continued, " that at the hour named the horn
of Roncesvalles will be blown, and chivalry
will pay its devoirs to intellect and beauty."

A haughty curtsey, of a deeper formality
than ever, was Herminie's reply; and, pulling
Luther away from sniffing in a most
menacing manner the fat calves of the Bishop
of Aigos Potamos, the most graceful and
magnificent of the maidens of France slowly
retired, attended as before by the silent,
observant, but altogether neglected Sir Caribert
of the Leaf. And that night who was the
most noisy?—who the most pert?—the most
—O! must I say the word?—the most
impudent of the damsels who were all noisy—
all pert—all impudent? But on this occasion
it was remarked that, for a moment, the
attention of Sir Caribert of the Leaf, who
was dressed like the young Roland, was paid
to the Muse of History; for a moment his
eyes wandered from the Grace Agleia and
rested on the dark hair and sweet lips of
Clio; nay, he laid aside his horn and danced
a stately dance with the fair Duchess of
Montmesnil, who wore a star upon her
forehead, and a pen enwreathed in her tresses,
and a volume (in pearls) upon the gorget of
her satin robe, and was, in all things, a
tableau vivant of one of the chapters of
Herodotus. A beautiful Clio! and if all
history was like HER—if the long-drawn
platitudes of a Peninsular story could be
irradiated by such charming sayings—if a dull
folio could be so glorified by sparkling
sentences—ah! who wouldn't be a student of the
national annals, and prefer the dryest pages
of Henry or Carte to the novels of Walter
Scott or the plays of the divine Williams?
The Grace Agleia might have been mistaken
for her mythological sister Tisiphone, or her
hideous cousin—many times removed—
Medusa. Her glance fell upon Sir Caribert in
the midst of a demi-volto. Was he turned
to stone? Did he harden into lead? His
limbs became rigid; a faint smile which had
begun to make its appearance on his lips
committed suicide, by burying itself alive in
a frightful wrinkle which convulsed his
cheek. He paused—he stood still; he turned
slowly away, and left the Historic Muse in
the middle of the floor, expectant of his
escort to her seat. He placed himself
silently behind the fauteuil on which the Grace
Agleia was reclined. All night he listened
for a whisper of forgiveness; it never came.
All night he watched for a look of kindness;
she never saw he was in the room. And,
hopeless, broken-hearted, and dying of hunger,
he left the apartment before the supper
was announced, and retired to his chamber
the most miserable of men. And for three
days he did not make his appearance in the
court. Francis was beginning to put his fore-
finger to his brow in order to recall his name;
and Saint Marceau heard a rumour down
among the Cordeliers that it might be safe to
emerge from his monastery and ask the king
for the abbey of Jerveaux the Joyous. And
curiosity was excited. The Muse of History
sent to pick up all the information she could;
but, as always happens when she takes this
trouble, the reports were dubious and
confused. The Duchess of Vaugrimant—but
evidently without the knowledge of her
niece the Grace Agleia—asked if a confessor
had yet been sent to the afflicted; and at
length the pity of all the damsels in Paris was
called forth, when it was stated by the court
physician that some unexpected sorrow, or,
more probably, a severe cold caught on the
night of the entertainment had settled upon
his throat, affected the nerves of his tongue,
and that the gay and gallant Sir Caribert of
the Leaf would inevitably be dumb for life!
—be dumb in the midst of so much talk,
without the power of adding a syllable to the
stock! be dumb with so many things left
unsaid to the fair Herminie D'Evreux!—so
many whispers still to be uttered as they
paced along the galleries, or sat in the queen's
boudoir while the maids worked at the
tambour, and the knights had the opportunity of
speaking without a chance of being
overheard! Poor Caribert!—poor Chevalier de
Mont-Chery! It was too true. His throat
muscles were paralysed, and he could utter
no sound—no, not even a sigh. His father,
the old marquis, heard of the misfortune, and
came up to Paris to condole with his son.

"Caribert, my child! Alas! this is the
acme of my distress. Your brother the
Vicompte has been stabbed in the low
countries, by a Dutchman, who doesn't
understand the politeness of the French nation, and
rewarded him with a whole carving-knife of
steel for a few delicate attentions to his bride.
And you are my heir—my pride—my
successor! And you are dumb!"

The old man's tears began to fall, and Sir
Caribert's eyes were a fountain.

"Come with me," cried the old man.
"Come back to our native Loire. Leave the
noisy court; and, perhaps, in solitude, in
happiness, your voice may return once more,
You will be able to sing as of old in the
chateau—to pray as of old in the church."

But Sir Caribert shook his head. He
couldn't leave the scene of all his grief. He
could not desist for an hour from watching
the features and listening to the tones of
Herminie. And how did she behave? She
was cold and neglectful: she never pitied
him for his sorrow—never smiled upon his
long hours of interminable silence, but
rattled gaily with all the wits of the time—
herself the wittiest, the coldest, the most
heartless of all the coquettes in Paris.

        *        *        *        *        *

Is there a thaw sometimes in the Arctic
sea? Do the glaciers of Mont Blanc
sometimes melt? Has Herminie become touched
with the misery of her lover? When nearly
two years were passed, one night she put the
blue ribbon of her waistband—a blue ribbon