“Oh no,” softly interrupted Valerie.

“I was about to explain that I feel some interest in him from the fact that he is betrothed to my niece—­”

“Betrothed!  Your niece!” exclaimed Valerie, surprised out of the apathy of her despair.

“Yes, my love.  Is there anything wonderful in that?  It is a way these continental people have of doing things, you see.  The Count Waldemar and my niece were betrothed to each other in their childhood.  There is a very great attachment between them—­at least on her part.  The child seems to think that there is but one man in the world and his name is Waldemar de Volaski.”

“But—­I did not know—­I thought—­I did not think—­the count had ever been in England,” incoherently murmured Valerie.

“Nor has he; but what has that to do with it?” smiled her ladyship.

“Your niece—­”

“Oh, I see!  Because I am an Englishwoman my niece must be one, you think.  You are mistaken, dear; she is French.  My sister Anne married a Frenchman, the Marquis de St. Cyr.  They had two children—­Alphouse, a colonel in the Chasseurs d’Afrique, now in Algiers; and Aimee, now in the Convent of St. Rosalie.  It was when the late Count de Volaski was here as the minister from Russia, that the acquaintance between the two families commenced and ripened into intimacy and the intimacy into friendship.  Then Waldemar and Aimee were betrothed.”

“How many years ago was that?” faintly inquired Valerie.

“Oh, about six—­the young man was then about fifteen; the girl not more than twelve.”

“They could not have known their own minds at that age,” murmured Valerie.

“Oh, that was not at all necessary in a French betrothal,” laughed the lady; “but, however, Aimee, child as she was, certainly knew her mind.  The love of her betrothed husband was, and is, the religion of her life.  I presume that Count Waldemar is equally constant; and that he will now press for a speedy marriage.  My brother-in-law is down on his estates in Provence, just now; but I shall write and ask his permission to withdraw Aimee from her convent, in anticipation of her marriage, for of course she will be married from this house.”

“But—­her mother?”

“Oh!  I should have told you; her mother, my dear sister Anne, passed away about a year after the betrothal of her daughter.  The marquis took her loss very much to heart, and has never married again.  The motherless girl has passed her life in a convent; but I hope to have her out soon.  Here, my love, is an album containing portraits of my sister and brother-in-law and their children, taken at various times.  You cannot mistake them, and they may interest you,” said Lady C., taking a photographic volume from a gilded stand near, and laying it upon her guest’s lap.

Valerie received it with a nod of thanks, and the lady glided away to give some of her attention to her other guests.