“How wide you are from the mark!” said Irene, with a charming look of annoyance in the brightest eye that ever dazzled the sober senses of man; “it is not an axiom that wealth is happiness.  The poor spread such a report, but the rich know it to be false.”

Here the curtain arose, and my return to my box explained my character as the casual visitor and not the lover.  And what intentions could I have had at that moment?  I cannot say.

I was attracted by the loveliness of Mlle. Chateaudun; chance gave the opportunity for studying her charms, the fair unknown improved on acquaintance.  Hers was the exquisite grace of face and feature and winningness of manner which attracts, retains and is never to be forgotten.

From the superb tranquillity of her attitude, the intelligence of her eyes, it was easy to infer that a wider field would bring into action the hidden treasures of a gifted nature.  Over the dazzling halo that surrounded the fair one, which left me the alternative of admiring silence or heedless vagrancy of speech, one cloud lowered, eclipsing all her charms and bringing down my divinity from her pedestal—­Irene was an heiress!

The Duchess had clipped the wings of the angel with the phrase of a marriage-broker.  An heiress! the idea of a beautiful woman, full of poetry and love, inseparately linked to pounds, shillings and pence!

It was a day of amnesty to men, a fete day in Paradise, when God gave to this young girl that crown of golden hair, that seraphic brow, those eyes that purified the moral miasma of earth.  The ideal of poetry, the reality of my love!

Think of this living master-piece of the divine studio as the theme of money-changers, the prize of the highest bidder!

Of course, my dear Edgar, I saw Mlle. de Chateaudun again and again after this memorable evening; thanks to the facilities afforded me by my manoeuvring kinswoman, the Duchess, who worshipped the heiress as I worshipped the woman, I could Add a useless volume of romantic details leading you to the denouement, which you have already guessed, for you must see in me the lover of Mlle. de Chateaudun.

I wished to give you the beginning and end of my story; what do you care for the rest, since it is but the wearisome calendar of all lovers?—­The journal of a thousand incidents as interesting and important to two people as they are stupid and ridiculous to every one else.  Each day was one of progress; finally, we loved each other.  Excuse the homely platitude in this avowal.

Irene seemed perfect; her only fault, being an heiress, was lost in the intoxication of my love; everything was arranged, and in spite of her money I was to marry her.

I was delirious with joy, my feet spurned the earth.  My bliss was the ecstasy of the blest.  My delight seemed to color the contentment of other men with gloom, and I felt like begging pardon for being so happy.  It seemed that this valley of tears, astonished that any one should from a terrestrial paradise gaze upon its afflictions and still be happy, would revolt against me!