Good-Bye, Sweetheart, Part II, Chapter II [pp. 541-543]

1871.] "Go OD-B YL 9 WEETHEART!" 541
,us say no more about her," said he, finally, "but go to supper," and,
offering his arm to Mdlle. de Salle, he led the way.
Hardly a week passed when Mdlle. Hippolyte Clarion received an.other invitation from Prince Conti; but this time it was printed, and
printed in gold, on rose-tinted silk, and accompanied by a surpassing ly beautiful bunch of flowers. In this elegant missive, she was soli cited to do his highness "the honor" to dine with him three days
later.
Hippolyte accepted with a smile. With what a triumphant mien
she gazed at the magnificent bouquet t With a single stroke she had
attained the desired end. The princely rous comprehended the import
of the lesson she had given him; he understood that Hippolyte Clarion
was not one of the many who were ready to come or go at his simple
beck or call. But now she was not disposed to be "out of sorts"
,with him any longer; on the contrary, she determined to don her
sunniest smile and her richest apparel, in order to do all honor to the
occasion. He should not regret having introduced her into his aristo cratic circle; her manners should convince him that she was not out of
her proper place when surrounded by the elite of Parisian society. She
spent hours before her mirror rehearsing; thus she would enter, bow,l
turn to the right or left; thus she would manage her long train, and
use her India fan. The charming little Hippolyte was certainly great ly pleased with the accomplished Mdlle. Clarion. Still -better pleased
was she with herself when the day arrived, and she saw herself in her
yellow robe, the heavy folds of which fell like molten gold. She car ried her powdered head, ornamented with a dark-red rose, a little too
high, perhaps; but it could not be denied that the slightly haughty,
self-reliant air it gave her was, in her case, exceedingly becoming.
It was not yet quite dark when, proud and confident, she drove to
the H6tel Conti. She seemed to be the first arrival-there were no
carriages in the court-yard, nor was there any unusual illumination.
Nothing, indeed, about the hotel had a festive appearance. An old
servant, in a shabby livery, showed her into a dimly-lighted reception room. Had she arrived so early? but it was certainly the hour the
prince had fixed for the arrival of his guests. And how strange that
the room should be without a fire! How badly his highness must be
served! Was there not, at last, another arrival? No, it was only a
passing carriage.
Shivering and impatient, Mdlle. Hippolyte walked to and fro, en deavoring to keep warm, and to curb her rising anger. It was fortu nate that the room was furnished with an ample mirror. She could,
at least, find a little occupation in arranging her curls, in practising
the management of her train, and in self-admiration. But, strangely
enough, she was less and less pleased with herself at every succeeding
glance. The cold began to redden her nose, between her eyebrows
there was an ugly line, and around her mouth there was an expressiqn
that was any thing but becoming. Her clock must have been much
too fast, or were all the rest of the clocks in Paris wrong? The young
.actress tried to lighten the leaden moments by repeating, sotto voce,
the finest passages in the parts she was studying; but it was of no
avail-she could not keep down her rising anger. Finally, she could
,endure it no longer. She seized a little silver bell that was on a side table, and rang it violently. A servant immediately entered, his large
wig drawn low down on his forehead, and approached her with a mien
*that was little less than insolent.
"Why must I wait here so long?" demanded Hippolyte, in an
imperious tone, and with the frown of a Dido. "Where are the other
guests, and where is the prince?"
The man bowed slightly, and replied:" The prince dines at court
to-day. As for your invitation, madame, he must have forgotten it."
This answer had scarcely fallen from his lips, when the little hand
of the youthful actress met the side of the speaker's head so forcibly
as to greatly disarrange his big wig, and raise a cloud of dust, or rather
powder. When the cloud cleared away, what was Hippolyte's surprise to recognize, in the discomfited expression of the man before her,
the master of the house, the prince himself!
