"Raffaello!" said the girl, vehemently, and walk. ing up close to him. "It is !"-and she suddenly broke into a rapid flow of Italian, though uttered in a low voice. "Per Dio!" said the valet, "I dare not." "He will break my heart!" said the girl. "He will break my head!" said Raffaello. If you displease me you will repent of it hereafter," answered she. "If I offend my master I shall repent of it at once," said the man. "It is in vain to deny me-I will see him immediately." "Signora Louise!" replied the valet, after a moment's hesitation, in which surprise and perplexity seemed struggling with a desire to oblige "enter into this apartment. I will return to you directly." There was something striking in the appearance of the stranger. Her figure was tall, round, and beautifully formed, and her face well repaid a second glance. The complexion, though brown to the last borders of a brunett, was clear and transparent; her hair of the colour of a raven; and much there was in her countenance of sweetness, and in her manner of dignity, although her dress did not denote affluence. But the principal feature was her eyes. They were remarkable for their largeness, their intense blackness, the light which shot from them with every rolling thought and sudden feeling, the firm full gaze with which they expressed seriousness or anger, and the suffusion of softness and tenderness which sometimes quenched their fiercer beams. The valet presently returned, and beckoned her to follow; and the plebeian world below went on for a time without further molestation from the agents or affairs of Count Clairmont of the French army. There is no keener wine-lover than your Turk. Nowhere are there found wilder democrats than in the ranks of a despot; and nowhere are the badges of nobility more reverently and indiscriminately hailed than by the gay votaries of fashion in a republic, where all men are born equal," and where titles are excluded by the constitution. 66 A count-a real count-had made his appearance in New-York. Rumour preceded, enthusiasm welcomed, and admiration followed him. He was young, handsome, rich, and a foreigner. The two former would have been much, the latter were every thing. It was whispered that, notwithstand ing his high title and princely fortune, he would write a book on America. Books on America were even then the vogue. The opinion of the count was looked for with intense eagerness; for it is a characteristic of my countrymen, while they assume a settled confidence in their merit, to shrink from the lash of every nameless satirist. Then, perhaps, he might marry! The very men went crazy-and the women! Although in the French service, the Count Clair mont had spent much of his youth in England, and the language was said to be more familiar to him than his own. Others he spoke too with irresistible grace; but that of love more freely than all. Then he had travelled over the world, danced with dutchesses and princesses, feasted with dukes and kings, fought in a score of indefinite battles, and triumphed in victories which nations had owed to his arm. He had been wounded by a retreating foe (ah! what was that wound to those he daily inflicted!)— had sighed on the banks of the Ilissus, and mused amid the ruins of Rome; had beheld Vesuvius spout his fires, and Olympus rear his head. His motion was grace, his voice music, his eyes bliss, his touch rapture then he was fascinating; then he was foreign; then-he was single; then-he was a count. It is certain that he was a modest man-that is, modest for a count in the French army-modest for a man who had half the lovely women of New-York at his feet. Relieved for a time, in consequence of a wound, from the claims of his own country, he no longer fleshed his sword in war; but he had seized a nobler weapon, and wreathed his brows with more graceful laurels. This nobler weapon was a goose-quill. Blood he could not now shed, but his ink flowed freely in the cause of innocence and beauty-and midnight oil he wasted like water. Dull were the eyes that might not strike a rhyme from the soul of Count Clairmont of the French army. Every smile was caught and imprisoned in a verse; every blush brightened again in a sonnet. Many a slender foot. had been celebrated-many a tender glance embalmed-many a passion nursed-and many a cigar smoked, in all the raptures of sentiment, and in all the reveries of champaign, by Count Clairmont of the French army. Envy, jealousy, even love, could frame only one accusation against him. It was a charge that moistened the eyes and heaved the bosom of many a charming belle. It shaded his triumph at the ball, and dimmed his joy at the banquet. The tall and lovely Henrietta Bellville actually broke away from a tête-à-tête, the only one envious fate ever granted, at the very thought; and that glowing creature Helen Mellerie was seen to withdraw her hand from his-in the little summerhouse-by the river at her father's country-seat -in August-the moon quite above the trees immediately-that is, almost immediately-at the recollection of its truth;- Count Clairmont of the French army was-a flirt! CHAPTER III. A dutiful Daughter. "Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters, "DEAR, dear!" exclaimed Rosalie Romain, looking up after a brown study of a minute, "it is horrid !" 66 Explain, my pretty penserosa," said the count, laughing. "The evidences are strong as proofs of holy writ," she sighed, fixing her tender eyes on his, just sufficiently moistened to be uncommonly bright. "Evidences of what?" asked the count. "You know as well as I," said Rosalie, winding a rose-coloured riband round the end of her finger, and looking down. "No, on my life!" 66 That you are a flirt." "As I live!" exclaimed the count, remonstra tingly. The beautiful girl turned partly away, half pouting. "Nay, more," said he, in a softer tone, "asas I-" He took her hand. He was certa y on his knees, or rather on one knee; he pressed it, as, faintly, and only at intervals, she struggled to escape "As you what?" cried she, impatiently, and slightly stamping her foot. But a smile, which had been lurking all the time around her lips, broke over her features like sun shine through a sudden cloud. "As I love," said the count, after brief pause, and in his lowest tone. Notwithstanding the smile, a tear had been slowly filling in her eyes. It stirred-it fell. It dropped upon his hand. He kissed it off. The tableau was picturesque. They lingered in it a moment, as if they knew it became them. "Dear! dear! there's pa!" exclaimed Rosalie, in a sudden fright-and she threw open a large portfolio of plates. "An extraordinary taste, count," said the old gentleman, "my daughter has for the fine arts." "Oh, pa !" "I never knew such an ear; and as for draw ing_" 66 how can you יין Oh dear, pa; "Then for the plain, sweet old English ballad, my lord-" "Good gracious, pa! don't you see the count wants to go? ?" What, are you off, count? Bless me ! we must keep you for dinner." 66 Necessity, Mr. Romain. You know the tyranny of appointments." "My love, can't you persuade him to remain ?" "I have not tried, pa.' 66 'Heydey! these saucy girls! But we must not let you off. Besides, the sky looks showery." "But showers sometimes," said Clairmont, with |