"
The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking
hands with the ladies.
"Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst. The
massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the
guillotine claims a hundred victims a day."
Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair,
listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went
on in her own misguided country.
"Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to
hear all that--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is
terrible for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in
peace, whilst he is in such peril."
"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your
sitting in a convent won't make your husband safe, and you have your
children to consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and
premature mourning."
The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her
friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have
misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine
sympathy and most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse
manners affected by some ladies at that time.
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