came to and fled from her cheek in a moment. Luckily her carriage was not yet drawn up, for she had scarcely power to move. "And to add to his good fortune," continued de Sancy, "he got rid of a rid of a peer“ish old father and a silly young wife in "the same week; the one died in a fit of

political spleen, the other in giving birth "to an heir to the illustrious honours of "the family de Montargis: and the young "duke, after having indulged his filial and "conjugal sorrows for the period of three "months amidst the cypress shades of

66.

Montargis, is now come to Paris to re

"cruit his spirits, to regain his place in the

king's favour, and to afford a boundless "source of speculation to the disinterested "beauties of the court, to whom, in the.

gallery of rank and fashion, a young,

rich, handsome, and accomplished, duke "will appear a star of the first magnitude " and splendor."

The state carriage of the lady de St. Dorval having now drawn up, the marquis

placed her in it, demanding if she meant to grace the arsenal with her presence the following day, as the king himself was to be there, and to run at the ring. Imogen only bowed her head-she had not the power to articulate a word, and the carriage 'drove off.

Love in a heart which receives its every motion from the sphere of affectionate feeling, to which the existence of lively and powerful sentiments is an indispensable necessity,-love in such a heart is not to be vanquished even by the influence of reason. Variety may distract, time may ameliorate, or absence weaken; but if the passion be not succeeded by another of equal force, if it change not its nature, its vital spark will still exist, even though the effervescence of its primitive glow may be partially extinguished; and the object of its inspiration will still retain the power to re-animate its latent principles, and to dissolve the frost which the chilling hand of time or disappointment had shed over

it. Imogen had endeavoured to cease to love, where still to love was weak, if not criminal; and coincident circumstances had assisted her in the effort, though they had not enabled her wholly to accomplish the self-imposed task. She had even endeavoured to transfuse the glow one object had illumined in her heart to those mild and moderate sentiments another had inspired. But the affections, arbitrary in their nature, flow not to the impulses of reason, but lavish their treasures independent of the will of their possessors. The utmost success, therefore, of her endeavour had been to lull the dear but dangerous recollection of one being into doubtful forgetfulness, and to feel for the other an habitual tenderness, a lively gratitude, a profound and almost reverential esteem. With the one she would have tasted bliss in all its most profound supremacy; but, from the very nature of her refined and exquisite feelings, it would have been as variable as it was acute, as fragile as it

was ardent: for, even amidst the sweetest roses of enjoyment the trembling hand of timid doubt would have flung its thorns, and jealous apprehension, like a wily serpent, would have cankered the bosom of every budding pleasure, and preyed on the sweets of every new-born joy. In her connection with the other she would at least have been rationally happy; for the fanciful chimera of a too-fond and all-desiring, all-doubting, heart would not have disturbed the sober placidity of her uniform but contented destiny. Such was the comparative estimate her good sense had formed between what she might have been and what she should be.

To the latter she had been long resigned, when to a sense of the former she was again awakened by the unexpected appearance of the duke de Beauvilliers, even more interesting, though less dazzling in his appearance, and more free, more the master of himself and of his actions, than when, amidst the sequestered shades of

Montmorell, he had first stolen the virgin rose of her young affections. But though free, was he yet faithful? and though faithful, could she ever be his? was a question which Imogen's heart timidly suggested, but to which her reason sternly replied, "Never!"

That the name of the duke de Beauvilliers had scarcely ever been mentioned in her presence had often surprised her; although, from certain hints and inuendoes dropt by her numerous friends, she had reason to believe her adventure at the camp of Laon had obtained a pretty general circulation; and that even de Sancy was well informed of the countess de St. Dorval's being no other than the captive of the baron de Montargis, whom he had accused of violating the laws of war by monopolizing its richest spoil to himself. But that the chevalier had not mentioned to her the death of the young duchess de Beauvilliers, she supposed arose from his being equally ignorant of the circumstance as