Love also
laid a firm hand on the vivacious Pierre Duprez--he who had long scoffed
at the _jeu d'amour_, played it at last in grave earnest,--and one bright
season he introduced his bride into Parisian society,--a charming little
woman, with very sparkling eyes and white teeth, who spoke French
perfectly, though not with the ''haccent' recommended by Briggs. It was
difficult to recognize Britta in the _petite elegante_ who laughed and
danced and chattered her way through some of the best _salons_ in Paris,
captivating everybody as she went,--but there she was, all the same,
holding her own as usual. Her husband was extremely proud of her--he was
fond of pointing her out to people as something excessively precious and
unique--and saying--"See her! That is my wife! From Norway! Yes--from
the very utmost north of Norway! I love my country--certainly!--but I
will tell you this much--if I had been obliged to choose a wife among
French women--_ma foi!_ I should never have married!"
And what of George Lorimer?--the idle, somewhat careless man of "modern"
type, in whose heart, notwithstanding the supposed deterioration of the
age, all the best and bravest codes of old-world chivalry were written?
Had Love no fair thing to offer _him_? Was he destined to live out his
life in the silent heroism of faithful, unuttered, unrequited, unselfish
devotion? Were the heavens, as Sigurd had said, always to be empty?
Apparently not,--for when he was verging towards middle age, a young
lady besieged him with her affections, and boldly offered to be his wife
any day he chose to name.
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