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"There's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away." .... Byron.

THE city of Paris is in all the brilliance of its springtide gaiety.

Rank and fashion throng the Bois, and stream after stream of carriages bear their dazzling freight of beauty to inaugurate the season this sunny day of the opening year.

Among the many splendid equipages is one whose occupants seem to attract universal admiration. They are two women, both wonderfully lovely, though in a totally different style; one is very fair, with a wealth of sunny hair coiled round her small, exquisitely-shaped head, with changing, sparkling eyes and lips like scarlet blossoms. She leans back amid the soft cushions of her carriage, and from time to time bends gracefully in acknowledgement of the many greetings she receives; for Blanche de Verdreuil is one of the reigning queens of the beau monde now.

Her companion is a young girl apparently not more than eighteen years of age. The beauty of a pure and sunny youth, a frank and fearless spirit, speaks out in the glance of the dark eyes, and sparkles in the fair, rich colouring of the dainty face; the face whose greatest charm is the charm it derives from the soul within.

It is the face of the girl by the brook-side; the face of the listener in the music-gallery at Renonçeux; the face of the weeping mourner in the poor and shadowy room where her only friend lay dying; the face that has gladdened the old château for nearly two years past, and now shines forth on the great world of Paris, to learn for the first time the full power of a woman's beauty, when society goes mad for its smiles and crowns it with the dictum of its favour. It is Vivienne St. Maurice who sits by Blanche de Verdreuil's side; Vivienne, scarce changed even now from the girlish dreamer in the woods of Renonçeux; Vivienne, who, by the Countess de Verdreuil's caprice, is for the first time introduced to the world of a great city, and whose eyes gaze wonderingly at the scene around her, which has all the charm of novelty yet.

It was a sudden whim on the part of the countess to bring her ward to Paris this year—a whim that caused Vivienne herself a curious excitement and flutter of mingled delight and wonder at heart. But she came, and this first day of her glimpse of Parisian life was to her an alternate bewilderment and enjoyment.

"Who is she?"

The fashionable throng asked that question again and again, and yet no answer was given. None knew, or seemed to know, the rank, or name, or history of the lovely girl who passed and repassed as the carriage took its way through the crowded drive.

"What an exquisite face! Do you know who she is?" The speaker, a young and extremely handsome man, leaned forward to address this question to the Duchess de Villemaire, whose set was one of the most exclusive in Paris, and whose gold eye-glass had just been raised to look at the new occupant of the Countess de Verdreuil's carriage.

"A pretty girl. Wants style though, I think," she answered superciliously; "un peu trop l'air paysanne!" and she leant back with an expression of complete indifference.

"Oh! your Grace, that is too severe," said the first speaker, the young Marquis d'Orvâl, and the richest and most eligible parti then in Paris. "That freshness and piquancy is just the greatest charm of all. One finds Beauty au naturel quite refreshing after seeing it so often à la mode."

This was a cruel remark to make considering that the two unmarried daughters of the duchess were present, and that they were both the very height and perfection of la mode, though passé enough in point of feminine charms to necessitate a constant resort to art instead of nature.

"You know the Countess de Verdreuil, do you not?" continued the Marquis d'Orvâl presently.

"Oh, yes! one knows many people whom you cannot exactly avoid; but I do not visit her."

"She is well received though. Why is your Grace exceptional in your favour?"

The duchess shrugged her shoulders with a gesture more expressive than words.

"She is not one of us, that is all. Mysterious beauties raised suddenly to high rank and honours are not yet received in my set. I pride myself on being exclusive, Monsieur d'Orvâl, as you know."

The young marquis bowed, and then rode on without further remark. Exclusive or not, the Duchess de Villemaire was anything but agreeable, he thought; and how atrociously plain her daughters were—by daylight!—So his thoughts ran as he rode slowly on, his eyes glancing swiftly among the stream of carriages, ever in search of that one face, the loveliest, he thought, of the many beautiful ones he had seen all his life through.

