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"One woman is fair, yet I am well;

another is wise, yet I am well;

another virtuous, yet I am well;

but till all graces be in one woman,

one woman shall not come in my grace.".... Shakespeare.

"I COULD not undertake your mission, Albert, the chestnut put it out of my head this morning," said Raoul de Verdreuil, as with his arm in that of Albert Hoffmann's, he paced up and down the terrace that evening.

"Could you not?—I am not sure that it matters after all, Raoul. I don't think I care about having my opera performed by these people here. They would in the first place think it too much trouble to study it. Then I must engage an orchestra; I think the music is too difficult for any amateur players, and on the whole, Raoul, I think I would rather the matter stood over for a little time."

"Why, Albert," cried his friend, stopping in his walk, and gazing curiously at the boyish face which crimsoned like a girl's before his searching eyes, "why, my dear boy, what has come over you since the morning? You were quite full of this idea then."

"Yes, I know," said Albert, his voice growing more confused. "But you see I have been thinking it over again, and I heard—I mean I have seen—I have heard a voice—and——"

"Mon cher," cried Raoul, in a tone of mock solemnity, "this is really too much of a mystery! You have heard—you have seen a voice. What in the name of all that's wonderful have you seen? A fairy or a pixie, or what? She seems to have confused your senses considerably, at all events."

"Well, don't laugh, and I'll tell you, Raoul," said Albert, making a strong effort to conquer his habitual bashfulness; and then he proceeded to give his friend an account of Vivienne's appearance in the music-gallery that morning; her wonderful voice; her strange, romantic history; all of which had made so deep an impression on him. "She is as beautiful as a dream," he went on; "and so proud and graceful, yet withal so innocent and helpless; and then her voice—anything more magnificent you cannot imagine; and oh, Raoul! if you could only see her!" and, having entangled himself amidst these involved phrases, Albert paused from sheer want of breath.

Raoul smiled, the kindly, gentle smile which he so rarely gave to anyone but those he loved.

"My dear boy," he exclaimed; "the idea of your turning champion for damsels in distress is really too absurd. What in the world will happen next?"

"Ah! don't make fun of me, Raoul," pleaded the boy. "Is it any wonder that I feel for this friendless girl? She has the same love for art, the same need of sympathy and encouragement, and like me she has lost her parents; she has no home of her own."

"And what have you promised to do for her?" inquired Raoul, his voice grave and earnest now, in sympathy with the boy's evident feeling.

"I thought of speaking to the countess about her," said Albert, timidly. "You see, Raoul, it would be nothing to her to befriend this girl, and raise her to a position more suitable than the one she now occupies; her own genius will do the rest. Vivienne St. Maurice would be one of the finest and most marvellous singers of the day, if trained and educated for the life and profession of one."

"Oh! now I see why the performance of the opera has been postponed," said Raoul drily. "This marvellous prima-donna in embryo is of course the only singer whose voice could do justice to your music—now."

Albert coloured hotly. "Don't be so unjust, Raoul," he said. "It is not like you to distort motives in this manner, and I thought," he added, with a ring of disappointment in his voice, "I thought I had only to speak to you and you would be glad to help her—she is so friendless."

"Don't get so doleful over it," said his friend, smiling in spite of himself at the boy's woe-begone expression. "I am quite as much interested in the girl as you could desire, but what do you want me to do? Not intercede with the countess on her behalf, I hope. If I did so, your philanthropic schemes would be useless immediately. Blanche de Verdreuil is in my opinion the last woman in the world to feel any sympathy for distressed innocence, or pure ambition. I don't think the history of this friendless girl, with the wonderful voice and romantic story, would interest the countess sufficiently to make her relieve or assist her in any way."

"But I must try to enlist her sympathy, at all events," said Albert, "I promised Vivienne I would."

"How naturally you say that name!" said Raoul, smiling in spite of himself. "What an enchantress this girl must be! I thought art was to be your only mistress; you will find love a dangerous rival; poets, painters, musicians—artists, in fact, of every creed find half their power is gone when they ever succumb to a rival influence. And women are too jealous of the only antagonist who has ever competed with their charms successfully, to let the love for art reign in sole and undisturbed possession of a man's heart. Once love, and you are shorn of your strength; you lose half your power. You sink your individuality into the interests and nature of another, and art ceases to become the one delight of your heart, and, as a natural consequence, your future can never bear out the promise of your past."

