1829.] A Traveller's Recollections. 123 
At the moment of the Comtesse’s approach, a young privy councillor 
maintained—perhaps rather too warmly—that it was impossible to be 
deceived as to any one’s origin, and that a certain air of dignity, in the 
whole appearance, betrayed, in spite of themselves, those who had the 
honour of being born in the privileged classes. This opinion was also 
that of an old lady, who finished all her phrases with—* as the late 
baron used to say’—and was opposed by a superior officer of most dis- 
tinguished air, and an ex-minister, who had their own, reasons for what 
they said. At last, to give an example that must lead every one to his 
side, the orator addressed the mistress of the mansion, and triumphantly 
inquired, whether, let fate have placed her in whatever inferior situa- 
tion, her noble birth would not have been at once recognized from her 
air and manners. The beautiful Comtesse gave a smile at the words. 
« What an unfortunate illustration, Monsieur de L.,” said she. 
« What, Madame—are you not the daughter of a comte?” 
«<< No.” 
«* Of a baron?” said the old lady. 
No. 
“* Of an officer ?” resumed the colonel. 
< No.” 
« Of an administrator ?” added the ex-minister. 
Bio,” 
* You deceive us, Madame,” replied the young privy councillor ; 
* you certainly are of a family ss 
«OF honest people, but who positively had no titles to boast of,” 
said the Comtesse, smilingly. “ You can vouch that I am no better 
than I assert,” she continued turning to the friend who had in- 
troduced me. She was, at the instant, called away to decide some 
point at one of the tables; and, while the observations excited by her 
frank declaration were rapidly crossing each other, I inquired of the Aide- 
de-camp, “ Who was the beautiful Comtesse ?”——“ She shall tell you 
herself,” replied he.— I have at home her sketch of her own memoirs. 
She lent it to me, and I will lend it to you—for she seems as little 
anxious to conceal what she has risen from, as what she has risen to.” 
_ My way lay through his street—he gave me the manuscript as we 
went home, and I read, before I slept, as follows :— 
_ “ My name is Angelique L’Arjou ; I was born at Neuilly. My mother, 
who was surnamed the Belle Paysanne, died a few days after I came 
into the world, and her husband did not long survive her. An orphan 
from two years of age, I was reared by an aunt, who, having no child, 
became a second mother to me. Since the death of my parents, her 
garden had acquired a great increase—she had inherited all her sisters’ 
customers, and her sole ambition was to make me the bearer of the finest 
fruits and flowers in the vicinity of Paris. I approached my fifteenth 
year. The animated glances of the young men who sought to meet me 
—the ill-temper of the young girls who avoided me—and the anxiety of 
my aunt, taught me that I was handsome. I had suspected it myself for 
a year back. But one is never pretty with impunity. All the youths of 
Neuilly paid court to me ; however, though I cared for none, I thought 
proper not to offend any. Their rustic flames did not teach me how one 
can love—but their rustic eulogies taught me how one can please ; and, 
with a little memory, lessons of this sort are not soon forgotten. 
“For a whole year I maintained a sage equilibrium among all my 
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