One afternoon he had walked into Hyde Park, and was slowly threading his way through the human maze which edges the Drive.  The stream of carriages was no less dense, and Newman, as usual, marveled at the strange, dingy figures which he saw taking the air in some of the stateliest vehicles.  They reminded him of what he had read of eastern and southern countries, in which grotesque idols and fetiches were sometimes taken out of their temples and carried abroad in golden chariots to be displayed to the multitude.  He saw a great many pretty cheeks beneath high-plumed hats as he squeezed his way through serried waves of crumpled muslin; and sitting on little chairs at the base of the great serious English trees, he observed a number of quiet-eyed maidens who seemed only to remind him afresh that the magic of beauty had gone out of the world with Madame de Cintre:  to say nothing of other damsels, whose eyes were not quiet, and who struck him still more as a satire on possible consolation.  He had been walking for some time, when, directly in front of him, borne back by the summer breeze, he heard a few words uttered in that bright Parisian idiom from which his ears had begun to alienate themselves.  The voice in which the words were spoken made them seem even more like a thing with which he had once been familiar, and as he bent his eyes it lent an identity to the commonplace elegance of the back hair and shoulders of a young lady walking in the same direction as himself.  Mademoiselle Nioche, apparently, had come to seek a more rapid advancement in London, and another glance led Newman to suppose that she had found it.  A gentleman was strolling beside her, lending a most attentive ear to her conversation and too entranced to open his lips.  Newman did not hear his voice, but perceived that he presented the dorsal expression of a well-dressed Englishman.  Mademoiselle Nioche was attracting attention:  the ladies who passed her turned round to survey the Parisian perfection of her toilet.  A great cataract of flounces rolled down from the young lady’s waist to Newman’s feet; he had to step aside to avoid treading upon them.  He stepped aside, indeed, with a decision of movement which the occasion scarcely demanded; for even this imperfect glimpse of Miss Noemie had excited his displeasure.  She seemed an odious blot upon the face of nature; he wanted to put her out of his sight.  He thought of Valentin de Bellegarde, still green in the earth of his burial—­his young life clipped by this flourishing impudence.  The perfume of the young lady’s finery sickened him; he turned his head and tried to deflect his course; but the pressure of the crowd kept him near her a few minutes longer, so that he heard what she was saying.

“Ah, I am sure he will miss me,” she murmured.  “It was very cruel in me to leave him; I am afraid you will think me a very heartless creature.  He might perfectly well have come with us.  I don’t think he is very well,” she added; “it seemed to me to-day that he was not very gay.”