He saw it at last, with the sunshine lighting the sweet laughing eyes; with the gleam of gold in the heavy masses of hair drawn from the pure white brow; with the scarlet bloom on lips and cheeks that no hand but Nature's had painted; and amidst all the beauty and light, and vivid wonderful colouring, there seemed to speak out the fearless, guileless spirit of a child, the sweet unconsciousness of self, which is at once the rarest and most perfect charm of a woman's nature.

The Marquis d'Orvâl knew the Countess de Verdreuil as well as people in society ever know each other. He met her constantly, admired her extremely, listened to all the pretty stories and impertinent suggestions, and boudoir-perfumed scandals he heard about her, and that was all. But now a strange impulse prompted him to join her, as, in the momentary pressure of the crowd, her carriage was obliged to remain stationary.

Another instant, and he was bowing over her hand and receiving her sweetest smiles; for Blanche knew that this man set the seal of fashion on any one he chose to notice, and she had long and vainly courted his attention in the hope that his dictum would raise her to that enviable notoriety which his notice could bestow alike on a grande dame, or a ballet-dancer.

"Allow me to introduce you to my ward, Mademoiselle St. Maurice," said Blanche de Verdreuil, after the first greetings had been exchanged.

The Marquis d'Orvâl bowed low to the beautiful girl who had so interested and attracted him, and she returned his salutation with the calm, easy dignity which was so natural and graceful a charm of her manner.

"I think I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle St. Maurice in Paris before?" questioned the marquis, as he rode beside the countess through the crowded drive of the Bois de Boulogne.

"Cela va sans dire," laughed Blanche de Verdreuil gaily. "I have only just brought her out. I am going to enact the part of chaperon this season, Monsieur d'Orvâl."

"Hardly fair to give you so thankless and fatiguing an office, madame," he answered in the same tone, while his eyes turned admiringly to the faultless loveliness of the new débutante again.

Blanche shrugged her shoulders with a pretty affectation of indifference.

"I hope I shall not find it so," she answered. "My ward is not difficult to manage, and though the charge is new and responsible to me, I have no doubt I shall be able to go through with it successfully."

Vivienne's face flushed hotly at the words; low spoken as they were she heard them, and turned hastily away, as though she dared not trust herself to answer.

The marquis looked from Blanche to her ward with scarce concealed curiosity. It struck him at that moment, that between the countess and this beautiful girl no great love reigned, and he marvelled not a little that Blanche should have consented to enact the part of chaperon to one who was only too likely to prove a dangerous rival. Again and again his eyes wandered to Vivienne's perfect face. He had seen many lovely women, but never one so lovely as this—never one who forced him to interest and wonder despite himself.

Blanche de Verdreuil noted his admiring glances, his wandering replies; and despite the jealousy she felt at Vivienne's easy conquest of this proud, difficile noble, she yet congratulated herself on the fact, as it promised success to the schemes already at work in her own brain.

"Shall I meet you at the Embassy ball, madame?" asked d'Orvâl presently.

A shadow of defiant hauteur clouded the brilliant eyes of the countess.

"No, I think not," she said coldly. "We have only just arrived, monsieur, and——"

"Oh! I see," he interrupted, not wishing to put her to the trouble of inventing a fiction to hide the real fact—that she had not been asked. "I merely inquired because I heard Lady S. expressing her doubts as to whether you were in Paris when she was issuing her invitations. I shall have the pleasure of assuring her of your arrival, and that of Mademoiselle St. Maurice."

Blanche de Verdreuil's heart gave a swift throb of triumph and delight. It was the summit of her ambition to get into the exclusive set, of which Lady S. was ruler. She was the wife of the English ambassador, and Blanche, during her two seasons of Parisian life had never been asked to the balls at the Embassy. She wondered whether the Marquis d'Orvâl was in earnest, or whether he merely said what he had done out of politeness.

"I shall confidently expect to meet you there," he continued presently. "Of course your invitations will reach you in the course of a day or two; Mademoiselle will see every one worth knowing in Paris then, for the ball this year is to be one of the most brilliant of the season."

"So I believe," said Blanche calmly, not wishing of course that the marquis should fancy this was the first she had heard of it. "To-night we are going to the Countess de Liramar's—at least, my husband and myself. Vivienne is not to be introduced till my own ball comes off."

