right in my judgment of character and position from inspection of the countenance, the occasions in which I have been mistaken may be set down as exceptions. M. Jerome at once interested me; and as I was idly in search of health, and had taken care to have nothing whatever to do but to kill time, the observation of this gentleman's appearance and manners naturally formed a chief part of my occupation.

I began by ascertaining exactly the colour of his eyes and hair—nearly black; the shape of his nose—straight, and rather too long; and would have been glad to examine the form of his mouth, but a huge moustache hanging over his lips in the French military style—see the portrait of General Cavaignac—prevented me from ascertaining the precise contour of what one of my old philosophers calls the Port Esquiline of Derision. M. Jerome was, upon the whole, a handsome man, with a romantically bilious complexion; and the expression of his large dark eyes was really profound and striking. His costume was always fashionable, without being showy; and there was nothing to object to but a diamond ring, somewhat too ostentatiously displayed on the little finger, which, in all his manual operations, at dinner or elsewhere, always cocked up with an impertinent 'look-at-me air,' that I did not like. When, indeed, this dandy walked slowly out of the dining-room to the door-step, and lighted his cigar, the said little finger became positively obnoxious; and I used to think whether it were possible that that human being had been created purposely as a scaffolding whereon to exhibit a flashing little stone, set in twenty shillings worth of gold.

M. Jerome, though not, strictly speaking, a silent man, was sufficiently reserved at table. The early courses were by him always allowed to pass without any further remark than what politeness requires—as: 'Shall I send you some more of this blanquette?' or, 'With pleasure, sir;' and so forth. When dessert-time approached, however, he generally began to unbend, to take part in the general conversation, and throw in here and there a piquant anecdote. He did this with so much grace, that had it not been for the diamond ring, I should have been disposed to consider him as a man of large experience in the best society. The other people who generally attended at table—travellers, commercial and otherwise, with one or two smart folks from the town, on the look-out for Parisian gossip, to retail to the less adventurous members of their circle—were all delighted with M. Jerome: it was M. Jerome here, and M. Jerome there; and if M. Jerome happened to dine out, every one seemed to feel uneasy, and look upon him as guilty of a great dereliction of duty. They could almost as well have done without their demi-tasse.

Although I am an inquisitive, I am not a very impertinent man. I like to pry into other people's affairs only in so far as I can do so without hurting their feelings, or putting my own self-love in danger of a check. If, therefore, I gave the reins to my curiosity, and devoted myself to studying the more apparent movements of this M. Jerome, I shrank from putting any direct questions to the garçon, who might probably at once have given me a very prosaic account of him. On one occasion, I threw in casually a remark, to the effect that the gentleman at No. 49 seemed a great favourite with the fair sex; but the only reply was a smile, and an acknowledgment that, in general, people of fascinating exterior—here the garçon glanced at the mirror he was dusting—were great favourites with the fairer portion of the creation. 'We Frenchmen,' it was added, 'know the way to the female heart better than most men.' The waiter had paused with his duster in his hand. I felt that he was going to give me his Art of Love; and opportunely remembering that I had a letter to put into the post, I escaped the infliction for the time.

I had, indeed, observed that if the public generally admitted the valuable qualities of M. Jerome as a companion, his reputation was based principally on the approval of the ladies. All these excellent judges agreed that he was a nice, quiet, agreeable person; and 'so handsome!' At least the seven members of an English family, who had come to visit Chambord, and lingered at the hotel a week—five of them were daughters—all expressed this opinion of M. Jerome; and even a supercilious French lady, with a particle attached to her name, admitted that he was 'very well.'

One day, a new face appeared at table to interest me; and as the mysterious gentleman and his diamond ring had puzzled me for a fortnight, during which I had made no progress towards ascertaining his real position and character, I was not sorry to have my attention a little diverted by a mysterious lady. Madame de Mourairef—a Russian name, thought I—was a very agreeable person to look at; much more so to me than M. Jerome. She was not much past twenty years of age; small, slight, elegant in shape, if not completely so in manners; and with one of those charming little faces which you can analyse into ugliness, but which in their synthesis, to speak as moderns should, are admirable, adorable, fascinating. I should have thought that such a minois could belong only to Paris—the city, by the way, of ugly women, whom art makes charming. However, there it was above the shoulders, high of course—swan-necked women are only found in England—above the shoulders of a Russian marchioness, princess, czarina, or what you will, who called for her cigarettes after dinner, was attended by a little soubrette, named Penelope, and looked for all the world as if she had just been whirled off the boards of the Opera Comique.

I at first believed that this was a mere mascarade; but when a letter in a formidable envelope, with the seal of the Russian embassy, arrived, and was exhibited in the absence of the lady herself, to every one of the lodgers, in proof of the aristocratic character of the customer of the Tête Noire, I began to doubt my own perspicacity, and to imagine that I had now a far more interesting object of study than M. Jerome and his diamond ring. Madame de Mourairef was an exceedingly affable person; and the English family aforesaid, whom I have reason to believe were Cockney tradesfolks, pronounced her to be very high-bred—without a fault, indeed, if it had not been for that horrid habit of smoking, which, as they judiciously observed, however, was a peculiar characteristic of the Russians. I am afraid, they would have set her down as a vulgar wretch, had they not been forewarned that she was aristocratic. The French lady seemed to look upon the foreign one as an intruder, and scarcely deigned to turn her eyes in that direction. Probably this was because she was so charming, and monopolised so much of the attention of us gentlemen.

'They no sooner looked than they loved,' says Rosalind. This was not, perhaps, quite the case with M. Jerome and the Russian princess, who took care to let it be known that she was a widow; but in a very few days what is called 'a secret sympathy' evidently sprang into existence. The former, of course, made the first advances. His diplomatic and seductive arts were not, however, put to a great test, for in three days the lady manifestly felt uneasy until he presented himself at dinner; and in a week, I met them walking arm in arm on the bridge. It was easy to see that he was on his good behaviour; and from some fragments of conversations I overheard between them when they met in the passage opposite my door, I learned that he was 'doing the melancholy dodge,' as in the vernacular we would express it; and had many harrowing revelations to make as to the manner in which his heart had been trifled with by unfeeling beauties.

'There is a tide in the affairs of an hôtel:' I am in a mood for quoting from my favourite authors; and whereas we had at one time sat down nearly twenty to table, we suddenly found ourselves to be only