University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Ring—ring—ring.

“Is Count Clairmont of the French army at
home?” inquired a footman at one of the most
fashionable hotels in Broadway, while the horses
of an elegant barouche stood tossing their heads,
and stamping impatiently against the pavement at
the door; for city sleighing is brief as the “posy
of a ring” or “woman's love” (though this last is
a slander).

“No, sar, he is not,” replied the consequential
black servant.

“Please hand the count this note, with the respects
of Mrs. Temple.”

Ring—ring—ring.

“Does not Count Clairmont of the French army
lodge here?” asked a second visiter.

“He does.”

“Can I see him?”

“You cannot—he is not in.”

“My card—I shall see him at the opera.”

Ring—ring—ring.

A tall, pale-faced gentleman in black, with a

hooked nose and no teeth. “Can you direct me
where to find Count Clairmont?”

“This is his hotel, sir.”

“Is he to be seen?”

“Not till the afternoon,”

“Has Count Clairmont come in yet?” inquired a
breathless messenger in livery, in a profuse perspiration,
and who had been seven times before
during the last half hour.

“He will not be visible, I have already told you,
this morning.”

“Miss Morley's compliments, and returns the
volume.”

Several carriages drove up in the course of the
morning, a score of domestics, and friends without
number, among whom were many of the most distinguished
inhabitants of the city, all inquiring and
leaving cards, notes, or some nameless message or
package for Count Clairmont of the French army.
One or two young female servants entered timidly,
and closely veiled, presenting small billets-doux,
ingeniously folded in triangles and other expressive
figures (the boyish eyes of Love, the young dog!
peeping from under the big wig of mathematics),
and each leaving her tribute of rose-coloured or
pale blue gold-edged note-paper (containing heaven
knows what), to be most particularly delivered into
the hands only of Count Clairmont of the French
army.

“I wish to see Count Clairmont,” said a dark-complexioned
and very handsome girl, with a silvery
voice and a foreign accent, her veil drawn
aside from her close bonnet to address the servant,
which she did in a tone of eagerness, and almost of
command.

“It is not possible,” said the servant. “He
aint visible to no one whatsomever.”

“He will see Mr. Frederick Morton,” interrupted
a very foppishly-dressed young man, who had been
leisurely surveying the remarkable face of the
female: “say Mr. Morton—he will see me, I am
sure.”

“Not by no manner of means,” said the negro.
“He aint in, because, you see, he aint up. Consequently,
no gentleman can't never be in when he
aint up.”

The truth of this syllogism was indisputable; and
Mr. Frederick Morton, after another lingering gaze
at the fair stranger, took his departure.

There was now a furious ringing at the bell
which communicated with the suites of private
apartments.

“John!” bawled the bar-keeper.

“Coming, coming, sir!”

“Count Clairmont's bell!”

“D—n this Count Clairmont of the French
army!” muttered the man. “He has nothing to
do but turn women's heads, and men's too, for that
matter, and to keep us poor devils all day trooping
up and down stairs. Legs aint made of iron, I
guess.”

He was met by Count Clairmont's servant from
the stairs.

“Here, John! you black scoundrel, what the
devil is the reason Count Clairmont's breakfast has
not been brought up? Bring it up instantly. His
lordship has rung twice.”

“I wish his lordship was—”

John scratched his head, and left the sentence
unfinished. The valet suddenly caught a view of
the young girl, at whom he gazed with strong and
increasing astonishment.

“What!—no!” muttered he. “Yes—surely—
it can't be; but—”

“Raffaello!” said the girl, vehemently, and walking
up close to him. “It is!”—and she suddenly
broke into a rapid flow of Italian, though uttered in
a low voice.

“Per Dio!” said the valet, “I dare not.”

“He will break my heart!” said the girl.

“He will break my head!” said Raffaello.

“If you displease me you will repent of it hereafter,”
answered she.

“If I offend my master I shall repent of it at
once,” said the man.

“It is in vain to deny me—I will see him immediately.”