"Paris will be the loser for that," said the young marquis, turning to the fair girl beside him. He began to talk to her now, but the grave, beautiful eyes looked so contemptuous at the soft compliments and unmeaning flatteries with which his conversation was filled, that he plainly saw these courtier-like graces were of no avail to win either interest or regard from her. She was unlike any one he had ever seen; she was a beautiful and interesting study, piquing, bewitching, and bewildering him at every moment.

The naive unconsciousness, and unaffected ease of her manner were simply enchanting to this man of the world, though he had always boasted that he possessed no pastoral tastes, and that fashion and life were one and the same thing with him. But he was enchained and held in check at one and the same moment by this shy child—so unlike the self-possessed beauties of fashion, and the proud and arrogant leaders of ton with whom his whole life had been associated.

Blanche de Verdreuil chatted on of the thousand gay nothings of Parisian scandal, the new rivals for fame at the opera-house, the new beauties of the season to be introduced for the grand Matrimonial Stakes, of the bal masqué she was about to give in her hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, and at which her lovely ward was to make her debût; and while she talked and he listened and assented from time to time, his eyes ever rested on the face of Vivienne, with its varying expression, its faultless loveliness and extreme youth.

It was new to him to gaze on charms which Nature's hand alone had formed and coloured; and the tutored heart of the man of the world was touched and subdued into something far different to its ordinary calm and critical coldness, as he at last left her side, and rode slowly home, to ponder over the interest she had awakened.

"And what do you think of Paris, ma chère?" inquired Blanche of her companion, as their carriage turned homewards at length, and the dense crowd of rank and fashion were left behind; "or rather, what do you think of the pet of Paris at present, the Marquis d'Orvâl—that Admirable Crichton of the nineteenth century, that epitome of courtesy, good breeding, rank, and wealth, upon whom Fashion has set her seal, and whose smile of approbation is coveted by all, as the one thing needful to give them prestige and success? There can be no doubt about his opinion of you, and his verdict once given, all Paris will follow suit, and go wild after you with its accustomed foolish excitement! Nevertheless, you are very fortunate in succeeding so well; to have made an impression on this cold and difficile critic is a feat to be proud of."

"I am sorry to say I do not feel any particular gratification at having unconsciously satisfied the Marquis d'Orvâl's critical judgment," was the answer. "I thought he was a very insincere, shallow-minded man; good looking, certainly; but then he knows it so well; that destroys the charm at once."

"My dear Vivienne," exclaimed Blanche de Verdreuil, in horrified astonishment, "what are you saying? Shallow-minded, good-looking! the handsomest man in Paris; the one of all others whose opinion is regarded as immutable; whose tastes, habits, manners are copied and applauded by the elite of society! for Heaven's sake, child, don't let any one hear you say such things of him. Why they would put you down as some ignorant, foolish girl not worth a thought at once. I tell you, d'Orvâl is worshipped here in Paris. He is the fashion;—the richest and most honourable in the land court his presence at their houses. He is sought after by all and every rank. He gives the password of admission into the best houses, and the most exclusive circles. Why the very fact of his noticing you is sufficient to proclaim you the belle of the season; and instead of being proud of, and elated by that notice, you actually presume to criticize its bestower!"

"How much you will have to teach me, madame," said Vivienne, laughing in unfeigned amusement at Blanche de Verdreuil's horrified tones. "But I am such a complete novice, you know; is it any wonder your great world dazzles and bewilders me at first. The deference you show to this Marquis d'Orvâl's opinions, is to me totally incomprehensible; but you ought not to wonder at my inability to judge of his merits, when you think of my total ignorance of fashionable life. I fear I shall be a very troublesome pupil to you, madame."

Blanche shrugged her shoulders as if the responsibility was not going to sit very heavily upon her, as indeed she never meant it to do; but she did wonder a little curiously what she should do with this girl, whose frank, outspoken opinions, and straight-forward earnestness, would be serious draw-backs to her worldly teaching. How was she to instruct her in those polished artifices which are so essentially requisite to social success? How was she to teach her to distinguish detrimentals from eligibles; to penetrate the mysteries of ton; to refrigerate acquaintances with a glance; to sweep past inconvenient friends with a cool unconsciousness of their very existence; to tell polite falsehoods with a charming assumption of truth and sincerity; to be, in short, of the world—worldly, and in her generation—wise?

