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It was the winter of 1807; the power of Napoleon had
reached its zenith. Paris was an universal festival. The shop-windows
were gay with colored lights, and trade, which had been
stagnant during the stormy days of the republic, was brisk and
lively under the brilliant reign of the Emperor Napoleon.

In a hotel on one of the most fashionable streets, sat a beautiful
woman, — remarkable among a thousand, even in that “age
of handsome women.”

She had been in Paris only five days, and already her staircase
was crowded with liveried pages, bearing costly bouquets,
and dainty, perfumed notes. Many a title had already in these
brief five days been laid at her feet, and still Aline Wentworth
(for she it was) walked majestically onward, with her great,
dreamy eyes gazing far away, never seeming to recognize the
bare existence of her titled train of suitors.

She sat in her boudoir, with the busy fingers of her maid
Lucille rapidly employed in arranging her for the opera. Bouquets
of the costliest exotics lay about the room all unheeded;
on some of them she had trampled; and they lay there crushed
and fading, and yet swelling the air with fragrance.

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Jewels lay upon the velvet carpet, jewels were strewn upon
the damask lounge, and still others gleamed in their agate caskets,
and bathed the room in a flood of light. Rich robes were
scattered about on chairs and lounges, and on her inlaid table
lay the costliest and most delicate gifts, tokens of the gay world's
homage.

But, amid all this splendor, Aline Wentworth's thoughts were
far away. What mattered it to her that already she was called
the handsomest woman in Paris, that she was surrounded by
more than the luxury of a princess, that the world was going
mad about her beauty? What mattered it, when cheerfully she
would have laid down all this luxury, and gone forth in peasant's
cap and gown, but for one kiss from lips that she had known and
loved long ago?

She heard but one tone, saw but one face, in the magic land
of her fancy, — the face of Ernest Glenville, the tone in which
he said “You have chosen!”

And yet not one word had she heard from him since that
night on which they had so strangely parted. He had sailed
for Europe under an assumed name, and she knew nothing of his
departure from New York, or of his after-fate. It was a love,
strong as her nature, which had then usurped the throne of her
heart. Her pride was fierce and strong, — stronger than death;
but this love had conquered even that, for she would have
bowed her haughty head, and gone forth gladly to shame, or
ruin, so it had been as the bride of Ernest Glenville.

Once, since her arrival in Paris, she had been presented at
court, and the impression she produced there by her marvellous
beauty was very singular. Napoleon himself had gazed on her

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with a glance of admiration that brought the blushes to her clear,
transparent cheek; and Josephine, almost the fairest woman of
the time, had taken her hand, and pressed her lips to her brow
with a sister's kindness.

There was one name which, ever since her arrival in Paris,
had fallen on Aline's ear in accents of almost idolatrous admiration, —
that of Marshal Michael Ney, the “Bravest of the
Brave.” She had heard it mentioned reverently by the people,
affectionately by the emperor, and proudly by his brethren in
arms, and already the very sound had a strange power over
her fancy.

It seemed to carry her backward into fields of battle. She
saw a clear blue eye, an unfaltering mien; and she saw this
soldier fight as if some spirit had risen from the grave, armed to
the teeth. Then she saw him, brave and grandly kind, like an
angel of mercy, caring for the wounded, soothing the mourner,
and anon, once more at the head of his division, in the fierce
fight, for death or annihilation.

He had been away from Paris, and on this, the first night of
his return, she had been told she would see him at the opera;
and all day she looked forward to it with an almost feverish
anxiety. But now even this hero of her dreams had faded from
her mind, as she sat there in her Genoa velvet easy-chair, with
the busy fingers of Lucille plaiting the jetty masses of her shining
hair into waves.

The blushing, trembling spell of her girlhood's love was upon
her heart to-night in all its power, and she dreamed on, till, unconsciously
to herself, her parted lips murmured “Ernest,” and
the sound awoke her from her revery.

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“You have done well, Lucille,” she exclaimed, as she arose,
and stood before the lofty mirror, extending from floor to ceiling.
“You may knot a few diamonds in my hair; or, stay, I will
wear simply this pearl rose-bud.”

