“I must revert to the period of your mother’s marriage, Lucie,” said Madame de la Tour, “and, as briefly as possible, detail those unhappy circumstances which so soon deprived you of her protecting love.  You will no longer be surprised that I have repressed your natural curiosity on this subject; for it must excite many painful feelings, which I would still spare you, had not a recent discovery rendered the disclosure unavoidable.”

“The subject agitates you, my dear aunt,” said Lucie, observing her changing complexion with anxiety; “you are indeed too ill, this evening, to make so great an exertion, and I had far rather wait till another day, when you will probably be better able to bear it.”

“No, I am well now,” she replied; “and will not keep you any longer in suspense.”  She then resumed,

“Your mother, Lucie, had the innocence and purity of an angel; she was gay, beautiful, and accomplished,—­the idol of her friends, the admiration of all who saw her.  That picture, which you so often gaze on with delight, is but a faint resemblance of what she was.  The lineaments are indeed true to nature, but no artist could catch the ever varying expression, or imbody that unrivalled grace, which threw a charm around her, more captivating even than her faultless beauty.  She was just four years older than myself, but this difference of age did not prevent the closest union of sentiment and feeling between us; and, as she was almost my only companion, I early renounced my childish amusements for the more mature employments, which engaged her attention.  We lived much in retirement; my father was attached to literary pursuits, and devoted himself to our education; a task which he shared with my eldest sister, who was many years our senior, and affectionately supplied the place of our mother, who died a few months after my birth.

“Your mother, Lucie, was scarcely sixteen when she first saw Mons. de Courcy.  Chance introduced him to our acquaintance, as he was travelling through the province where we then resided; her loveliness attracted his admiration, and he soon avowed a deeper and more impassioned sentiment.  Till then she had never dreamed of love; it was reserved for him to awaken its first emotions in a heart susceptible of the most generous and devoted constancy, the most fervent and confiding tenderness, exalted by a delicacy and refinement, which could only emanate from a mind as virtuous and noble as her own.

“De Courcy had already passed the season of early youth, and his disposition and feelings were, in many respects, extremely opposite to your mother’s.  His figure was commanding, his features regular and expressive; though, on the whole, he was remarked rather for the uncommon grace and elegance of his deportment, than for any of the peculiar attributes of manly beauty.  His manners were cold, and even haughty, in his general intercourse with society; but, with those whom he