at its true value; hardly ever productive of anything but disappointment.  Aspirant of the highest mysteries of the soul, he passes through the ordeal of fire and tears, happy if he keep his faith unshaken and his heart pure, for the wiser worship hereafter.  We all know this; and few know it better than myself.  Yet, with all its suffering, which of us would choose to obliterate all record of his first romance?  Which of us would be without the memory of its smiles and tears, its sunshine and its clouds?  Not I for one.

CHAPTER XVI.

A CONTRETEMPS IN A CARRIAGE.

My slavery lasted somewhat longer than three weeks, and less than a month; and was brought, oddly enough, to an abrupt conclusion.  This was how it happened.

I had, as usual, attended Madame de Marignan one evening to the Opera, and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others.  There was one man in particular whom I hated, and whom (perhaps because I hated him) she distinguished rather more than the rest.  His name was Delaroche, and he called himself Monsieur le Comte Delaroche.  Most likely he was a Count—–­I have no reason to doubt his title; but I chose to doubt it for mere spite, and because he was loud and conceited, and wore a little red and green ribbon in his button-hole.  He had, besides, an offensive sense of my youth and his own superiority, which I have never forgiven to this day.  On the particular occasion of which I am now speaking, this person had made his appearance in Madame de Marignan’s box at the close of the first act, established himself in the seat behind hers, and there held the lists against all comers during the remainder of the evening.  Everything he said, everything he did, aggravated me.  When he looked through her lorgnette, I loathed him.  When he admired her fan, I longed to thrust it down his throat.  When he held her bouquet to his odious nose (the bouquet that I had given her!) I felt it would have been justifiable manslaughter to take him up bodily, and pitch him over into the pit.

At length the performance came to a close, and M. Delaroche, having taken upon himself to arrange Madame de Marignan’s cloak, carry Madame de Marignan’s fan, and put Madame de Marignan’s opera-glass into its morocco case, completed his officiousness by offering his arm and conducting her into the lobby, whilst I, outwardly indifferent but inwardly boiling, dropped behind, and consigned him silently to all the torments of the seven circles.

It was an oppressive autumnal night without a star in the sky, and so still that one might have carried a lighted taper through the streets.  Finding it thus warm, Madame de Marignan proposed walking down the line of carriages, instead of waiting till her own came up; and so she and M. Delaroche led the way and I followed.  Having found the carriage, he assisted her in, placed her fan and bouquet on the opposite seat, lingered a moment at the open door, and had the unparalleled audacity to raise her hand to his lips at parting.  As for me, I stood proudly back, and lifted my hat.