“In London, where I now reap the fruits of my vanity, we enjoyed good society for a time, were sought after, and heaped with attentions.  But I met those who had known me; it got out who I was; I was represented much worse than I was, and even those who had flattered me in one sphere, did not know me.  In Paris it was the same.  And there my husband said it would not do to be known by his titles, for, being an exile, it might be the means of his being recognized and kidnapped, and carried back a prisoner to his own dear Poland.  In this I acquiesced, as I did in everything else that lightened his cares.  Gradually he grew cold and morose towards me, left me for days at a time, and returned only to abuse and treat me cruelly.  He had possession of all my money, which I soon found he was gambling away, without gaining an entr‚e for me into society.

“From Paris we travelled, as if without any settled purpose, into Italy, and from thence to Vienna, where I discovered that instead of being a prince, my husband was an impostor, and I his dupe.  He had formerly been a crafty shoemaker; was known to the police as a notorious character, who, instead of having been engaged in the political struggles of his countrymen, had fled the country to escape the penalty of being the confederate of a desperate gang of coiners and counterfeiters.  We had only been two days in Vienna when I found he had disappeared, and left me destitute of money or friends.  My connection with him only rendered my condition more deplorable, for the police would not credit my story; and while he eluded its vigilance, I was suspected of being a spy in the confidence of a felon, and ruthlessly ordered to leave the country.”

“Did not your passport protect you?” interrupts Tom, with evident feeling.

“No one paid it the least regard,” resumes Madame Flamingo, becoming weaker and weaker.  “No one at our legations evinced sympathy for me.  Indeed, they all refused to believe my story.  I wandered back from city to city, selling my wardrobe and the few jewels I had left, and confidently expecting to find in each place I entered, some one I had known, who would listen to my story, and supply me with means to reach my home.  I could soon have repaid it, but my friends had gone with my money; no one dare venture to trust me-no one had confidence in me-every one to whom I appealed had an excuse that betrayed their suspicion of me.  Almost destitute, I found myself back in London-how I got here, I scarce know-where I could make myself understood.  My hopes now brightened, I felt that some generous-hearted captain would give me a passage to New York, and once home, my troubles would end.  But being worn down with fatigue, and my strength prostrated, a fever set in, and I was forced to seek refuge in a miserable garret in Drury-Lane, and where I parted with all but what now remains on my back, to procure nourishment.  I had begun to recover somewhat, but the malady left