after the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless and disquieted coningsby wandered about paris, vainly seeking in the distraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind. his first resolution was immediately to depart for england; but when, on reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had so agitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of many circumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his firm resolution began to waver.
these were the first pangs of jealousy that coningsby had ever experienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which he was hazarding on a most uncertain die.
the next morning he called in the rue rivoli, and was informed that the family were not at home. he was returning under the arcades, towards the rue st. florentin, when sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, on horseback, and at a rapid rate. coningsby, who was not observed by him, could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his progress. he saw him enter the court of the hotel where the wallinger family were staying. would he come forth immediately? no. coningsby stood still and pale. minute followed minute. coningsby flattered himself that sidonia was only speaking to the porter. then he would fain believe sidonia was writing a note. then, crossing the street, he mounted by some steps the terrace of the tuileries, nearly opposite the hotel of the minister of finance, and watched the house. a quarter of an hour elapsed; sidonia did not come forth. they were at home to him; only to him. sick at heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his steps, dreading even to meet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that his tongue would refuse the office of conversation, he contrived to reach his grandfather’s hotel, and was about to bury himself in his chamber, when on the staircase he met flora.
coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. seeing her now, his heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. any one else at this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but the gentle and suffering flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so kind a heart as coningsby’s.
he looked at her; she was pale and agitated. her step trembled, while she still hastened on.
‘what is the matter?’ inquired coningsby.
‘my lord, the marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage.’ briefly she detailed to coningsby all that had occurred; that m. villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only this moment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to the centre. coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely emerged from the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought lord and lady monmouth home. they followed it into the court. they were immediately at its door.
‘all is right, harry,’ said the marquess, calm and grave.
coningsby pressed his grandfather’s hand. then he assisted lucretia to alight.
‘i am quite well,’ she said, ‘now.’
‘but you must lean on me, dearest lady monmouth,’ coningsby said in a tone of tenderness, as he felt lucretia almost sinking from him. and he supported her into the hall of the hotel.
lord monmouth had lingered behind. flora crept up to him, and with unwonted boldness offered her arm to the marquess. he looked at her with a glance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an almost winning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to his countenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly presented, he said,
‘ma petite, you look more frightened than any of us. poor child!’
he had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm from flora, and thanked her with all his courtesy.
‘you are not hurt, then, sir?’ she ventured to ask with a look that expressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture to convey.
‘by no means, my good little girl;’ and he extended his hand to her, which she reverently bent over and embraced.