For a moment, only, something akin to fright was pictured in
Hippolyte's features; but she quickly recovered her self-control, and,
looking again at the pitiable figure of him who had expected the
pleasure of being himself a witness of her discomfiture and humiliation, she burst into a laugh so fresh, so clear and musical, so unaffected
wand hearty, that the features of the prince gradually assumed a more
genial expression, until, at last, the blase rou6 laughed also, not so
musically as the joyous little actress, still he laughed right heartily.
And then, with a frankness of manner that did not become him the
less for being unusual, he reached out his withered hand, withered be.
fore its time, and said: "Pardon me, mademoiselle. Let us be
friends."
"We have both deserved our punishment," she replied, reaching
him the ends of her rosy fingers, "and the best proof of mutual for giveness will be, perhaps, for us both to say nothing about the affair
for the present, at least. Do you not think so, monseigneur?" she
added, archly.
It is not probable that the prince ever made the petite rencontre
the subject of conversation; he died very soon after it occurred. In
her memoirs, Mdlle. Clarion only adverted to it; but, during the long
years that she was the reigning favorite at the little court of Anspach,
she more than once entertained her friends with a recital of all the
details, which were as we have narrated them.
"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART!"
A TALE IN THREE PARTS.-PART SECOND.
By RHODA BROUGHTON, AUTHOR OF "RED AS A ROSE IS SHE," ETC.
CHAPTER II.-WHAT THE AUTHOR SAYS.
"Babe Jesus lay on Mary's lap,
The sun shone in His hair;
And so it was she saw, mayhap,
The crown already there.
"For she sang,'Sleep on, my little King,
Bad Herod dares not come;
Before Thee sleeping, holy thing,
Wild winds would soon be dumb.
"' I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet,
My King, so long desired;
Thy hands shall ne'er be soiled, my sweet,
Thy feet shall ne'er be tired.
"'For Thou art King of men, my Son,
Thy crown, I see it plain;
And men shall worship Thee, every one,
And cry Glory I Amen I'
"Babe Jesus op'ed his eyes so wide,
At Mary looked her Lord;
And Mary stinted her song and sighed,
Babe Jesus said never a word."
NOBODY sings those old carols nowadays; but to me they have a
heartier, truer ring than any of the newfangled Christian psalmodies.
Yes-it is Christmas-Day, though there is neither snow, nor frost,
nor ice; only stripped trees, a chilly little sun, and mild west-wind.
Everybody has been to church, has prayed, has crossed his arms, and
yawned; has stared at the hollied font and the ivied pillars, at the
blue, and red, and gold texts, that tell us the old, old news, that
Christ is born;" has thought of his earthly accounts, and of his
account with High God, as the bent of his mind inclines him. Tommy
has dropped his mother's smart Prayer-book into a puddle on his way
to church; has been hoisted up on the seat, on his arrival there; has
made faces at a little girl in the next pew; has broken into audible
laughter, during the Second Lesson, at something that tickled his
fancy in one of the footmen's appearance; has been privately admonished that expulsion from church, and deprivation of pudding, will be
the consequence of continued mirth; has therefore lapsed into tearful
gravity, and finally into sleep. Now they are all at home again; Lenore and Paul have succeeded in the object-always a primary one
with lovers-of eluding every one else, and are dawdling about in the
conservatory till the luncheon-gong shall summon them back into the
control of the public eye. The proud camellias, the Roman matrons
-Cornelias and Lucretias-of the flower nation, hide no ears under
their sleek, dark leaves; the jonquils, whose gold throats are so full
of sweets, tell no tales.
"I never saw you in a frock-coat and tall hat before," says Lenore,
playfully surveying her lover from head to heel; "turn slowly round,
that I may judge of the tout ensemble."
"Nor I you in a bonnet."
"You have seen me, however, in a cap," returns Lenore, with a
mischievous smile.
Paul looks a little grave.
"Do not abuse it!" cries the girl, laughing. "With all its mis
"1 GO O-D-B YE, 8 W. EEZEA_RT! "
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