his courage and his virtue; but she had another secret and more poignant
grief that preyed upon her soul, and could scarce receive any addition
from ought beside:--she had been now near two months in Paris, yet could
hear nothing of monsieur du Plessis, but that, by the death of his
father, a large estate had devolved upon him, which he had never come to
claim, or had been at Paris for about eighteen months, so that she had
all the reason in the world to believe he was no more. This threw her
into a melancholy, which was so much the more severe as she endeavoured
to conceal it:--she made use of all her efforts to support the loss of a
person she so much loved, and who proved himself so deserving of that
love:--she represented to herself that being relieved from all the
snares and miseries of an indigent life, raised from an obscurity which
had given her many bitter pangs, to a station equal to her wishes, and
under the care of the most indulgent and best of fathers, she ought not
to repine, but bless the bounty of heaven, who had bestowed on her so
many blessings, and with-held only one she could have asked.--These, I
say, were the dictates of reason and religion; but the tender passion
was not always to be silenced by them, and whenever she was alone, the
tears, in spight of herself, would flow, and she, without even knowing
she did so, cry out, Oh du Plessis, wherefore do I live since thou
art dead!

Among the many acquaintance she soon contracted at Paris, there was none
she so much esteemed, both on the account of her own merit, and the
regard she had for Horatio, as mademoiselle de Palfoy. In this young
lady's society did she find more charms for her grief than in that of
any other; and the other truly loving her, not only because she found
nothing more worthy of being loved, but because she was the sister of
Horatio, they were very seldom asunder.