed–ha–ha!”

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have any relish for Madame Dalmas’ nauseous compliments, and more than half aware of her cheats and falsehoods, she yet tolerated the creature from her own dire necessities.

“Sit down, Madame Dalmas,” she said, “I am dreadfully in want of money; but I really don’t know what I have for you.”

“De green velvet, which you not let me have before Easter, I still give you four pounds for it, though perhaps you worn it very much since then.”

“Only twice–only seven times in all–and it cost me twenty guineas,” sighed Lady Lucy.

“Ah, but so old-fashioned–I do believe I not see my money for it. Voyez-vous, de Lady Lucy is one petite lady–si jolie, mais tres petite. If she were de tall grand lady, you see de great dresses could fit small lady, but de leetle dresses fit but ver few.”

“If I sell the green velvet I must have another next winter!” murmured Lady Lucy.

“Ah!–vous avez raison–when de season nouveautes come in. I tell you what–you let me have also de white lace robe you show me once, the same time I bought from you one little old pearl brooch.”

“My wedding-dress? Oh, no, I cannot sell my wedding-dress!” exclaimed poor Lady Lucy, pressing her hands conclusively together.

“What for not?–you not want to marry over again–I give you twenty-two pounds for it.”

“Twenty-two pounds!–why, it is Brussels point, and cost a hundred and twenty.”

“Ah, I know–but you forget I perhaps keep it ten years and not sell–and besides you buy dear; great lady often buy ver dear!” and Madame Dalmas shook her head with the solemnity of a sage.

“No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress,” again murmured the wife. And be it recorded, the temptress, for once, was baffled; but, at the expiration of an hour, Madame Dalmas left the house, with a huge bundle under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealed in her countenance, had any one thought it worth while to study the expression of her disagreeable face.

Again Lady Lucy locked her door; and placing a bank note and some sovereigns on the table, she sank into a low chair, and while a few large silent tears flowed down her cheeks, she at last found courage to open the three letters which had hitherto remained, unread, in her apron pocket. The first, the second, seemed to contain nothing to surprise her, however much there might be to annoy; but it was different with the last; here was a gross overcharge, and perhaps it was not with quite a disagreeable feeling that Lady Lucy found something of which she could justly complain. She rose hurriedly and unlocked a small writing-desk, which had long been used as a receptacle for old letters and accounts.

To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did not present a very orderly arrangement. Cards of address, bills paid and unpaid, copies of verses, and papers of many descriptions, were huddled together, and it was not by any means surprising that Lady Lucy failed in her search for the original account by which to rectify the error in her shoemaker’s bill. In the hurry and nervous trepidation, which had latterly become almost a constitutional ailment with her, she turned out the contents of the writing-desk into an easy-chair, and then kneeling before it, she set herself to the task of carefully examining the papers. Soon she came to one letter which had been little expected in that place, and which still bore the marks of a rose, whose withered leaves also remained, that had been put away in its folds. The rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve of their marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting, and bore but a few days earlier date. With quickened pulses she opened the envelope; and though a mist rose before her eyes, it seemed to form into a mirror in which she saw the by-gone hours. And so she read–and read.