“But, seriously, Trevanion,” said I, nettled at the tone of raillery he spoke in, “you must see that there is nothing whatever in that business.  I was merely taking my farewell of the fair Emily.  Her affections have been long since engaged, and I—­”

“Only endeavouring to support her in her attachment to the more favoured rival.  Is it not so?”

“Come, no quizzing.  Faith I began to feel very uncomfortable about parting with her, the moment that I discovered that I must do so.”

“So I guessed,” said Trevanion, with a dry look, “from the interesting scene I so abruptly trespassed upon.  But you are right; a little bit of tendresse is never misplaced, so long as the object is young, pretty, and still more than all, disposed for it.”

“Quite out; perfectly mistaken, believe me.  Emily not only never cared for me; but she has gone far enough to tell me so.”

“Then, from all I know of such matters,” replied he, “you were both in a very fair way to repair that mistake on her part.  But hark! what is this?” A tremendous noise in the street here interrupted our colloquy, and on opening the window, a strange scene presented itself to our eyes.  In the middle of a dense mass of moving rabble, shouting, yelling, and screaming, with all their might, were two gens d’armes with a prisoner between them.  The unhappy man was followed by a rather well-dressed, middle-aged looking woman, who appeared to be desirous of bestowing the most covam publico endearments upon the culprit, whom a second glance showed us was O’Leary.

“I tell you, my dear madam, you are mistaken,” said O’Leary, addressing her with great sternness of manner and voice.

“Mistaken!  Never, never.  How could I ever be mistaken in that dear voice, those lovely eyes, that sweet little nose?”

“Take her away; she’s deranged,” said O’Leary to the gens d’armes.  “Sure, if I’m a Pole, that’s enough of misfortune.”

“I’ll follow him to the end of the earth, I will.”

“I’m going to the galleys, God be praised,” said O’Leary.

“To the galleys—­to the guillotine—­any where,” responded she, throwing herself upon his neck, much less, as it seemed, to his gratification, than that of the mob, who laughed and shouted most uproariously.

“Mrs. Ram, ain’t you ashamed?”

“He calls me by my name,” said she, “and he attempts to disown me.  Ha! ha! ha! ha!” and immediately fell off into a strong paroxysm of kicking, and pinching, and punching the bystanders, a malady well known under the name of hysterics; but being little more than a privileged mode, among certain ladies, of paying off some scores, which it is not thought decent to do in their more sober moments.

“Lead me away—­anywhere—­convict me of what you like,” said he, “but don’t let her follow me.”

The gens d’armes, who little comprehended the nature of the scene before them, were not sorry to anticipate a renewal of it on Mrs. Ram’s recovery, and accordingly seized the opportunity to march on with O’Leary, who turned the corner of the Rue Rivoli, under a shower of “meurtriers” and “scelerats” from the mob, that fell fortunately most unconsciously upon his ears.