“Blanche de Bechamel was wild, then, about this secret of Masonry.  In early, early days I loved, I married a girl fair as Blanche, who, too, was tormented by curiosity, who, too, would peep into my closet—­into the only secret I guarded from her.  A dreadful fate befell poor Fatima.  An accident shortened her life.  Poor thing! she had a foolish sister who urged her on.  I always told her to beware of Ann.  She died.  They said her brothers killed me.  A gross falsehood.  Am I dead?  If I were, could I pledge you in this wine?”

“Was your name,” I asked, quite bewildered, “was your name, pray, then, ever Blueb——?”

“Hush! the waiter will overhear you.  Methought we were speaking of Blanche de Bechamel.  I loved her, young man.  My pearls, and diamonds, and treasure, my wit, my wisdom, my passion, I flung them all into the child’s lap.  I was a fool.  Was strong Samson not as weak as I?  Was Solomon the Wise much better when Balkis wheedled him.  I said to the king—­But enough of that, I spake of Blanche de Bechamel.

“Curiosity was the poor child’s foible.  I could see, as I talked to her. that her thoughts were elsewhere (as yours, my friend, have been absent once or twice to-night).  To know the secret of Masonry was the wretched child’s mad desire.  With a thousand wiles, smiles, caresses, she strove to coax it from me—­from me—­ha! ha!

“I had an apprentice—­the son of a dear friend, who died by my side at Rossbach, when Soubise, with whose army I happened to be, suffered a dreadful defeat for neglecting my advice.  The young Chevalier Goby de Mouchy was glad enough to serve as my clerk, and help in some chemical experiments in which I was engaged with my friend Dr. Mesmer.  Bathilde saw this young man.  Since women were, has it not been their business to smile and deceive, to fondle and lure?  Away!  From the very first it has been so!” And as my companion spoke, he looked as wicked as the serpent that coiled round the tree, and hissed a poisoned counsel to the first woman.

“One evening I went, as was my wont, to see Blanche.  She was radiant:  she was wild with spirits:  a saucy triumph blazed in her blue eyes.  She talked, she rattled in her childish way.  She uttered, in the course of her rhapsody, a hint—­an intimation—­so terrible that the truth flashed across me in a moment.  Did I ask her?  She would lie to me.  But I know how to make falsehood impossible.  Add I ordered her to go to sleep.”

At this moment the clock (after its previous convulsions) sounded twelve.  And as the new Editor* of the Cornhill Magazine—­and he, I promise you, won’t stand any nonsense—­will only allow seven pages, I am obliged to leave off at the very most interesting point of the story.

     * Mr. Thackeray retired from the Editorship of the Cornhill
     Magazine in March, 1862.