was remarkably handsome, as this miniature
will show—

—And Armand drew a small case from
his breast.

"It is made from memory; but I will
answer for its exactitude."

"We all know the face well enough, my
friend," quoth Prevost; " it re-appears in
nearly all your pictures, like Raphael's
Fornarina. Last year you made it do duty for
Medea; this year, modified to suit the
occasion, it will appear in the Salon as Charlotte
Corday. Why have you so carefully avoided
that type in your Juliet and your Heloise?
One would imagine that, instead of being
associated with pleasant recollections, it suggested
nothing but strife, violence, and despair."

"Were that the case, you know," quoth
Armand, with feigned sprightliness, "my
theory falls to the ground; and, in telling you
my story, I am only impertinently taking
advantage of your good-nature to make a
confession, and thus ease a somewhat troubled
mind. Listen to the end; it is not far off."

We reached a grotto on the borders of a little
lake, where, to my surprise, an elegant
breakfast was laid out. There were two seats
placed ready; and Fifine, the maid, was there
to serve. We partook of the meal together,
talking of everything except of ourselves; but
thinking of nothing else. Once or twice a
reflection on the oddity of this reception flitted
across my mind; but I thought that I had
fallen in with some eccentric mistress of the
castle—such as one reads of in middle-age
romances—who was proud to give hospitality
to a wandering artist. The lady called me
Hector, and I called her Andromache; and,
under the influence of some generous wine
that came in with the dessert, I went so far
as to declare that my love for her was
unbounded, and that she must be my bride. I was
thrown into ecstacies of delight by the frank
reply, that it only depended upon me to fix
the day! What follies I committed I scarcely
recollect; but I know that Fifine scolded me;
and said that, for a well-educated young man,
I was dreadfully forward.

What a delightful half-hour was that
which succeeded! The entrance of the grotto
was wreathed with vines. The ripples of the
lake broke upon a little beach of sand, that
seemed of gold dust; the path by which we
had come along at the foot of a precipice for
about thirty yards, and then climbed a steep
bank; the expanse of water—possibly it was
merely a large pool, but these things magnify
in memory—nestled at the feet of some lofty
wooded slopes, which, with the pure blue sky,
it reflected. We sat, side by side, hand in hand;
but Fifine, whose notions of propriety were
extremely rigid, expostulated vehemently. I
whispered that she ought to be sent away;
and Andromache was, perhaps, of my opinion;
but she did not venture to agree with me
aloud. Thus the hour passed in silent
happiness; for our hearts soon became too full
for words; and I solemnly declare, that, to
spend such another day, I would discount ten
years of my existence.

As evening drew near, and I began to
dream of the delights of a twilight stroll along
the margin of the lake, Fifine pitilessly
suggested an adjournment to the chateau. The
word grated harshly on my ear. I had almost
pictured to myself the lady as a dryad, or a
nymph living ever amidst trees and grottoes.
But prosy Fifine carried her point; and, in
half-an-hour, we were in the saloon of a most
comfortable modern dwelling, furnished with
Parisian elegance. Several very commonplace
looking servants stared at me as Ientered.
My romantic ideas at once received
a shock. Five minutes afterwards a post-
chaise rolled up to the door, and a stout old
gentleman, accompanied by a tall handsome
young man, issued therefrom.

Why should I give you the ludicrous
details of the explanation? Andromache was
betrothed to Monsieur Hector Chose; but she
had never seen him. Her father, a wealthy
naturalist, had gone that day to meet the
bridegroom at a neighbouring town. The young
lady (who was of a romantic disposition) had
descried me in the park, and had fancied this
was a pre-arranged surprise. She had got up
the breakfast in the grotto; and had made my
acquaintance as I have related. I answered to
the name of Hector; she naturally retorted
Andromache. This was the whole explanation
of the mistake. I was overwhelmed with
shame, when the father and the real Hector,
with vociferous laughter, undeceived me; and
the young lady herself went away in tears of
vexation. For a moment, I hoped that I had
produced an ineffaceable impression; but I was
soon undeceived. In my mortification I insulted
Hector. A hostile meeting was the result. I
received a severe wound, and lay a long time
helpless in a neighbouring hamlet. Still my
love was not cured. Even when I heard that
the marriage had been celebrated, I persisted
in looking upon the bride as my Andromache;
but when Madam Duclique,her cousin,
came to see me, she destroyed all my
illusions. Andromache, she said, though with
much affectation of romance, was a very
matter-of-fact personage, and remembered our
love-passage only as a ridiculous mistake. She
had married Hector, not only without repugnance,
but with delight. He brought her everything
she desired—a handsome person,
a fine fortune, an exalted position; and she
was the first to joke on the subject of "that
poor counterfeit Hector."

This interview cured me at once. I discovered
that I was strong enough to leave the
Paradise I had lost. Madam Duclique, an
amiable and beautiful person, gave me a seat
in her carriage, and drove me to the town of
Arques. I feel grateful to my Andromache
for having impressed upon my mind an
enduring form of beauty.

"Let us drink her health!"