O, what a beauty she was! How fair were the small
hands which smoothed down the folds of her sable velvet! how
delicately rounded the arms, whose exquisite contour seemed
heightened by the drapery of illusion lace!

At last she was attired; the tiny gloves had been drawn over
the slender fingers, a mantle of white cashmere had been folded
about her regal figure, and she placed in her jewelled bouquet-holder
one bouquet more elegant and costly than the rest, for it
was the gift of Josephine herself.

Entering her carriage, in a few moments she was securely
seated in her box at the opera, while whispers of “how beautiful!
how beautiful!” were heard all around her.

It could not but have flattered any ordinary woman's vanity
thus to be the mark for every opera-glass in the most brilliant
assemblage in Paris; but Aline Wentworth betrayed not the
slightest satisfaction in glance or motion. Proud and queenly
she sat there, as if she honored Paris by accepting the people's
homage.

“Vive L'Empereur!” shook the building to its centre, as
Napoleon entered with his suite; and then there was a cry scarcely
less loud, “Long live the Marshal! the `Bravest of the
brave!'” and Marshal Michael Ney entered the Royal Theatre.

At the first glance, Aline Wentworth had uttered a faint cry
and sank down breathless; but she had not been noticed in the
tremendous excitement, and in five minutes she sat erect, strong

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and cold, in the full glory of her matchless pride. Her eyes had
recognized, beneath the Marshal's star and the cross of the Legion
of Honor, a breast to which she had once been folded; those
blue eyes had once gazed into her own, that voice had murmured
her name; but she had chosen for herself, and this great, glorious
man had gone forth from her side, to win a name she might not
share; for this soldier, this Marshal Michael Ney, was but
the poor student, Ernest Glenville, older grown.

Well had he said he felt his destiny stirring within him; he
knew he should do something yet this world need not blush to
own!

But he was hers no longer. A being was by his side whose
loveliness could hardly grow dim even in the blaze of her own
beauty.

Aline understood, by love's quick intuition, that it was the
Marshal's wife, this fair child, — for even now she was little past
the age of girlhood, — on whom he gazed so tenderly.

She was very sweet, with a slight form, and hair like an
angel's wing, changing, and bright, and golden. Her eyes, —
but they were like nothing on earth, — and scarcely were the
stars of heaven, set floating in their sea of blue, as beautiful.
Her dress was of pure white satin, and some bright roses lay
trembling with her bosom's rise and fall.

What wonder that Aline Wentworth's heart grew sick and
shuddering? But it was a glorious night; never were the lamps
brighter, never were the dress-boxes a more intense blaze of gems
and beauty, and never, never swelled music on the air with such
high, exultant strains of melody.

Not once, in all this long evening, did Aline take her eyes

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from the Marshal and his bride. Her own admirers watched in
vain for a glance, until their patience was exhausted, and their
lorgnettes turned in other directions; and still the lights blazed,
still the music sounded, and still Ernest Glenville knew not that
the eyes of his early love were resting upon his face. But at
last it was all over; stately carriages rolled homeward, and
Paris slept.

Released from the necessity of self-control, it was fearful to
witness the paroxysms of Aline Wentworth's grief. She dismissed
her maid, and paced hurriedly to and fro in her room.
She tore her magnificent hair till it hung in dishevelled masses
about her haughty form; she bit her lips till they were stained
with blood; she snatched off her jewels, and flung them away;
she stamped her delicate feet; she tore the drapery from her
beautiful arms, and the folds of silk and linen from her passionate
heart; she threw herself prostrate on the floor, with her
black locks and torn garments streaming around her. Then she
arose, and lifted up her clenched hand.

Splendid, yet terrible sight! One moment she seemed a fury,
fearful in her grief; the next, she was touchingly beautiful, as
anguish, and sorrow, and regret at this blighting of her first,
strong love, agitated her.

Then the dark eyes were thrown upward in an intensity of
agony, their long lashes trembling on the contracted brows;
then her burning lips quivered, and her hand pressed her
throbbing bosom, while the attitude of that superb form was
eloquent of despair.

Half the night the excited woman gave herself up to this
uncontrollable outbreak of her agony; then she sank into a

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feverish slumber. After this, though her disappearance caused
a nine days' wonder, Paris heard no more of Aline Wentworth.