November came, and we were launched on the full tide of Parisian society.  Mr. Denham had gone to Germany to complete certain scientific studies, and he left his fair betrothed with a parting injunction not to dance with any foreigner.  As well shut her up in a cell!  Nowhere is there such a furore for dancing as in Paris.  Every family has its weekly reception, and every card of invitation bears in the corner, “On dansera.”  These receptions are the freest and gayest imaginable.  Any person who has the entree of the house comes when he feels inclined.  Introductions are not indispensable as with us:  any gentleman may ask a lady to dance with him, whether he has been formally presented or not, and it would be an affront to decline except for a previous engagement.  The company assemble about ten, and often dance till three or four in the morning.  In any one house we see nearly the same people once a week for the whole winter, and such frequent companionship gives a feeling of intimacy.  It is surprising how many French men and French women have some special artistic talent, dramatic or musical, and with what ready good-humor each contributes to the entertainment of the rest.  In every assembly, with all its sparkle of youth and gayety, there is a background of mature age; but though a card-room is generally open, it never seems to draw many from the salons de danse.

In these salons the little princess entered, at once upon her royalty.  Her dancing was the poetry of motion.  She sang, and the most brilliant men hung over her enraptured.  “She was like Adelina Patti,” they said, “but of a more perfect and delicate type of beauty.  What wonderful eyes, with the long thick lashes veiling Oriental depths of liquid light!  How the music trickled from her fingers, and poured from her small throat like the delicious warble of a nightingale!  What a loss to art that her position precluded her from singing in the opera!  Not Malibran or Grisi ever had triumphs that would equal hers.”  Eminent painters wished to make a study of her face.  Authors who had received the prizes of the Academy for grave historical works sent her adulatory verses.  “May I—­flirtation—­wid you—­loavely meess?” asked one of “the immortal forty,” displaying his English.

It grew rather annoying.  I was importuned with questions, such as “Will you receive proposals of marriage for Miss St. Clair?” “What is her dowry?” “Are you entrusted to find a husband for her abroad?” I was tired of answering, “Miss St. Clair will probably marry in her own country.”  “Her parents would be very reluctant to consent to any foreign marriage.”  “I cannot tell what Mr. St. Clair will give his daughter.  It is not the custom to give dowries with us, as with you.”

One evening we saw at Madame Le Fort’s reception a young man so distinguished in appearance that he was known as “le beau Vergniaud.”  He was six feet in height and well made, with abundant chestnut hair, dark hazel eyes, clearly-cut, regular features, and a complexion needlessly fine for a man.  From that time he was invariably present, not only at Madame Le Fort’s, but wherever we went.