The things we do!

Since she has grown affreusenent maigre and wears
mounting robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea that she
resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and a little cap.
Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune. She calls her
lodgings Lochleven. Eh! I pity the landlord of Lochleven! She calls ce
gros Blackball, vous savez, that pillar of estaminets, that prince of
mauvais-ton, her Bothwell; little Mijaud, the poor little pianist, she
named her Rizzio; young Lord Greenhorn who was here with governor, a
Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley, and the Minister
Anglican, her John Knox! The poor man was quite enchanted! Beware of this
haggard siren, my little Clive!--mistrust her dangerous song! Her cave is
jonchee with the bones of her victims. Be you not one!"
Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these cautions very
likely would have made him only the more eager to make her acquaintance,
but that a much nobler attraction drew him elsewhere.


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