“Signora Louise!” replied the valet, after a
moment's hesitation, in which surprise and perplexity
seemed struggling with a desire to oblige
—“enter into this apartment. I will return to you
directly.”

There was something striking in the appearance
of the stranger. Her figure was tall, round, and
beautifully formed, and her face well repaid a second
glance. The complexion, though brown to the
last borders of a brunett, was clear and transparent;
her hair of the colour of a raven; and
much there was in her countenance of sweetness,
and in her manner of dignity, although her dress
did not denote affluence. But the principal feature
was her eyes. They were remarkable for their
largeness, their intense blackness, the light which
shot from them with every rolling thought and sudden
feeling, the firm full gaze with which they
expressed seriousness or anger, and the suffusion of
softness and tenderness which sometimes quenched
their fiercer beams.

The valet presently returned, and beckoned her
to follow; and the plebeian world below went on
for a time without further molestation from the

agents or affairs of Count Clairmont of the French
army.

There is no keener wine-lover than your Turk.
Nowhere are there found wilder democrats than in
the ranks of a despot; and nowhere are the badges
of nobility more reverently and indiscriminately
hailed than by the gay votaries of fashion in a republic,
where all men are “born equal,” and where
titles are excluded by the constitution.

A count—a real count—had made his appearance
in New-York. Rumour preceded, enthusiasm
welcomed, and admiration followed him. He was
young, handsome, rich, and a foreigner. The two
former would have been much, the latter were
every thing. It was whispered that, notwithstand
ing his high title and princely fortune, he would
write a book on America. Books on America
were even then the vogue. The opinion of the
count was looked for with intense eagerness; for
it is a characteristic of my countrymen, while they
assume a settled confidence in their merit, to shrink
from the lash of every nameless satirist. Then,
perhaps, he might marry! The very men went
crazy—and the women!

Although in the French service, the Count Clair
mont had spent much of his youth in England, and
the language was said to be more familiar to him
than his own. Others he spoke too with irresistible
grace; but that of love more freely than all. Then
he had travelled over the world, danced with dutchesses
and princesses, feasted with dukes and kings,
fought in a score of indefinite battles, and triumphed
in victories which nations had owed to his arm.
He had been wounded by a retreating foe (ah!
what was that wound to those he daily inflicted!)—
had sighed on the banks of the Ilissus, and mused
amid the ruins of Rome; had beheld Vesuvius

spout his fires, and Olympus rear his head. His
motion was grace, his voice music, his eyes bliss,
his touch rapture: then he was fascinating; then
he was foreign; then—he was single; then—he
was a count. It is certain that he was a modest
man—that is, modest for a count in the French
army—modest for a man who had half the lovely
women of New-York at his feet. Relieved for a
time, in consequence of a wound, from the claims
of his own country, he no longer fleshed his sword
in war; but he had seized a nobler weapon, and
wreathed his brows with more graceful laurels.
This nobler weapon was a goose-quill. Blood he
could not now shed, but his ink flowed freely in the
cause of innocence and beauty—and midnight oil
he wasted like water. Dull were the eyes that
might not strike a rhyme from the soul of Count
Clairmont of the French army. Every smile was
caught and imprisoned in a verse; every blush
brightened again in a sonnet. Many a slender foot
had been celebrated—many a tender glance embalmed—many
a passion nursed—and many a
cigar smoked, in all the raptures of sentiment, and
in all the reveries of champaign, by Count Clairmont
of the French army. Envy, jealousy, even
love, could frame only one accusation against him.
It was a charge that moistened the eyes and heaved
the bosom of many a charming belle. It shaded
his triumph at the ball, and dimmed his joy at the
banquet. The tall and lovely Henrietta Bellville
actually broke away from a tête-à-tête, the only one
envious fate ever granted, at the very thought; and
that glowing creature Helen Mellerie was seen to
withdraw her hand from his—in the little summer-house—by
the river—at her father's country-seat
—in August—the moon quite above the trees—
immediately—that is, almost immediately—at the
recollection of its truth;—

Count Clairmont of the French army was—a
flirt!