"But that is a very one-sided view of the case, Raoul," said Albert eagerly; "I never heard of an artist whose life became barren or unfruitful, simply because a woman shared it. I do not think that genius can be cramped or killed in any man's heart by the presence of a pure and holy love, and though I am little skilled in women's ways, of this I am sure, that no true woman would ever strive to weaken the hand, or dull the brain, or destroy the enthusiasm, which made the man she loved famous in the eyes of the world."

"No true woman—perhaps not; but where so many are false, it would be a difficult matter to find one true, I fancy."

"Oh, Raoul, some day you will not be so hard on them. Some day you yourself will know what love is, and then——"

"Then I shall make a fool of myself after the most approved fashion, I suppose," laughed his friend; "but I have managed to exist very comfortably as yet, without them, and I hope I may long do so. I feel inclined to say, like Benedick, 'Till all graces be found in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.'"

Albert was silent for some moments.

"Do you really think you will never love, Raoul?" he asked presently, "you always scoff at it as such utter weakness. Do you never fear it may become a reality to yourself?"

"In sober earnest, I never trouble myself to think about it at all. It seems absurd to see other men hang on a woman's smile, and fall at a woman's feet, and languish for a word from her lips. I certainly can never imagine myself doing anything of the kind, nor do I fear such a fate."

For Raoul de Verdreuil had yet to learn the truth of the words he had laughed at as idle that very morning; that love—despised as weakness—becomes terrible one day in its awakened strength; a master instead of a slave.

* * * * * *

An hour later the rooms were filled with guests. The absence of the hostess in no way interfered with the pleasure of the evening. In the card-room a few men were playing; Raoul de Verdreuil amongst the number. They played long, and the stakes were high; and far on into the night the reckless play lasted. When they broke up and strolled away, some to the smoking-room, some to their respective chambers, Raoul lingered for a little beside the piano, where Albert sat playing quaint, dreamy music, that seemed to suit the hour and the silence around.

"Go on," he said presently, as he leaned back in his chair with his eyes wandering ever and anon to the rapt, earnest face of the player; and the boy obeyed, while the sweet, soft melodies floated through the room with a strange, pathetic eloquence, and Raoul closed his eyes and let the dreamy peace of the music calm and soothe him as it would.

It ceased at last, and Albert left the instrument and came towards him.

"Why are you so silent, Raoul?" he said softly.

"Ah, Albert!" his friend cried with sudden passionate regret, "If I only knew I had led a life as pure and sinless as your own! If, keeping you beside me always, I too might learn what stainless chivalry might live even in a man's heart, I think I should be happier for the knowledge than ever I can be now."

"Dear Raoul," spoke the pleading, tender voice—always so loving and so gentle when that name was uttered, "you could not be better in my eyes for any life you led. You are so noble, so generous, so true. If you have pride, it is only one that holds your honour a more priceless possession than your rank. If you have ambition, it is always pure and great, with no mean, unscrupulous ends in view. You are a friend any man might be proud to call by that name, because it means so much to you, because its faith is so nobly kept, its spirit so thoroughly understood. Don't say you would change yourself in any way, Raoul, for I could not love you more were you better; I could not love you less were you a thousand times worse."

Raoul looked at him quickly. So brave and pure and trustful the young face seemed, with that light of love and earnestness shining through it.

"I wonder if you will think so always?" he said, hurriedly, for his voice was unsteady, and its calm, even tones had forsaken him. "God grant it; and now go to bed. I cannot have you keeping such hours as these; you will be laid up if you don't take care."

"Yes, I am tired, I think," said Albert, a little wearily, as he clasped Raoul's hand in farewell. "Are you not coming too, Raoul?"

"Presently. I must pay the smoking-room a visit first; be thankful, mon cher, that you haven't learnt what it is to be under the tyranny of that awful power—a weed. Now be off with you!"

But he did not go to the smoking-room till long after his friend had left. Slowly and thoughtfully he paced the room to and fro, in ceaseless, restless measure.

"It is best for me to leave," he muttered at last, as he stopped that monotonous pacing. "She is not to be trusted, and I—I must guard his honour if I can, for indeed he may not long be able to guard it for himself."

Then he went, and only when the sunrise glowed warm and ruddy in the east did he throw himself down to rest and sleep. But the rest was troubled and disturbed, and his face, with its calm, proud gravity, was shadowed by unquiet dreams—by the passing touch of sleepless passions, and thoughts which no slumber could deaden.