may avoid making any of the terrible blunders which in Poland draw
forth the picturesque exclamation, "Harness five bullocks to your
cart!" probably because you will need them all to pull you out of the
quagmire into which a false step has plunged you. If, down to the
present day, our language has no name for these conversational
disasters, it is probably because they are believed to be impossible,
the publicity given in Paris to every scandal is so prodigious. After
the awkward incident at Mme. de Restaud's, no one but Eugene could
have reappeared in his character of bullock-driver in Mme. de
Beauseant's drawing-room. But if Mme. de Restaud and M. de Trailles
had found him horribly in the way, M. d'Ajuda hailed his coming with
relief.

"Good-bye," said the Portuguese, hurrying to the door, as Eugene made
his entrance into a dainty little pink-and-gray drawing-room, where
luxury seemed nothing more than good taste.

"Until this evening," said Mme. de Beauseant, turning her head to give
the Marquis a glance. "We are going to the Bouffons, are we not?"

"I cannot go," he said, with his fingers on the door handle.

Mme. de Beauseant rose and beckoned to him to return. She did not pay
the slightest attention to Eugene, who stood there dazzled by the
sparkling marvels around him; he began to think that this was some
story out of the Arabian Nights made real, and did not know where to
hide himself, when the woman before him seemed to be unconscious of
his existence. The Vicomtesse had raised the forefinger of her right
hand, and gracefully signed to the Marquis to seat himself beside her.
The Marquis felt the imperious sway of passion in her gesture; he came