The Room in the Dragon Volant. Sheridan Le Fanu

superior refinement is associated with it. The careless notice of the squire tells more upon the heart of the pretty milkmaid, than years of honest Dobbin's manly devotion, and so on and up. It is an unjust world!

      But in this case there was something more. I was conscious of being good-looking. I really believe I was; and there could be no mistake about my being nearly six feet high. Why need this lady have thanked me? Had not her husband, for such I assumed him to be, thanked me quite enough, and for both? I was instinctively aware that the lady was looking on me with no unwilling eyes; and, through her veil, I felt the power of her gaze.

      She was now rolling away, with a train of dust behind her wheels, in the golden ​sunlight, and a wise young gentleman followed her with ardent eyes, and sighed profoundly as the distance increased.

      I told the postillions on no account to pass the carriage, but to keep it steadily in view, and to pull up at whatever posting-house it should stop at. We were soon in the little town, and the carriage we followed drew up at the Belle Etoile, a comfortable old inn. They got out of the carriage and entered the house.

      At a leisurely pace we followed. I got down, and mounted the steps listlessly, like a man quite apathetic and careless.

      Audacious as I was, I did not care to inquire in what room I should find them. I peeped into the apartment to my right, and then into that on my left. My people were not there.

      I ascended the stairs. A drawing-room door stood open. I entered with the most ​innocent air in the world. It was a spacious room, and, beside myself, contained but one living figure—a very pretty and lady-like one. There was the very bonnet with which I had fallen in love. The lady stood with her back toward me. I could not tell whether the envious veil was raised; she was reading a letter.

      I stood for a minute in fixed attention, gazing upon her, in the vague hope that she might turn about, and give me an opportunity of seeing her features. She did not; but with a step or two she placed herself before a little cabriole-table, which stood against the wall, from which rose a tall mirror, in a tarnished frame.

      I might, indeed, have mistaken it for a picture; for it now reflected a halflength portrait of a singularly beautiful woman.

      She was looking down upon a letter which ​she held in her slender fingers, and in which she seemed absorbed.

      The face was oval, melancholy, sweet. It had in it, nevertheless, a faint and undeflnably sensual quality also. Nothing could exceed the delicacy of its features, or the brilliancy of its tints. The eyes, indeed, were lowered, so that I could not see their colour; nothing but their long lashes, and delicate eyebrows. She continued reading. She must have been deeply interested; I never saw a living form so motionless—I gazed on a tinted statue.

      Being at that time blessed with long and keen vision, I saw this beautiful face with perfect distinctness. I saw even the blue veins that traced their wanderings on the whiteness of her full throat.

      I ought to have retreated as noiselessly as I came in, before my presence was detected. But I was too much interested to move from the spot, for a few moments longer; and ​while they were passing, she raised her eyes. Those eyes were large, and of that hue which modern poets term "violet."

      These splendid melancholy eyes were turned upon me from the glass, with a haughty stare, and hastily the lady lowered her black veil, and turned about.

      I fancied that she hoped I had not seen her. I was watching every look and movement, the minutest, with an attention as intense as if an ordeal involving my life depended on them.

      ​

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      THE INN-YARD OF THE BELLE ETOILE.

      THE face was, indeed, one to fall in love with at first sight. Those sentiments that take such sudden possession of young men were now dominating my curiosity. My audacity faltered before her; and I felt that my presence in this room was probably an impertinence. This point she quickly settled, for the same very sweet voice I had heard before, now said coldly, and this time in French, "Monsieur cannot be aware that this apartment is not public."

      ​I bowed very low, faltered some apologies, and backed to the door.

      I suppose I looked penitent and embarrassed. I certainly felt so; for the lady said, by way it seemed of softening matters, "I am happy, however, to have an opportunity of again thanking Monsieur for the assistance, so prompt and effectual, which he had the goodness to render us to-day."

      It was more the altered tone in which it was spoken, than the speech itself that encouraged me. It was also true that she need not have recognized me; and even if she had, she certainly was not obliged to thank me over again.

      All this was indescribably flattering, and all the more so that it followed so quickly on her slight reproof.

      The tone in which she spoke had become low and timid, and I observed that she turned her head quickly towards a second ​door of the room, I fancied that the gentleman in the black wig, a jealous husband, perhaps, might reappear through it. Almost at the same moment, a voice at once reedy and nasal, was heard snarling some directions to a servant, and evidently approaching. It was the voice that had thanked me so profusely, from the carriage windows, about an hour before.

      "Monsieur will have the goodness to retire," said the lady, in a tone that resembled entreaty, at the same time gently waving her hand toward the door through which I had entered. Bowing again very low, I stepped back, and closed the door.

      I ran down the stairs, very much elated. I saw the host of the Belle Etoile which, as I said, was the sign and designation of my inn.

      I described the apartment I had just quitted, said I liked it, and asked whether I could have it.

      ​He was extremely troubled, but that apartment and two adjoining rooms were engaged—

      "By whom?"

      "People of distinction."

      "But who are they? They must have names, or titles."

      "Undoubtedly, Monsieur, but such a stream is rolling into Paris, that we have ceased to inquire the names or titles of our guests—we designate them simply by the rooms they occupy."

      "What stay do they make?"

      "Even that, Monsieur, I cannot answer. It does not interest us. Our rooms, while this continues, can never be, for a moment, disengaged."

      "I should have liked those rooms so much! Is one of them a sleeping apartment?"

      "Yes, sir, and Monsieur will observe that people do not usually engage bed-rooms, unless they mean to stay the night."

      ​"Well, I can, I suppose, have some rooms, any, I don't care in what part of the house?"

      "Certainly, Monsieur can have two apartments. They are the last at present disengaged."

      I took them instantly.

      It was plain these people meant to make a stay here; at least they would not go till morning. I began to feel that I was all but engaged in an adventure.

      I took possession of my rooms, and looked out of the window, which I found commanded the inn-yard. Many horses were being liberated from the traces, hot and weary, and others fresh from the stables, being put to, A great many vehicles—some private carriages, others, like mine, of that public class, which is equivalent to our old English post-chaise, were standing on the pavement, waiting their turn for relays. Fussy servants were to-ing and fro-ing, and ​idle ones lounging or laughing, and the scene, on the whole, was animated and amusing.

      Among these