especially for their accommodation: and of these dens called houses, the less said the better, for unless they are better managed and looked after than they were some very few years back, they are a disgrace to a country calling itself Christian and civilised.
The glorious sun is fast sinking behind the western horizon, to shed his all-cheering influence on other lands; and the little loving lamps of night are one by one twinkling in the unsullied sky; and, turning our steps in the direction of the railway-station, not ill-pleased with our day’s amusement, we arrive just in time to secure our seat in the London train, with bright visions of green-waving leaves and merry faces still floating before us.
Isabella Kentish.
JUSTINE’S GAGE D’AMOUR.
The Duke of had a passion for diamonds. He was allowed to be an excellent judge, and no doubt he deserved to be so estimated, for there were many reasons why no excellence, unless deserved, should be accorded him. His name had been connected with many infamous scandals, and it was said that he had fled from his duchy in a balloon. Yet his undoubted judgment in diamonds, and his unique collection of those fascinating gems, made him tolerated by many who would otherwise have given him the cut direct. The Duke of was seated at one of the small tables near the south window of the Kursaal at B B, sipping an orgeat, to which his Highness is particularly partial. On the other side of the same table was M. Placquet, a young Frenchman, a third-rate actor of the Theatre of Varieties at Paris. He pretended to be nothing more. His style of living was in accordance with his position, and he had come to B for the purposes of his art. He said so to those who had been curious about him, and the Duke of had been one of the number. He was enjoying a modest cup of coffee, and dallying with the spoon, when the Duke’s attention became fixed upon a ring worn on the fourth finger of the young man’s left hand. The Duke evidently desired to ask M. Placquet a question, but his politeness restrained him. The Duke struggled in vain. The ring fascinated him like the eyes of a basilisk, and M. Placquet played with his spoon most provokingly. The Duke could bear it no longer, and therefore gave a short hem! to attract M. Placquet’s attention.
“I hope you will pardon me,” said the Duke, “but I have a passion for diamonds.”
M. Placquet smiled, bowed, and looked strangely puzzled.
“Excuse me,” said the Duke, “but would you allow me to examine the one upon your finger?”
“Monsieur is disposed to be pleasant,” replied M. Placquet, a shade of displeasure passing over his face. “I am not in a position to wear diamonds.”
“My dear sir,” said the Duke, “I assure you I had no intention to offend you; and, believe me, the ring you wear is a brilliant of a very pure water.”
“Poor Justine!” half muttered M. Placquet, shrugging his shoulders; “you give diamonds!”
“You seem to doubt my judgment, sir!” said the Duke, his dark eyebrows contracting, and his eyes—he had terrible eyes—glowing as they always did when he became angry. “I say it is a diamond, sir!”
M. Placquet drew the ring from his finger, and, presenting it to the Duke, said:
“Satisfy yourself, sir! It is only one of the excellent imitations made for stage use, and was given to me by a little ballet-dancer—some day to be my wife—as a gage d’amour. It cost ten francs, sir, a large sum for her to expend even upon me. I went with her to purchase it, and selected it from a hundred others equally brilliant and valuable.”
The Duke held the ring to the light, then shaded it with his hand, and put it to all the tests usually employed by connoisseurs.
“My opinion is still unchanged, sir,” said the Duke, “notwithstanding all you have told me, and I am prepared to lay any wager you please that I am right. This diamond is of great value.”
“M’sieur,” replied M. Placquet, with a deprecatory shrug, “I am only a third-rate actor at the Varieties, and cannot pay wagers if I lose them; but I will justify what I have told you. You are a stranger to me—my ring, you say, is of great value-take it away, and submit it to other judgments, and when you have found that my ten-franc ring is only glass or paste, return it to me to-morrow at this hour, for the sake of my little Justine.”
M. Placquet considered he had delivered a first-rate exit speech, so, leaving the ring with the Duke, he made a capital bow, and withdrew to an imaginary round of applause.
The Duke was right in his judgment. Lewis Emanuels, the diamond-dealer of Hamburg, chanced to be at B B, and he pronounced the stone to be worth 10,000 francs, and cheap at the money. M. Placquet and the Duke were equally punctual. The poor actor turned pale when the Duke told him the result of his inquiry, and offered to become the purchaser of the ring at the price set upon it by the Hamburg dealer.
“You are very good, M’sieur, very,” said M. Placquet, “and will perhaps form a bad opinion of my intellect if I hesitate to accept your liberal offer, and for the reason I am about to give. I told you the ring was the gift of my fiancée Justine. You do not know her—how should you? She is the soul of sentiment and of affection, and she might blame me did I part with her gage d’amour without her consent. If you will allow me to write to her in Paris, and await her answer, should she consent, the ring is yours. In the mean time, pray take charge of it, and if possible, confirm your judgment, for I cannot believe in my good fortune.”
The Duke refused, then hesitated, and at last consented to become the custodian of the ring, after giving M. Placquet an acknowledgment in writing.
When M. Placquet saw the Duke’s signature, the poor fellow was overwhelmed at the honour he had received in his recent association with so