Blanche feared the task would be beyond her powers, for the nature of Vivienne St. Maurice was not one to acquire such accomplishments as these either readily or easily. And yet her chief reason for wishing to adopt Vivienne was that she saw in her a quick and efficient means for securing social success at last. The girl's beauty and accomplishments were of so rare and extraordinary an order, that she was well calculated to shine in society by their right of distinction alone; and the countess imagined if she introduced her as her ward, with all the advantages of rank and wealth to set off her attractions, that she would create a perfect furore in Paris. But she had scarcely imagined she could succeed so quickly as she had done, for she knew well that the Marquis d'Orvâl's admiration of Vivienne would raise her to a loftier eminence than any introduction or exertion of her own. She knew, too, that his speech relative to the Ambassador's ball meant an entrée for her at last, and for this she felt she was indebted to Vivienne's fair face again. On the whole, therefore, the Countess de Verdreuil felt remarkably well satisfied with her day's amusement, and was inclined to be extremely complacent to Vivienne on the strength of it.

"What a lovely woman!" exclaimed the girl suddenly, as the carriage came abreast of another scarcely less gorgeous than itself, whose occupant was a very handsome woman, with brilliant eyes, and a full, voluptuous figure.

"My dear," cried Blanche turning her eyes away from the retreating vehicle, "I wonder what you can see to admire in her. She is a singer at the Opera, but not at all a proper person; be sure you never remark her before any one, it would be so very awkward."

The girl's dark eyes rested wonderingly on her companion's face. She puzzled over her words for some minutes in silence, and then said,—

"But, madame, it surely is no disgrace to be a singer at the Opera, and this lady looked an aristocrate au bout des ongles, I am sure. Why do you say she is not a proper person?"

"Simply because she is not received. She was a famous singer, but scandalized herself by making an error—one of those faux pas society cannot excuse. She is no longer received; her place has been supplied, and she has, in fact, lost her footing, and will never be able to regain it again. Don't ask any more questions about her, Vivienne; these topics are not for a young girl to discuss." And the countess settled herself back on her cushions with an expression of virtuous disdain that did her infinite credit.

Vivienne felt pained and grieved without knowing why.

"An opera singer," that was what she longed to be—the career above all others she deemed most enchanting, most enviable; and Blanche had sneeringly described this beautiful singer as "not a proper person!"

She tried to imagine some motive for such a verdict, but she could think of nothing; and, strange to say, her sympathies were more with the beautiful woman stigmatized as "not proper" than with her detractor; for Vivienne could not quite fathom the nature of her protectress, and it was so opposite in every respect to her own, that there could be but little sympathy between them. The caprice of her manner, the mockery of all pure and simple impulses, the inconsistencies of character so marked and so self-evident, were all painful and incomprehensible to Vivienne. Sometimes she fancied that the restlessness and caprices of the countess must proceed from a heart ill at ease, mind dissatisfied, a spirit burdened with the pain of a hidden memory, the weight of past sorrows, or the secrets of other years.

Her coquetry and heartlessness were also antagonistic to Vivienne's lofty creeds of woman's purity and single-mindedness, but she strove to think no ill of her. She told herself how much gratitude she owed her; how she had promised gran'mère on her death-bed that she would abide by the counsels and follow the advice of her new guardian, even as she had done her own; but Vivienne knew that what was done from duty was very different from the service prompted by love alone; and, knowing this, she felt that Blanche de Verdreuil could never win from her a tithe of the devotion, respect, and affection which the poor simple-minded old peasant had won. The one had given, out of her poverty and necessity, such full and perfect measure of love and fidelity as the other could never render out of her abundance. For the faith of the heart is worth a million protestations, or benefits showered down at our feet by those to whom it is no sacrifice to bestow the one, or the other.